


drosera

by sweetdefault, sweetindulgence (sweetdefault)



Series: Yautja Tales [3]
Category: Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predators (2010), The Predator (2018)
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Alien Politics, Alien Sex, Angst, Depression, Drama, Escape, Exophilia, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Individual Chapters have their own Tags, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, MADE IT TO THE EPILOGUE GUYS, Mates, Modern Era, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Other, Parasites, Past Abuse, Pining, Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Smut, Space Politics, Tragedy, War, Xenophilia, referenced abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 88
Words: 568,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetdefault, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdefault/pseuds/sweetindulgence
Summary: She came from the ringed planet and traveled to Earth only for her ship to crash. Now in the custody of humans working for a group called Stargazer Corporation, the alien entity ‘S’ begins planning her escape with the aid of a dishonored hunter. What is initially a quest to break out devolves into something far darker as the two land in the crosshairs of other extraterrestrials, humanity, and two politically opposed Yautja clans who have everything to lose in their egregious politics.
Relationships: Gahn'tha-cte-Guan/Bist'ri, M-di-Guan-Lar'ja/Guan-Tjau'ke, M-di-H'chak/Sundew, Predator/Human, Vayuh'ta/Ivon Yurvchik, Yautja (Predator)/Original Character(s), Yautja (Predator)/Original Female Character(s), Yautja/Human, Yautja/Non-Canon Alien Species, Yautja/Yautja (Predator)
Series: Yautja Tales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773715
Comments: 677
Kudos: 139





	1. we call them predators

**Author's Note:**

> hi there!  
> if you haven't read one of my stories before, hi! i'm sweetindulgence. i usually write over-the-top cliche plot-hole indulgent skyrim fics but sometimes a video game about aliens comes out and i just want to write about aliens. so. here we are. blame predator: hunting grounds.
> 
> Arc 1: Ch. 1-7  
> Arc 2: Ch. 8-13  
> Arc 3: Ch. 14-22  
> Arc 4: Ch. 23-38  
> Arc 4.5: Ch. 39-53  
> Arc 5: Ch.54-81  
> Epilogues: 82-90

“Time to eat, S.”

The plate is pushed closer. Under the glow of yellow light, her head lifts to make out the medical personnel standing at the other end of the table. She counts three today, each donning full protective gear, but to her surprise one of the bodies has a familiar posture and gait. The entity tilts her head to one side, a smile falling on her lips. “Greetings, Doctor Heinrich. I did not expect your company. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Panels on the otherwise empty room flip up along the walls and reveal extra sets of light. They shine with no warmth, but the rays of light emanated contain enough unseen ultraviolet wavelengths to deter her. She slowly extends a hand forward and reaches for the plate, but her eyes—clear, revealing the silvery flesh behind due to an absence in pigmentation—linger on the strong frame of the Doctor and his assistants. One of them has a clipboard. She wonders what they write on it, whether it be a description of her current form or her behavioral habits, or perhaps her habit of mimicking their voices for fun.

“Subject is not eating, prepare to restrain—” The Doctor begins, but S knows him better than he knows himself. She must, for the taste of his blood lingers in her system even weeks after the incident.

“You take things seriously, Doctor. I am cooperating today. Will you take a seat and join me?” S pulls the plate to her. She has no sense of smell, but she understands the memories of Heinrich reflect blood possessing a metallic scent. For good measure, the entity leans down and imitates the act of inhaling air into lungs all parties know she does not have.

“…Very well. S.” Doctor Heinrich pulls a walkie-talkie off his belt and holds it up. “Cancel restraints, dim lights.”

S relaxes when the ultraviolet rays, the light she knows humanity cannot see, goes out. Not all of them—The employees of Stargazer Corporation will never make that mistake with her again, but it is enough to make her mimic the act of exhaling in relief. The sound that comes from her throat is perfectly matched to a human, but all it does is make the medical personnel shiver. They are smart to remain on guard. She has toyed with them once, sucking one dry to a husk and stealing the memories and experiences of six others in the spilling of blood.

She does not _need_ to eat in the same way humans do. Her kind come from a planet of crashed satellites and swirling clouds of ammonia across a violent troposphere. The nourishment she needs comes in the form of elemental helium or nitrogen. The liquid forms are preferred, but Stargazer Corporation sees no value in going through the trouble of lowering a temperature so drastically for one alien. They are keen to throw her a plate of meat just on the verge of rotting. The cells have only just begun the process of breaking down in today’s meal; S plucks a long piece of sinew from the mess and spins it around one finger.

“It is not my favorite, Doctor. You know my favorite,” The entity mimics her best smile. “If you must feed me this excuse for flesh, please make it the acclaimed flesh of _somnius microcephalus._ I understand you have been to Iceland with your wife—"

She can tell it strikes a nerve. Doctor Heinrich’s hands tense and he exhales sharply behind his protective mask. He does not rise to her bait, merely stares until she begins her feast.

It is a short meal. Barely a meal, if that. She receives the memories of foggy pasture days, where the wind feels calm and the sun does not burn into oblivion. S shuts her eyes and imagines what it must be like to be an oblivious lifeform, content to laze around in grassy plains and smack flies with ones tail. Perhaps it is the ideal life, as she has found insight of the planets to provide little fulfillment. If anything—Her actions returning _Cassini-Hyugens_ from the home world to Earth put her in her current state. She is so much _weaker._ There is no one who speaks her tongue, the electromagnetic waves causing agitation in those around her opposed to sincere conversation. There is no ammonia-infested meal to revel in, and the humans present refuse to let her have the slightest taste of the sweet, delicious memories in their blood.

She needs more. She needs the experiences of cosmos unfounded, of planets beyond her home world’s beautiful gases and catapulting temperatures. She needs something of _worth_ to bring back to the hive. There are too many memories of human lifespans stored in the banks of her hive; her species has taken memories as far back as forty-five hundred human years.

“S, how are you feeling?” The words spur her from her thoughts.

She licks her fingers dry and lowers her hands to meet Heinrich’s masked gaze. “I am well, Doctor Heinrich. My system remains stable. Your kind has done me a great service ensuring my transition to earth’s atmosphere did not cause my system to collapse.”

“You are not experiencing any pain in the…” The Doctor struggles to find words. Finally, he points at his chest, approximately three inches above the left pectoral muscle. “Tightening? Shortness of… the equivalent of _breath?_ You are cooperating today, S. You said that.”

“I would not lie to you, my Doctor. I am well. My system remains stable,” She has no brows, but she lifts the area they would be anyways. Her clear eyes return to the Doctor. “Did you… put something in my food?”

The man ignores her. He turns to the medical personnel and gestures them to follow as he waves a keycard in front of a wall panel. The door opens. As Heinrich walks, he snaps orders to each, “Record failure of N-C-3 to activate upon ingestion, put in request for follow-up with the team’s anesthetist. I have questions about the sodium nitroprusside before we proceed with an exploratory…”

The doors shut automatically behind him. The pressurization in the room changes. The lights that were once off flicker back on and loom overhead. S grimaces and pushes her chair up. There is nowhere to go in the cell but the corner where an uncomfortable cot lingers. She feels too hot in the mess of ultraviolet. The lightbulbs may not produce actual sunlight, but the faux wavelengths are enough to make turn about restlessly for the remainder of the day.

She misses the hive planet.

Most of her time awake is spent in a routine. She usually greets medical personnel approaching her with food with a dazzling smile, copied off a memory of a video recording taken from the Doctor. Occasionally, they let her out of the cell to be escorted under a barrage of great lights to a washroom. Human frivolities surrounding simple biological functions astound her; she never fails to voice her enthusiasm at state-of-the-art _plumbing._ Her hive on the home world would not blink twice at waste ejection and removal! Never mind make an _entire room_ dedicated to it. 

Other times, she is visited by the Doctor. He never gets close to her; he made that mistake the last time and she revels in the memory of it. The two talk about different things. Once, it is memories of his childhood the man thought he had forgotten. Another time, Doctor Heinrich inquires about her home, _Saturn_ , as it has been deemed by humanity. She is not keen to give up valuable information without something worthwhile in exchange, and humans are no longer as fascinating as they once were, save for their plumbing obsessions. A day comes when Heinrich is once again in her cell, standing opposite the lone table and chair she sits at, when the man finally proposes a trade worth her time.

“—You are not the only extraterrestrial here, S.” His voice is partially muffled by his suit’s mask. Two personnel, each donning full-body suits of their own, wait patiently at the doors.

It pipes her interest. She already knew there were others from the stars; she saw it in the memories of the husk she drained and within the memories of Heinrich himself. The taste of his blood continues to vibrate in her mind. She feels a faint buzz within her body, almost electrifying in how much he tempts her by being there. She does not _need_ to feed on blood, but the taste of his is appealing—and she _knows_ she has not scoured his entire deposition of memories yet. There is still much to uncover, to _indulge_ upon…

“I could arrange for you to meet one,” the Doctor continues steadily. She licks her lips. His grimace is worth the gesture. “—Not all of them are as cooperative as you claim to be—But we are a company dedicated to the gathering of information on species outside planet Earth. We may not have their cooperation, but we require their… knowledge. I understand from our conversations it may be something you desire?”

“Perhaps it is,” never an affirmative. S smiles at the note one personnel makes on a clipboard.

“If you were to assist us in repossessing the _memories_ of these individuals—It would benefit both parties. You would gain insight into the many worlds beyond Earth and Saturn. We would learn how the worlds beyond the reach of our technology function. A mutual partnership.” Doctor Heinrich ends his proposal with a stiff nod.

It tempts her more than she cares to admit—But she plays it off as no big deal, throwing her head forward and squinting at him. “Doctor Heinrich, I appreciate the offer… but how do I know the memories involved will come from other _extraterrestrials?_ What if I accept and all you have for me are tiny bacterial forms floating through space, useless in communication and of no interest to me at all? I need to know who I would get to drink from. Who is on the menu, my Doctor?”

The hesitation appeals to her. She sits upright and mimics the act of inhaling deeply. Her eyes cannot soften, as they are nothing but clear membrane, tissue, and nerves acting as a synthetic retina and lens. She likes to imagine her gaze softens regardless; it plays into her act around the humans. She wants to mimic a courteous woman and project a careful, but delicate persona.

“You are not cleared to know that information, Synthetic—”

“But you want me to help you. How can I help you if I do not know my options?” She inquires softly, touching on a tone meant to invoke compassion or sympathy. The entity remembers it from a memory in the man concerning his daughter. Heinrich is, by human standards, a “good father”, and keen on spoiling his progeny with material goods, attention, and time.

“Pomero, send a message to the administrative branch. I want their authorization releasing information of our other guests to the Synthetic. If Tucker won’t sign off on it, forward it to Miranda and tell her to call me. I’ll deal with the bureaucratic politics,” Heinrich speaks calmly. His gait reeks of confidence.

To some, the words are nonsense, but S knows the meaning behind the names. Even after the personnel leave her alone in the pressurized cell, buried beneath ultraviolet wavelengths of terribly bright bulbs, she concentrates on the picking apart the Doctor’s words.

 _Administrative branch._ Much like the hierarchy of her hive, there are layers and levels to the groups controlling the bigger picture. Heinrich has a supervisor. Two names are associated with faces from his memories: one of them is _Tucker,_ a broad-shouldered man with a surprisingly pleasant smile. S recalls Heinrich’s soured reactions to the man, but she does not understand the reasoning behind it. The memory of a gathering of people in ineffective suits and shoddy sweaters leaves much unaccounted for. On the contrary, the woman called _Miranda_ brings very different memories to mind. S revels in the secret Heinrich keeps locked away.

The man had a brief affair with _Miranda._ Memories of intimate embraces and pleasurable nights are numerous and recanted fondly. Heinrich was not the one to break off the affair, but he has kept quiet about it since then. S reckons it is one reason Heinrich has yet to switch from her assigned personnel. She knows he has the power to request a transfer, but he continues to visit her. He wants to keep an eye on what she knows and who she leaks information to. Or—Perhaps his greed compels him to look for a way to use her _talents_ for his own use.

 _Play with fire and prepare to be burned._ She finds the phrase in a memory from Heinrich’s childhood, when the man was but a boy of ten and set a kitchen aflame in his neglect. The words resonate with her, even if her distaste and aversion to heat remains.

She measures earth days in feedings, roughly one every twenty-four human hours. She bases it off memories of Heinrich reviewing papers of scheduled feedings and the dates in the text, as well as her own attempts to count out the human seconds of a human day. Approximately ten feedings pass between Doctor Heinrich’s proposal and the two’s next interaction. When he comes to visit, S has just finished ripping the last of meat off a carcass. She pauses and greets him with a toothy grin. She imagines the sight unpleasant, as the personnel at the door grimace and avert their gaze.

“Greetings, Doctor Heinrich.” S nods at him. “I would offer you a seat, but—”

The man drops a stack of white folders on the table next to her plate. S pauses when the man states, “Pick your favorite.”

“How generous.” The entity plucks the folders off the table and begins to peruse.

There are twenty-six specimens at her facility. Six are in a state of permanent or semi comatose, and one of those six appears to be a creature whose blood is too acidic for her system to handle. She parts her lips and begins to hum softly as she flips through laminated photographs of different species. The photos are mainly in sets of five, with a photograph capturing the front, back, left, and right angles of the creature, then a final portrait of the creature up-close. Some terrestrials have addition pictures to their name, featuring peculiar markings or entrancing biological composition.

Most don’t interest her. She browses idly, recognizing certain species like the green-skinned, octopi creatures known for their mobile battle armor, or the pale music-players whose bulbous-shaped heads and large black eyes could be seen a mile away. None draw a second glance, until she reaches a folder in the middle of the stack and finds pictures of herself staring back at her.

She does not remember taking these photographs. She can see the burns of the accursed _sunlight_ lingering over her form as she traces her picture with one silver finger. She looks terribly weak. She does not remember everything, but she _does_ remember feeling the call of demise after her landing was intercepted. Her ship crashed under clear skies and she was exposed to the blazing heat first-hand. At the time, her system was not yet stable, and she had not transitioned to the atmosphere of earth. If a human failed to find her then the sun would have claimed her and returned her to the elements of the universe. Her clear eyes narrow at the thought; she knows she narrowly avoided expiration. It was too close for her to desire repeating.

 _I am here. I am stable. They want my help._ She reflects on the facts. The entity closes the folder and pushes it across the table She can feel their eyes on her as she states, “This one should not be here.”

“Ah.” Heinrich says when he opens the folder and looks inside. He shuts it and hands it to another personnel, before turning attention back to her. “None of them appeal to you, S?”

“My hive has expansive banks on lifeforms your species is not privy to,” she replies without looking up, already sifting through the next folder’s contents.

The next minute is silent. S wonders what the humans will do once they learn she has no interest in majority of the extraterrestrials under their roof. Perhaps they will return to forcing ultraviolet light rays on her or drag her into the sun until she complies with their demands. Maybe Heinrich will try to poison her again. The thought displeases her; she knows the attempts have yet to wield a weakness, but it shows humanity is looking for one. Heinrich wants to know how to exert control over her. _Total_ control, where she must abide by his rules or risk expiration.

 _Humans._ She imitates a clicking noise as she comes to the next folder. She stills at the human letters spelling out a vaguely familiar name. S struggles to pronounce it; she gestures at Heinrich and then taps the folder’s laminated label. “How do you say this?”

“Ya-Oot-Ja.” Heinrich replies. “We call them _Predators.”_

“That is not the name of their species. You should refer to them by name. Ya...Oot...Ja.” S repeats it for good measure, tasting the syllables on her faux tongue and lips. Her system struggles to sound it out. “Ya-Oot-Ja. Yautja. _Yautja.”_

When satisfied in her pronunciation, she looks at the personnel across the table. Heinrich never sits, not even when she offers him the only chair in the room. Her head tilts to one side and she wonders why memories of this alien have never come up before. _Perhaps this one is… new?_

It must—Otherwise the blood ingested months back would have revealed memories of the _Yautja._ Her eyes flicker back to the photographs in the folder. She notes distinct bipedal anatomy, not unlike the _homosapiens_ roaming Earth, but of a larger size, and with less mammalian characteristics.

The Yautja in the photos looks injured. She counts multiple lacerations, gaping gunshot wounds, and burns expanding past a damaged mesh matrix adorning the alien’s figure. She finds herself drawn to what she believes is the individual’s blood: splotches of luminescent green, a color so bright S briefly wonders if it will jump off the page. Her finger touches the laminated photograph where one splotch is. She traces its location, absentmindedly mimicking a human inhaling sharply as she maps out and imagines what the injuries look like in person.

 _Did humanity do this to you, Yautja? Or something else?_ From her time at the hive, S knows a little about the _Yautja._ She recalls the species possessing a many cultures, almost all sharing an emphasis surrounding _hunts._ For a _Yautja_ to come to earth—It means the individual came to hunt something. S frowns. _Were you hunting humans, Yautja?_

Her question is answered in one of the next photographs, where a picture of the individual’s equipment has been blown-up to show details. There are strange metal gauntlets, a large bio-mask, what looks to be an altered set of respiration gear, a beautiful metal staff with a sturdy grip and serrated blades attached to both ends, a smashed shoulder-mountain gun, and three human skulls. Two of the skulls have their spines attached, but the third lacks that feature.

“Tell me about this one. The _Yautja._ What is their name?” S remains locked on the photo of the human skulls. All three are marred in crimson blood, a hint at the memories no longer reachable. When no answer comes, the entity mimics a clicking noise like a _tsk._

“—That one has been less than cooperative,” the man answers.

“I can tell,” S remarks. Her fingers rub the laminated surface of the photo over the skulls. “You have pictures of them restrained to a table, intravenous fluids cycling their bloodstream from…” She flips to a previous page of photos and counts. “…Six sources? How long do you intend to sustain these measures?”

“As long as necessary. If the Predator—”

“Yautja.” She feels annoyed correcting him, but it bites at her. If humanity intends to imprison and exploit beings of the stars, the least the short-lived creatures can do is refer to them by their proper names.

“If the Yautja does not cooperate then exploratory surgery will be conducted. A lot can be learned of the biology of an animal, even if they do not tell us by choice.”

Her hands tense over the photographs. She glances down at the pictures of the injured alien, reduced to nothing more than an animal in the eyes of their captors. S finds most of the photos on the page do not show the Yautja’s head. The only one that does is maskless, revealing a terribly injured face with a large, fanning forehead and an open mouth surrounded by broken, bloodied mandibles and teeth. The photograph looks humiliating. She searches through her personal memory banks and finds a brief excerpt of a serpent hissing; the entity mimics the noise. It is soft at first, but it grows in volume until Heinrich snaps at her.

“Stop that,” the man barks the order. _“Synthetic.”_

S ceases the hissing.

Something else wears on her mind. For all she has experienced at Stargazer Corporation, for all the memories she has fed upon and collected, she notes the term _exploratory_ has been used before. Once in reference to her, and now in reference to her fellow prisoner. The corporation intends to surgically extract information from both parties about their respective species. She does not know what they may find. The thought invokes a heavy feeling that spreads over her chest. She looks at her hands and waits for the feeling to disappear, but it does not leave.

 _Worry?_ S returns attention to the photograph. _I am… worried. This is not mimicry._

She makes up her mind. The entity snaps the folder shut and holds it to her chest with one hand. She uses the other to push the remaining folders at the doctor and his assistants, not bothering to look through the rest. “I am willing to help you, my Doctor, but I have several requests for your…” she struggles with the word, and settles on, “Consideration.”

Heinrich gathers the folders up. He does not say anything, merely grunts back, the sound is partially muffled by his mask.

“There are three of them,” S holds up her free hand. She pauses, counts four fingers in the end, then puts one down and resumes holding up three. “I would like a closet of outfits to pick from when I am assisting you. Please fill them with dresses; the kind of attire your wife wore sixteen years ago on the gondolier tour in Venice, Italy. I believe that was your second wedding anniversary?”

The tension returns, but S ignores Heinrich and goes on. “—Next, I want this folder added to the list of items I own. Attempts to repossess it must be met with disciplinary action overseen by your _administrative branch_. This is non-negotiable. Lastly,” the entity leans back in her seat. “When you refer to me in conversation, Doctor Heinrich, you will call me Cynthia.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cyn, then.”

“What do you take me for?” The man’s composure fractures and he growls the words beyond his protective equipment. He rips off his mask and leers at the alien, risking the dangers of direct contact in his rage. _“I am not calling you the name of my daughter!”_

“Is that where I got it from? I forgot which memories of yours I picked clean. You have lived an exceptional life for a man of forty-five.” S taps her lips with her free hand. She shrugs amicably. “Then you may call me something else. Perhaps a flower. I would enjoy a floral term... An Earth flower.”

“Sundew.” One of the personnel behind Heinrich nudges him. “…if we’re suggesting…”

“Carnivorous bitch,” The doctor cusses under his breath. Heinrich dons his mask and turns away. “Sundew, then. Your cooperation is _appreciated._ ”

S smiles politely. “Don’t forget to bring the hat."

“Turn up the lights on our way out,” Heinrich barks at one personnel.

The light bulb panels in the walls flip open and turn on. They stay on for the following feedings, bathing the entity in ultraviolet rays. There is little heat, but it brings the alien equivalent of a migraine to the entity’s head. S spends most of the days feeding or remaining curled up in a ball on her cot, praying to her hive the humans will cease their aggression and let her sleep peacefully. Still, the lights remain. Part of her wonders if new lights have been added by the time seven feedings pass.

The doors unlock and the room depressurizes on the day of the eighth feeding. S sits up on her cot and smiles politely at the sight of Heinrich and six personnel walking in. She does not miss the white bags in the personnel’s hands, nor the tense posture Heinrich holds himself with. She greets him with a quaint, “Are those for me, Doctor Heinrich?”

“One,” Is his reply.

She derives pleasure in darting forward and making the personnel flinch or jump back. S is nimbler than she appears; her form slips around and pecks at bags with open, curious hands. She goes from one person to the next, never quite _taking_ a bag but browsing luxuriously. It reminds her of the clothing outlets she once saw in a human memory. After five minutes, Dr.Heinrich clears his throat expectantly. She begrudgingly picks a bag from a short personnel’s hand, offering a courteous, “Thank you!”

In the bag is a sundress, apt to her current form’s size. The fabric is a lovely crimson, with white embroidery reminding her of a poppy. She has no qualms changing in front of the personnel; it perplexes her to see some turn away while others face her as if blatantly staring. She is not a human; there is no reason for them to be shy or to gawk. Perhaps the reasoning lays in her current form; she looks _like_ a human, having taken the shape of an adult human's curvature and body structure after her ship’s crash, but that aside—her physical characteristics are not typically possible on a human.

Her skin is silver, shiny and lustrous. It makes her appreciate the red of her sundress even more, reminding her of a weapon slathered in her favorite drink. Her body lacks hair, unable to mimic the cells composing hair follicles, but the facial structure mimics a human she once saw on a screen. Supposedly, the human is a popular actress in modern media, but whether that translates to any form of human attractiveness is beyond her. She doesn’t dwell on it. Her body shimmies out of the neutral-toned jumpsuit and she slips the dress on with ease.

It flows wonderfully. It is breezy in certain parts, but the fabric is _soft_ and hugs her in a way no other outfit has to date. She does a small twirl and imitates the sound of human laughter, light and airy. S smooths the skirt of the dress down. She finds the bag contains a set of sandals and a hat. _One_ hat, but a hat regardless—The kind that comes with a wide brim, perfect for protecting her from the dastardly sun. It is made of white material and has a small red ribbon around the top. The sandals are a little big, but she adjusts the straps along them until they cling to her feet. S stands up and clasps her hands together.

“I appreciate this, my Doctor,” she gives him a nod. “Are you going to take me to the Yautja? Is that where I am going today?”

“To see them, yes.” The man clarifies. “You will stick by my side and speak to no one without asking permission. Do not touch _anything_ , Sundew.”

“Sundew.” Sundew repeats. She likes the name, much better than what the humans call her kind, _synthetic_. The alien walks to Heinrich’s side and replicates a scene he once read in a book: she takes his arm and loops it with her own, looking positively _cheery_ despite his flinch away. She smiles politely, silver teeth gleaming. “I will cooperate today, my Doctor. I will not speak without asking permission, nor will I touch anything.”

“Good.”

“—Does that include the Yautja? Should I refrain from touching them?” Sundew feels inclined to frown, so she does. She anticipates the answer but wasting the doctor’s time has become a habit of hers. “It will be difficult to feed without—”

“We’ll discuss that when we get there.”

“Is it a far walk?”

“No talking.”

“Yes, my Doctor.” She falls silent as Doctor Heinrich pulls her after him through the door of her cell.

“Pomero, radio ahead and get the corridors sealed. Anyone going in or out requires a full suit.” Heinrich calls to one personnel.

 _I said I would cooperate today._ The Synthetic thinks to herself, keeping her lips sealed and follows.

It has been many feedings since she was first brought in; seeing the adjacent airlock and subsequent containment chambers makes her stare. There are guards and at least a dozen scientists overlooking the scene from a higher level of the facility, where the walls are made of glass and provide access to the sight below. Some of the scientists stand next to machines with bright, flashing lights or colorful buttons. Sundew quickly grows bored of watching them; most are too busy to do anything more than glance at her small entourage. She keeps up a brisk pace, occasionally stepping a little ahead of Heinrich as the latter leads her from one sector of the facility to another.

Along the way, she takes care to count guards, cameras, and note which keypad codes access what doors. She eyes the keycards used for unlocking larger doors, notes the pattern of a barcode across the front, and she makes a point of mapping the layout in her mind. Sundew doubts her hive has a use for building layouts, but the information isn’t for the hive. True to her word, she says nothing further and refrains from touching anything no matter how much a passing scientist tempts her.

 _So many memories. So much experience. It is waiting there. If I could just…_ Sundew blocks the thought out. She knows she must be patient.

Her mind returns to the photographs of the _Yautja_ in her folder. She wonders if the individual is still injured, or even alive. If not… Sundew frowns at the thought. She reminds herself not to think that way.

She has memories of what the facility is like, yet she remains intrigued in how different the containment chambers are for other extraterrestrials. Some require very little security measures, with one two-legged, vaguely humanoid grey martian needing only a guard. Others, like the Heinrich leads her to, requires a more drastic approach.

The Yautja’s cell is not a single room, or series of rooms, but a separate wing entirely: a massive laboratory dedicated to the containment of the individual. Sundew counts no less than fifteen guards, each in full-body Kevlar armor, protective masks, and donning high-power shotguns and submachine guns. She smiles politely at each guard they pass. When one of the guards does a double-take, Sundew pulls her hat over her eyes and grins.

There are three different keycards required to enter the first level of the laboratory. The number of machines, of _knowledge_ , makes Sundew want to salivate. She imagines how much raw data each piece of metal contains. Perhaps it is nothing new, but it is still information—And that is a currency worth more than anyone’s life, even her own. To pursue knowledge is noble, it is just, and it is the greatest call. Some might say it is the greatest _honor_ , ironic given who she is here to feed upon.

She is made to walk through many scanners and beeping devices in order to proceed. Heinrich does not make each of his personnel follow her; he has a degree of trust in his people, but he barks out orders for the scientists present to check her for any concealed substances or weapons. Sundew complies with a smile. Her poise remains friendly, her stature aloof and relaxed, and she derives enjoyment out of staring at researchers in their full-body equipment. Whenever one jumps or inches away, she imagines what their face looks like. The brief second of entertainment is worth any number of ultraviolet rays Heinrich might set upon her later.

There is a staircase and an elevator leading to the lower level. Heinrich makes her take the stairs with two guards. She bows her head and says nothing when he flashes a keycard and opts for the elevator; she knows from his memories he is a man with little drive for physical exercise. She grabs the rail and walks slowly, taking careful steps. When the butt of one guard’s rifle jabs the small of her back, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. She cannot see the person’s face, but she offers a smile.

“I am sorry, I do not wish to fall.” She enunciates each word and mimics a terribly sincere, soft tone as she speaks. She can feel the guard pause. Sundew doesn’t wait for a response before she resumes walking.

There are two adjacent metal chambers linked to Yautja’s cell. She spies surveillance cameras moving back-and-forth. A drain in the floor. She wonders if it is a decontamination room, or perhaps a last-ditch means to gas the alien should they ever get a jump on their captors. Just before the first chamber, Sundew notes a series of intricate panels and buttons on the wall. A guard lazily talks to a researcher observing a monitor nearby.

 _I must review the memories I have taken from these humans. There must be one with the knowledge of deactivating this system._ It is a thought Sundew smiles faintly at.

But she is cooperating today. She _promised_ to cooperate, perhaps not in such explicit words but unspoken ones nonetheless. Sundew nods to Heinrich’s every word when the two are in the second metal chamber, standing near a great steel door. It requires two-factor authentication, with Heinrich on one side and another personnel on the other. Both humans count down together, then stick keys into indents across two panels and turn. The door rumbles as electronic locks deactivate. Heinrich gestures for her to step inside; Sundew complies after fixing her hat.

She is quiet at the sight.

“You haven’t seen one of these before, have you? A Pre—” Heinrich cuts himself off at her hiss.

 _“Yautja.”_ Her posture relaxes. “Yautja.”

“A Yautja. Answer the question, S.”

“I have not,” She is honest. She mimics the same soft voice as before, wishing to convey a sense of apprehension or nervousness. Her actual feelings are conflicted, but it is part of a longer ruse. She lowers her hands to her sides and takes a hesitant step forward. “There are… vague entries in my hive’s banks. But this is the first time I…”

She sees the tall alien sluggishly shift their head to stare at her. Their face is more interesting up close, the pictures do their kind no justice. At Heinrich’s behest, Sundew takes one step forward. Then—Another. Her dress sways with the motion. She imitates the sound of a human holding their breath as she stops at the side of the massive metal table.

“Greetings, Yautja.” Her voice becomes soft.

The warrior’s eyes are a vivid orange. They remind her of fire, of one source of heat capable of forcing expiration on her kind. It should be terrible, but the color appeals to her when isolated from the association of flames and energy. She finds her mind goes to the imagery of Jupiter, her hive planet’s neighbor, with its vivid oranges and specks of white and red. She cannot help but voice the thought, an involuntary whisper escaping her—

“You are a gas giant, Yautja. Huge and powerful. I do not know if your kind accept compliments—But it is intended as one.”

“Hurry up with the feeding, S. I don’t… This one isn’t pleasant to look at.” Heinrich comments dryly. The man stands to the side, gaze hawkish upon the two extraterrestrials.

“If you want the best memories, I must ensure this one is calm. I ask for your patience, my Doctor.” Sundew smiles pleasantly. She hears the man curse and turn away. Her clear eyes return to the Yautja, and for a moment she pauses to trace the rest of their face with her gaze.

In the pictures, much of them was mucked with glowing green blood. It appears many injuries have healed since then: their four mandibles lazily hang around their gaping, open mouth. The sharp incisors inside look more than capable of piercing Kevlar armor, much less ripping through flesh. She sees the warrior’s forehead, where the forehead melds into a crest, and the crest fans out into a wide V-shape. The warrior’s skin is the softest green she has ever seen, with points of distinct brown tints and white scales running from the alien's neck down what she sees of his torso. It is scaly to the touch, and she jerks back when she realizes her hand has moved on its own accord.

“I am sorry,” she tells the sedated Yautja. “I did not mean to touch your face. I am here to feed, but I do it within reason.”

She can see confusion in the alien’s eyes. Sundew imitates a human frown. She glances at the rest of the Yautja’s body, held down by dozens of metal restraints. She notes the positions of the intravenous fluids, and where the tubes connect with the source of the drug on stands nearby. She does not have the information to safely remove them; the alien adds it to her list of coming goals.

With Heinrich turning around to watch her once more, and the gaze of two personnel on her back, Sundew returns to the task at hand. She pauses and looks at the alien’s arm, shackled firmly to their torso. Sundew calls over her shoulder. “I must ask you to unlock this, my Doctor. I believe access to their wrist will provide adequate blood flow.”

“Use something else,” Heinrich is quick to reply. “I will stab it myself if that suffices your taste, S.”

 _It. It. It. No. Yautja. Yautja!_ She feels the word twist in the faux imitation of a human gut. Replicating organs was never her strong point but Sundew feels she has done the cells of a human’s digestion tract enough justice to accurately replicate the sensation. Her body posture tenses. She briefly debates the logistics of breaking her word and ejecting the sublimized form of N-3-C on the spot. Cyanide gas will kill the humans in less than a minute if she can break through their protective equipment. There is a spot between their chest piece and the helmet that is weak enough to tear off. She can replicate the exertion necessary for such a feat at least twice.

The problem with her fantasizing comes in the hulking shape of a hunter nearby. She does not have desire to martyr them for her petty revenge scheme. Sundew opts not to indulge in mass murder and turns back to the alien restrained in the center of the room. Her eyes narrow, but her voice carries the same soft tone as she speaks. “As you wish, my Doctor. I will stab the Yautja; I do not want any blood to be wasted. You do not know what memories may be stored inside.”

She is given a small scalpel for her words. Sundew moves to the end of the table. She can feel human and Yautja eyes on her as she turns the scalpel over in her hands. She reaches out and lightly touches the Yautja with an empty palm, hand shifting to feel the rough skin of the alien’s neck. They are a strange species, warm and enticing but capable at killing all the same. She wonders what they think of her, of the silver-skinned alien in a red sundress and a white hat. She wonders if they like her sandals, or if they want to rip the supposed skull from her humanoid body.

Sundew can feel the alien’s pulse race under her touch. She pauses. “I am not going to kill you. Please trust me—"

“Hurry up.” Heinrich huffs.

“Trust me.” She is good at keeping promises, but she sees the dazed disbelief in the alien’s eyes.

She decides to show them exactly what she means. She grabs a pinch of flesh between two fingers and holds the scalpel in her other hand. Simultaneously, the alien forces an electrical charge to shoot out from the point of contact into the Yautja’s body. It is a nigh-instantaneous message and the greatest invention of her kind. Transferring imagery through electrical charges is tricky, but she has done it enough to know how neurons work. What begins as one electrical charge because two, then three, each sending a different image from her mind to flash in the warrior’s head.

She spells out the message not in words, but in a pattern of images reflecting her meaning and intent. Every piece of surveillance is turned into a series of electrical charges and transferred through the physical contact between the two. She sends what she has: everything from the incident where she took Heinrich’s blood, to her collection of data on the facility’s locks, alarms, doors, and guards. She sends flashes of the building layout, of her own memories in walking to this place, and of herself consuming the flesh and blood offered in feedings.

She wants to believe the message is clear, that the concept of _I am going to break us out_ is communicated efficiently, but there is no way to tell when the Yautja does not possess her kind’s ability to send electrical charges out in return. She hopes they understand. She hopes they can trust her, even if it is short-lived from now to the point of leaving the facility.

She pauses when she feels the other alien relax under her touch. Her clear eyes meet the Yautja’s face. There is no disbelief, only a sense of understanding. Sundew flashes a polite smile. “This will hurt a little. I am sorry. But the pain should not linger past this feeding.”

When the alien stiffly nods, she plunges the scalpel into the scaly flesh of their neck. She can feel them flinch before they still. Glowing green blood begins to trickle as she withdraws the scalpel and sets it on the table. She looks over her shoulder at Heinrich, but it is impossible to gauge his reaction when the man wears his mask. With no other choice, Sundew leans over the table. She lowers herself slowly—gently—to the Yautja’s neck, pressing silver lips to the incision before more _memories_ and _knowledge_ can escape.

She begins to drink.


	2. worthy of his respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a passage of time in this chapter, approximately 6 weeks. hopefully it's obvious but if it isn't i'll go back and edit that paragraph. :0 these next chapters have a lot of time passing and shifts in perspective, so here's hoping it isn't confusing...

There are six feedings between a day of the Yautja’s blood. It is part of the routine now: she has incorporated the alien into her life of captivity at the Stargazer Corporation. In the taking of vibrant green blood, she breathes in the experiences of the warrior, the hunter, the _Elite_. She lives a section of his life. She sees as he does, a shred of understanding of who he is and what he has accomplished.

The first thing she does is make a note of his name: _H’chak._ She does not understand what it means, but the memory of how it sounds—one click, followed by a deep strangled cry that even her mimicry cannot perfectly imitate—rings in her mind. It feels fitting, as if the name is made for him and him alone. He—Sundew is now positive of the pronoun, having reflected on dozens of memories in the time since the first drink of his blood—has lived fascinating years, from his time as a pup to the initiation hunt that marked passage into adulthood.

It is all new information to her. More importantly, it will be new information for her hive. Sundew cannot emphasize enough _joy_ at the thought, imitating gleeful laughter as she lays on her cot time-and-time again.

She takes care not to indulge too much, to ration out picking apart the Yautja’s memories. H’chak did not give them to her by choice. She respects his decision to trust her, but she does not deny the muddied circumstances surrounding the first event, or any of the following drinks she has. She knows neither have a choice, that they are two aliens from vastly different cultures. But she is curious, and her kind _craves_ knowledge like a man in the desert craves water, so her mind returns to his memories in a spectacular, fucked-up loop.

 _H’chak. H’chak. H’chak._ She replays the sound of his name in the memory. Her clear eyes stare at the ceiling of her cell as she imagines what the rest of his memories taste like, how other Yautja names fall off the tongue. Sundew purses her lips and imitates the human act of inhaling deeply. _I am going to get us out of here, H’chak. That is my promise to you. I do not break my word… usually._

The doors to her cell unlock. Sundew sits up on the cot in time to hear the room depressurize and see Heinrich’s distinct form stride in, dressed head-to-toe in a layer of protective gear. Three personnel follow but only one has a clipboard. One of the personnel holds a folding chair; the person sets it down on the opposite side of her table. Sundew stands, brushes off her jumpsuit, and makes to sit down while Heinrich does the same. Sundew blinks but retains her smile. “Greetings, Doctor Heinrich. To what do I owe the pleasure? I have already been fed.”

“Pomero.” Heinrich holds out a hand and the personnel passes the clipboard. The doctor faces forward and pulls a pen from his pocket. “S. I wanted to continue the conversation we had yesterday—About the Predator.”

“The _Yautja._ ” She corrects him as she always does.

He looks annoyed. “Yes. Right. S—”

“Sundew,” she smiles. “Please refer to me by the given name, my Doctor.”

 _“Sundew._ I am understanding you have learned a great deal about the Yautja we have in our possession. Specifically, about the Predator’s—”

“Yautja.”

“The _Yautja_ ’s adolescence,” Heinrich sounds frustrated behind his mask. She wishes she could see his face, but she settles for the disgruntled tone in his voice as the man continues. “I appreciate what you have given us, but it is no longer relevant. We are past _Yautja_ adolescence. We need to know everything about their technology, Sundew.”

 _Impressive, durable technology. Your kind has a way with their weapons,_ is what she imagines saying to H’chak, if only it were possible. Sundew pauses. “—It will take me a minute to sort through his memories. Please be patient, my Doctor.”

“Don’t be long.” Heinrich leans back in his seat and crosses his arms.

She does not have room to stall. His posture reveals the resolve today: there is no goading, baiting, or provoking her way out of this one. She briefly revisits the idea of ejecting sublimized N-C-3 gas into the room, but she dismisses it at the realization she has nowhere to go. She must bide her time. Her actions thus far have kept both extraterrestrials from being subjected to exploratory surgery or expiration. She knows how to feed, whether it be the amount she takes in H’chak’s blood, or the scraps she throws to Doctor Heinrich and his colleagues.

“In one of his photos,” She drums her fingers on the table, an action she remembers learning from a memory of Heinrich’s youth. “You see torn mesh on the _Yautja’s_ body. Am I correct, my Doctor?”

“I would have to look at the folder again.”

She fetches it from underneath her cot. Sundew returns to her seat and opens it—but does not hand it over—for the doctor to see. At Heinrich’s nod, Sundew shuts the folder and hugs it to her chest. She smiles. “I was confused why an individual of such caliber chose to wear inefficient attire for the environment. Insects are a problem across Earth. Am I correct?”

“You are.” Heinrich affirms.

“—I have learned the purpose of that mesh. It is not clothing. It is a thermal bodysuit, Doctor Heinrich. It regulates body temperature—”

“I know that, Sundew.”

“—Assists in filtering the atmosphere—"

“S.”

“It can obscure the Yautja using it as long as the material is not damaged, and the energy reserves remain charged.” Sundew finishes with the same smile. She enjoys the pause that follows; Heinrich’s hesitation is _delicious_.

“…Elaborate on the cloaking.” Heinrich orders.

Sundew mimics a shrug. “It can bend or twist light around itself to present the illusion of being transparent. _Invisible._ I am not certain of the specifics, my Doctor, but I have found many memories of the equipment in use, being repaired, and activated. Would you like me to share more on this subject?”

She knows she has him hooked when Heinrich leans forward and looks expectantly for her to go on.

She makes most of the stories up over the next two feedings. Some of the tales have roots in actual memories, but most carry the tiniest grain of salt, covered by her elaborate musings of _Yautja_ life. It is mostly fake. She understands the tells of when Heinrich is interested, and she plays off his interests and greed for more with efficiency. There is no satisfaction in giving him false information, but she carries on with the knowledge it buys her and the Yautja a little more time.

All she needs is a little more time.

According to her data, it is the sixth round of drinking H’chak’s blood that throws her for a loop. Sundew frowns when she enters the chamber with Heinrich at her side. She feels the man’s arm release her and drop back to his side. Something is different with the Yautja today. When Sundew looks, she notes the intravenous fluids have been reduced from six to four. She flinches when Heinrich comments. “—Your cooperation has decreased the number of escape attempts by our Predator here.”

 _Yautja. Yautja!_ She does not scream, but she considers it.

She feels a hand on her back and Sundew stills. Her eyes shift to meet Heinrich’s mask. Behind it, his voice carries something deep and awful in its wake. “…What you are doing to them… It is helping us greatly. We do not require drastic measures to take samples, Sundew.”

Her faux stomach twists and churns. She looks away quickly. “…Ah.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I do not know what to do with this information, my Doctor.”

“Cherish it. It is a good thing, S.” Heinrich puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. It stays there longer than it should. At one point, his thumb makes to rub against the bare skin of her shoulder. The texture of his protective glove feels unpleasant.

She turns to face the sedated _Yautja_ nearby. “Hello. I am here again.”

She does not use her typical line of _Greetings_ anymore. Sundew does not know why. She reasons she needs no reason; she simply lacks the desire to repeat a mimicked line when holding the one-sided conversations with H’chak.

 _I want you to know these conversations are genuine._ She finds the thought lingers when she walks to the Yautja’s side. He is still sedated, but it appears the decreased dosage offers some degree of mobility, as she watches him pull his mandibles together in something akin to a frown. The synthetic stops and tilts her head to one side. She studies the four mandibles carefully. “Am I disrupting you? I am sorry. I will not take long—"

Sundew cuts herself off when she sees the brilliant orange eyes narrow at her words. She frowns. She is a mimicker of humanity, not a human herself; she does not know how to process the strange feeling that arises when the Yautja continues to stare at her. Then—She hears a distinctive _click._ Sundew stills, expecting an order from Heinrich or another personnel, but the noise is not from them. The click repeats. It dawns on her the source is none other than H’chak himself. Her eyes return to his and she hesitates.

“…Was that a yes?” Sundew asks softly. She feels a note of relief when the alien slowly shakes his head.

The click repeats.

It is a word of some kind. She knows it is a word. She pauses and tries to think of other possibilities, “Was it a no?”

Suddenly, the clicks increase and last ten seconds before H’chak ceases making noise. Sundew slowly processes the information. _Less sedation. His thoughts should be clearer. He wants me to know what click means ‘no’._

“—Can you make the noise for _yes?_ ” She asks. The next click is different, more pronounced and obtuse. She makes a note of the differences between the two and nods. “Thank you. I… have been told you are not attempting to escape your restraints as often. I am sure the people of Stargazer Corporation appreciate your cooperation.” The words are a way to gauge his trust, and to see if the warrior picks up on her tendency to twist her sentences into carrying a double meaning.

He clicks _yes._

“I hope your cooperation continues into the future. I would like to know more about your kind. They are called _Yautja?”_ She moves to the head of the table, speaking amicably and asking yes-or-no questions as she goes. She finds Heinrich handing her a clean lancet a moment later. Sundew thanks him for it and turns to the Yautja on the table.

She hesitates. She does not like this part. No matter how tantalizing and thrilling it is to drink from H’chak, she does not let herself enjoy it. He is not _prey._ A source of new information, but not reduced to a simple meal. She feels the alien on the table shift as she turns the lancet over in her hands. Her gaze rises and she stares in mild surprise at the sight of the Yautja exposing the creamy white flesh of his neck for her. He has not done that before, but Sundew recalls him not being on the reduced dosage of sedatives until recently.

She offers a smile of appreciation. “Thank you, that is helpful.”

 _Yes._ H’chak clicks back.

His body tenses when she pinches his skin between two fingers. It is easy to puncture; the flesh is softest in the curve of his neck. She sets the lancet aside, leans forward, and drinks. The room falls quiet. She can feel the heartbeat—if _Yautja_ have hearts—of H’chak underneath her lips. She can feel him relax. She doubts he gets anything out of the exchange, but if the action relieves his stress or numbs the harsh realities of their days—She is happy it helps.

Sundew stops before she takes too much. His memories are ambrosia to her, a nectar so excitingly sweet she finds herself yearning for more. But her restraint holds, and her respect the alien gives her the strength to tear herself from the glowing green trickling down his neck. His eyes are on her when she looks up. She opens her mouth to say something, another _thank you_ , or a confirmation he is as well as an alien captive in a testing laboratory can be, but no words come to mind. She shuts her mouth and simply smiles in gratitude, hoping to convey the message in action rather than speech.

The warmth that comes when he nods at her feels strange but not unwelcome. It is not like the heat of the sun or a flame, where the heat threatens to evaporate every piece of her until she returns to the elements of the worlds. It is more subtle, a blossoming of the sensation across her stomach, until it reaches her side and rises. She does not know what word to assign it. She simply stares at him, relieved and happy to know he is alive and that her efforts have not been in vain.

The warmth dies when Heinrich grabs her by the arm and drags her away. It is physically painful to cease eye contact with H’chak, but her mind diverts from the subject of his eyes when Heinrich begins to pull her through rooms, up a set of stairs, and out of the Yautja’s containment unit.

The doctor’s grip is horribly tight. Sundew frowns and tries to shake it, but the action elicits a low growl from the man as he drags her through corridors back to her cell. His personnel trot briskly to keep up with the two. They stay back when the duo reach Sundew’s cell. She is not released; she is _shoved_ inside. Heinrich marches to her while she spins on her heels to face him, bewildered.

“You think I don’t _know?_ ” The man screeches at her as he advances. He makes a grab for her neck and she narrowly side steps away. Heinrich grabs her by the shoulder and slams her into a wall. The sudden jolt of pain makes her gasp, but it is nothing compared to when the doctor grabs her head and slams it into the metal. “I’m not a _fool,_ you Synthetic! Worthless abomination! I know what you’re doing! I understand!”

“Doctor! Stop—Stop! You’ll damage the specimen!” It is Pomero who pleads. Metal clicks; it dawns on her, vaguely, someone is pointing a gun.

“ _Useless,_ you’re all useless! Useless to me! Waste of my time! I give you so much and for _what?_ For that _thing?_ That _Predator?”_ The doctor’s rage is unending. He has torn off his mask by now and looms over her bleeding form.

She was not aware her present form had blood of its own.

“I want every goddamn light in this place on her, on this cell,” Heinrich shouts at the nearest personnel as he steps back. The doctor storms out of the room angrily, leaving his helmet and mask behind.

“For fuck’s sake,” another personnel says under his breath.

The one called Pomero approaches her.

Sundew wonders what she looks like, with synthetic blood dripping from her nose and mouth. She did not expect close-quarters combat, or she might have used some of the experience gained from drinking H’chak’s memories. 

“Are you okay, Synthetic?” Pomero’s voice sounds strangely sincere. When the personnel offers a hand, she decides to take it.

Her poor sundress has bloodstains across the dashing white embroidery. She smooths out wrinkles in it anyways. “I will recover. You are Pomero?”

“Yes, uh… m’am?”

“Greetings, Pomero. Thank you for assisting me.” She mimics her softest tone, sweet and bashful. Even if the doctor is experiencing a violent rage, she must act on any opportunity given. Right now, midst all the confusion, she knows there is an opportunity to garner Pomero’s sympathy. Like the sundew of earth, she intends to wrap sweet facades and mimicked words around him until he is a stuck fly, unable to escape.

* * *

The life of Saturn has never been of interest to his kind.

M-di H’chak knows very little about the silver lifeforms, yet in understanding nothing he understands enough. The Yautja are feared hunters spanning galaxies and distant worlds. He himself comes from a long line of prestigious Elites, members of the Yautja considered exemplary among Hunters. He has gone on countless Hunts, amassing enough trophies to span not one but two chambers on his clan’s ship. He has fathered dozens of pups compared to the other men of his clan. His knowledge of different prey encompasses thousands of species, each with their unique skillset and biology proving a worthwhile fight.

But when it comes to the Images—He knows close to nothing. He considers what he _does_ know: Im-Gen, Images, are unworthy prey. They are inefficient shifters, capable of absorbing or ejecting mass to alter their physical composition, but it is a slow process with no utility in combat. Unlike the Yautja, whose dominant culture revolves around the Code of Honor and the Hunt, the Images seek to obtain and hoard knowledge. They do not use it to grow, they do not use it to expand, they simply want to have it for the sake of having it. Such a monotone life does not appeal to M-di H’chak, and under normal circumstances he would not bother giving an Image a second thought.

These are not normal circumstances; he did not expect to be captured.

He has been in custody of the _oomans_ for approximately eight months, seven days, but moved from the region known as _Brazil_ to his current location sometime in the past 2 months. The group of _oomans_ responsible for his capture act under the orders of a company called the _Stargazer Corporation_. Normally, the thought might amuse him. He is too high a rank of Hunter to take such weak prey seriously, but the tables have turned, and his hubris has led to the _weak prey_ gaining the upper hand.

He did not engage the inhabitants of _Terra Firma_ with the intention to Hunt them. He is an Elite, and his assignments delve into the bloody resolution of bringing Bad Bloods the final sleep in honorable combat. If not for the fact the other Yautja was engaged in a Hunt of their own, he _knows_ he would have already returned to his clan ship with a fresh skull for his trophy chambers. Engaging the Yautja once a fire team had them in their sights was a risk he took, and it was a risk that did not pay off. What the Image showed him—the flashes of colors and lights, splaying a series of images in his mind and revealing what photographs the _oomans_ had on his kind—meant his Hunt failed. He did not kill the Bad Blood. He was defeated, and the other Yautja escaped.

 _Now I am here. Waiting. They think they can keep me in slumber._ The thought is hazy but firm.

Up until recently, he knows he would have continued futile efforts to resist and break free of the _oomans_ , if not die trying. An honorable death is preferential to the dishonor of being turned into a guinea pig for weak prey to test, probe, and torture. The presence of the Image, and the knowledge passed to him, should reinforce that line of thought.

It has not, for the sole reason of the three human skulls seen in the photographs revealed by the Image. One of the fire team members lives. The Bad Blood will hunt them down. If he can escape, he can finish his hunt and ensure his Honor remains intact. H’chak knows escaping on his own is nigh-impossible, even with the information obtain in the Image’s visits. If he maintains the Image’s assistance, however—there is a possibility. There is a sliver of hope. Much like what the Image asked of him the first time they crossed paths he must put trust in another; owing a debt to an Image is preferable to anything the _oomans_ intend to do with him, much less the dishonor of a failed Hunt.

He believes it is the twelfth time the Image comes for his blood that a new breakthrough occurs. By now, he has mastered the docile guise of a complicit creature. It is easy when his body has physically deteriorated from lack of exercise; the _oomans_ begin to rely on strong metal alloys opposed to cocktails of drugs to subdue him. He can think clearly, with only the slightest haze of sedation looming over his mind. When H’chak hears the doors to his containment chamber unlock, he half-expects to see another trio of scientists come to measure vitals and steal blood.

The Image is no scientist, but she does intend to take his blood.

She is a strange creature; she is vastly different than what little records he’s perused on his clanship in the past. He remembers reading about the silvery appearance shared across Images, but up close his natural vision sees only what little heat she gives off, a terrible contrast compared to the bright red heat signatures of _oomans_ nearby. Though the shape of the Image replicates a human’s physical composition, the lack of heat produced is a key giveaway. He sees why the humans refer to her as a _Synthetic:_ everything she does feels and looks artificial. Her words have a distinct emptiness to them, her gaze can never be soft nor hard, and even the polite smile she offers feels fake and synthetic, almost insulting to his eyes.

“Hello, again.” Her voice carries the unearthly quality around the room. She speaks softly, as if she is a delicate creature incapable of defending herself. It fits her kind.

“Yes,” H’chak clicks once in acknowledgement.

He notes there is a different doctor standing behind her. The build is leaner, and the height nowhere near comparable to the _ooman_ called Heinrich. H’chak briefly wonders what happened to the man. He decides it is not important. His attention shifts to the Image when she walks to his side.

“Doctor Garcia, I require a sharp, please.” The Image looks back. She nods when the _ooman_ hands her a small lancet.

Then she steps closer. He knows the routine of her visits. She is not allowed to take from his wrists, so she opts for his neck. H’chak cranes his neck to the side, exposing one of the few vulnerable patches of his body. Along the curve of his neck, his flesh becomes soft and penetrable. He tenses when he feels the Image’s fingers pinch and hold skin up.

“I will be quick,” the Image says, and he knows she will. She is good at keeping her word.

The incision hurts, but not enough to make him hiss or curse in front of the two’s captors. His eyes flicker to the Image as she draws the lancet back and sets it to the side. He does not move his gaze even when she leans forward and presses her lips to his neck. H’chak finds his pulse quickens as she feeds. It is an exhilarating sensation to be at the mercy of another. If Images were truly foes, _worthy prey,_ he might consider it an Honor to die then. But the Image is not, and he reminds himself of where the two stand. They are aliens from different cultures, whose values do not mesh but cross out of necessity for survival and future escape.

The thrill of the Image’s touch lingers. It makes the short quills along parts of his body try to rise. The Image has no idea the intimate trust he places in her to willingly expose a weak point and let her feed. He has only ever extended the same trust to mates, each a brief experience and _never_ repeated.

“I cannot wait to be rid of this place.” He knows his words are nothing but clicks to the others in the room, but his frustration simmers enough to voice the thought.

He pauses when the Image replies in English, voice a soft whisper but feet away, “This feeding has been enlightening. I believe we share mutual experiences.”

 _A response?_ The Yautja does not believe it. He clicks, _“Cjit._ This is what they call _shit_.”

“Doctor Garcia,” the Image looks over her shoulder at the personnel. “Has this chamber been cleaned recently? I am under the impression Stargazer Corporation keeps their specimens in decontaminated rooms. Cooperation is likelier when a cell does not look like… shit.”

“I… I can ask the janitorial branch. No, I will. The cooperation of you and the other specimens is valuable to our research. Erm,” The doctor is nowhere near as confident as the _ooman_ called Heinrich. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, S.”

“Sundew.” The Image corrects her gently.

“Sundew, then.” Garcia nods.

 _Sundew._ Scientifically known as _drosera_ , it is one of the few carnivorous plants on _Terra._ The plant sports dozens of protrusions with a glistening mucilage gland at the end of each one. The substance produced by these glands is like glue; flies and other small insects land on the glands, triggering a sundew to wrap around its prey. The deceptive nature of the plant reflects a desperation for survival, resorting to rebel against _Terra_ ’s peaceful flora in search of alternative nutrients. It is almost worthy of his respect.

He wonders if the Image nearby is worthy of the same.


	3. under control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That evening, in the comfort of her on-site apartment and ensnared in a white bathrobe, Garcia pulls her laptop open and begins filling out the forms for specimen termination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more time passage in this chapter, of several months

Garcia knows she might have limited experience compared to most of her colleagues, but she is no fool. She understands when she reads the logs of Incident S-1 she must report Heinrich to the administrative branch. His blood has been taken by the Synthetic once, in of itself a gross violation of protocol to ignore.

Her efforts are not noted until the day her colleague demonstrates a violent shift in demeanor. It is that same day she receives a call from the administrative branch; Louanne Garcia is regarded as the first to see Heinrich’s failures, and for that she is promoted to his position.

It should be an exciting experience, but she feels unnerved from the moment she first steps into the room. She dons full protection equipment, complete with respiratory gear to avoid inhaling possible gases ejected by the Synthetic’s system. Her posture is stiff, but she approaches the silver figure sitting behind the table. Garcia inquires softly, “Are you S?”

“Greetings, Doctor. You are not Doctor Heinrich.” The specimen responds, calm and collective.

“I am not. Doctor Heinrich had other priorities; I will be your new doctor. Please call me Garcia.”

“Doctor Garcia. To what do I owe the pleasure?” The specimen is frighteningly realistic in mimicking human vocals. Garcia does not recognize the voice; she wonders if the Synthetic uses one from Heinrich’s memories, or perhaps the poor woman engulfed after the Synthetic crashed into Earth. Garcia feels a sting at the memory; she recalls the report listing the crash site as a catastrophe of gore and miscellaneous alloys. _  
_

She realizes she has not said anything. Garcia takes a clipboard from personnel nearby—Pomero, this one—and retrieves a pen from her pocket. She approaches the table but opts to stand given there is only one seat. Across the table, the Synthetic tilts her head to one side and looks out with clear eyes, revealing the intricate network of silver tissue and cells beyond.

Garcia feels bile climb up the back of her throat. She squints. “You are… a strange specimen, S.”

“Sundew.”

“Sundew?” It takes a moment to remember. Garcia frowns behind her mask and corrects herself. “My apologies, S, err, Sundew. I was briefed, but it slipped my mind. Sundew. You have a handsome name; did you pick it for yourself?”

She falls into the tune of small conversation, where neither party offers much nor takes little. Garcia knows the specimen yearns to pick up new information; it is one of the few things that interests _Sundew_ outside of sundresses. How ironic, when the sun is the bane of the Synthetic’s existence. As the two shoot questions back and forth, Garcia writes a note in the margins of the subject’s data sheet. _Eager to cooperate. Stay on guard._

The doctor hands it off to Pomero. The man nods and shifts his grip on the machine in his arms. It is no gun, but a piece of equipment Garcia called in upon first learning of her promotion. The industrial unit is heavy, but Garcia knows one switch will have it flooding the entire room with ultraviolet light. Heinrich may have obsessed over the Synthetic, but he was not wrong in his judgement of using lights to control her.

“Doctor Garcia, may I please ask a question?” The Synthetic interrupts her next thought.

Behind her mask, Garcia’s brows furrow. She hesitates. “Of what nature, Sundew?”

“The Yautja. Will I continue to see the Yautja?” Her voice is so _fake_ it screams in Garcia’s head _danger, danger, danger._ When Garcia does not respond, Sundew pauses and adds, “—The memories are delicious. I could not ask for a better feeding.”

Truly a twisted specimen.

There are pieces of the true Synthetic, the creature from Saturn, that Garcia unravels over the coming weeks. Some things are mild-natured, like the Synthetic’s love of humanity's wide-brimmed hats and commentary human retail outlets. Other things hint at the darker side of the specimen, such as soft-spoken sentences referencing her desire to drink a human to a husk, described as one of the closest things to _ecstasy_ a Synthetic can experience. Garcia feels especially nauseous after that conversation; she cannot look the specimen in the eye without anger and fear simmering in her blood.

The specimen does not see a problem with reducing life to _memories,_ to _knowledge_. The human experience is deeply convoluted, but it is more than a meal to splurge on. Sundew does not appear to understand the sanctity of _human_ life, or life in general, valuing only the safety of something called the _hive_ and thirsting for information to add to it. 

The lack of understanding is why the matter of the Predator continues to baffle Garcia. She does not understand why the Synthetic asks on their status, much less why she asks once every six feedings. It takes three days of the nonsense before Garcia pieces it together: feedings are a way to track the time when there is no visible day and night cycle. Garcia briefly debates changing the feeding schedule just to see how the Synthetic reacts, but she refrains; she knows better than to go against routine protocol.

She finds herself pondering the relation between the Predator and Synthetic. The two only crossed paths because of Heinrich’s proposal in using the Synthetic to repossess memories and experiences of uncooperative specimens. She opts to let the meetings continue, accompanying Synthetic to the first one. It is a quiet walk, even with the dozen guards and medical personnel dressed in full Kevlar and protective suits. Garcia scrunches her nose behind her mask at the excessive security measures; she understands why it is necessary, but it does not make them any less obnoxious. She follows Synthetic down a set of stairs and through two metal chambers standing between them and the Predator’s containment room.

The Synthetic is the first to enter, offering a soft, “Hello, again.”

 _Specimen does not use typical greeting when addressing Predator._ She writes it on her clipboard before following Sundew, just in time to hear a faint, almost inaudible clicking noise. The doctor stiffens and snaps her head to look around the room. The second specimen, the _Predator,_ lays limp on a large, reinforced metal table. The massive extraterrestrial is helplessly restrained by great bands of metal. Not that it matters, if the drugs in their system don’t knock them out then the lack of muscle mass and ongoing atrophy will keep them still. 

It doesn’t help calm her when she locks eyes with the terrible creature. The Predator’s orange gaze is horrifying. She feels goosebumps rise on her skin as she stares back at them.

 _We’re all prey compared to you._ The doctor shudders at the thought.

She knows why Stargazer Corporation rejects requests to terminate the specimen. She _knows_ the technology and intelligence to be gained outweighs the risks of housing such a horrible monster. She _knows_ , but Garcia’s insides _scream_ at her to find a way, end the specimen, remove the stain from Earth’s surface. _Kill it before it kills you!_

“Doctor Garcia,” the Synthetic calls to her, already standing at the head of the table. The fake smile is nauseating to look at. “—I require a sharp, please.”

She fishes a clean lancet from a pocket. Garcia pulls it out of the white sterilization wrapping and walks over to Sundew. She steps back after, unwilling to remain close to the second specimen regardless if they are sedated or not.

Garcia opens her mouth to speak when the Synthetic grabs the Predator’s neck, clutching a handful of scaly flesh in one hand. Sundew manipulates the lancet with the other. It is clear she does not possess the precision of the on-site medical personnel—Or, if she does, she chooses to hide it. Garcia assumes the former. She frowns behind her mask at the sight of the second specimen tensing on the table. The Predator is responding through the drugs in their system. Surprisingly, where Garcia anticipates growls, clicks, or perhaps weak thrashing, there is none.

“I will be quick.” Sundew sounds oddly sincere.

It is clear the second specimen feels pain, but they do not express it even when the lancet digs deep through the soft flesh of their neck. The cut is not clean; green blood covers the blade of the sharp when Sundew draws it back and sets it aside. Garcia half-expects the Synthetic to stop, perhaps ask for a glass or even a straw. She is mortified to see the Synthetic lean in and press silvery lips to the wound. It is a disgusting sight, both the mockery of human affection and undignified touching of something so wicked and dangerous. She resists the urge to retch as the moment drags out, but Garcia is a doctor. She _knows_ she must pay attention, take notes, and observe, so she does.

Perhaps it will bring nightmares, but she does not tear her eyes away from the abhorrent embrace. She watches it all, from the moment the Predator begins to stare at the Synthetic to the second Sundew draws back. The Synthetic wipes her mouth. She steps away and musters a smile that is too good a forgery for Garcia to call it fake. The doctor’s gaze snaps back to the Predator’s neck, focusing on the quills beginning at the base of their skull. There, the shortest of the alien’s quills flare up briefly. The alien’s four mandibles twitch.

 _Request for copy of Predator’s file._ Garcia adds the note to her clipboard. _I need all entries pertaining to known and theorized body language._

A brief series of clicks rings out. It is so faint Garcia almost misses them. She frowns behind her mask and looks up, watching the Predator carefully.

“—This feeding has been enlightening.” Sundew cuts in, voice soft and calm. Almost—Warm. “I believe we share mutual experiences.”

There is a pause, then another set of clicks.

Garcia stills. It is a conversation—She is sure of it. She does not know when and she does not know _how_ but the differing species have found a way to communicate. It is a reminder of Heinrich's mistakes and what she must do to avoid repeating them. Her gaze dims behind her mask; the development is a major breach in security, and with two valuable specimens no less. Humans can be bribed, reprimanded, and blackmailed into silence, but aliens require extreme measures. She will need to go through three administrative channels just to have the request for termination reviewed by anyone at the executive branch.

“Doctor Garcia.” Sundew looks at her over her shoulder. The Synthetic’s clear eyes give nothing away. “Has this chamber been cleaned recently? I am under the impression Stargazer Corporation keeps their specimens in decontaminated rooms. Cooperation is likelier when a cell does not look like… shit.”

“I,” The doctor blanks on her response. She clears her throat. “I can ask the janitorial branch. No, I will. The cooperation of you and the other specimens is valuable to our research. Erm… Thank you for bringing this to my attention, S.”

“Sundew.”

“Sundew, then.” The doctor nods.

That evening, in the comfort of her on-site apartment and ensnared in a white bathrobe, Garcia pulls her laptop open and begins filling out the forms for specimen termination.

* * *

She sits cross-legged on the cot in her cell, folder of alien photographs splayed open in front of her. The entity drops a hand to one photograph. It is of H’chak’s gear, focusing on a set of gauntlets with long blades extending out multiple slots on one end. Sundew cannot remember seeing it anywhere in the facility. She does not believe Stargazer Corporation would destroy alien technology; duplicating it is more in line with her understanding of their ethics and goals.

 _Would they keep it at the same facility as H’chak?_ The thought lingers. She could try asking him during their next meeting but communicating the thought through electrically charged imagery is far different than the series of clicks and growls used in the Yautja language. Sundew does not possess the knowledge to mimic a Yautja’s vocal cords. She imagines she could learn, if H’chak gave enough blood, but then the matter of obtaining the matter necessary for adapting her form to a Yautja would come into play. It is all an expanding problem, one where the solution rests in another problem, and another, and it piles up.

No, she will have to find a way to communicate via her kind’s electrical charges. Sundew imitates a human form of frustration: the act of leaning against a wall, emitting a grumbling noise, and staring at the ceiling. She hopes it amuses the researchers watching her through the cameras and monitors.

Besides the wristblades—which the Synthetic recalls as _ki’cti-pa_ according to H’chak’s memories—there is a bio-mask, a thermal suit, and a shoulder-mounted weapon called _sivk’va-tai_ to account for. The mask is most important. She reviews countless memories of it in use, reflecting on how it enables H’chak to flip through different forms of vision. More importantly, it has a respiratory machine built into it, aiding the Yautja across alien atmospheres like Earth’s. Sundew finds her lips quirking up at the thought; the two _do_ share something in common beyond their conditions at the Stargazer Corporation. Neither could live without assistance on Earth. The planet is no ones home.

It isn’t something to be happy about. The Synthetic pauses in recognition at the thought. It is not the first time her physical composition, her _system_ , has reacted on its own. Members of her hive are not privy to one emotion, but most never experience more than a simple happiness or lingering resolve at their duties. Present circumstances are not viable avenues for experimenting with these newfound feelings.

 _I need to escape this place._ She mimics a human tapping their lip. _I need to take H’chak with me. I will not break my word, nor can I escape on my own. I do not have a functioning... ship._

She does not remember eating any memory of a destroyed ship in H’chak’s blood, and she has fed on him twenty-three times by now. With six regular feedings between each encounter, it points to the rough equivalent of four and a half months. One hundred-and-forty days, give or take. Sundew reckons if H’chak knew his ship was destroyed, so would she. 

According to the Yautja’s memories, Yautja clans possess advanced technology far surpassing anything on earth. H’chak’s ship must have a system installed to receive messages or remote commands, and any space-faring species should possess weapons capable of decimating human defenses. It would be a way out of the facility and blasting apart the containment rooms sounds like a fascinating process to witness. Not new—But entertaining.

 _And I still have the…_ She remembers Heinrich’s attempt to subdue her through cyanide. Back then, the term N-C-3 had not made sense, but time has given her a chance to reflect. Her understanding of human organizational systems points to it being a variation of the chemical equation C-N-minus, or cyanide, created when a nitrogen atom and carbon atoms form a triple bond with one another. Heinrich expected her to expire, or to eject the substance in a gaseous state. Neither happened yet. She possesses a compressed volume of cyanide gas in her system, safely sectioned off from potential reactions to the rest of her system. The flesh packed around the gas is terribly uncomfortable; she keeps it layered by faux fat, tissues, and muscle in an abdominal cavity.

Releasing the gas will not be pleasant. She anticipates the incision extending three-quarters an inch deep to ensure passage through the fake abdominal wall and subsequent flesh encapsulating the gas. There is a chance, even if the incision is successful, the gas escapes to the surrounding abdominal cavity and causes her system to destabilize. Pneumoperitoneum will not kill her immediately, but it could become a problem down the road.

Sundew finds her right eye twitches. It is a human display of irritation; she did not anticipate Heinrich to be capable of causing her such a complicated problem.

 _I need to expel it before leaving the atmosphere. The heat exerted will cause the gas to expand._ This time her physical composition shudders. She does not want to expire.

She does _not_ want to expire.

She wonders if H’chak feels the same. The Synthetic mutters his name quietly, sounding out the Yautja syllables and click. Sundew spends most of her time repeating the name, practicing her enunciation and the latter half of the name until the next feeding. When the room depressurizes and the door unlocks, she sits up and greets the personnel with a courteous smile. “Greetings, Doctor Garcia—”

“Synthetic,” the doctor cuts her off as she steps inside the cell. The woman wears a full suit of protective equipment, as does every other member of the medical personnel and the guards. Garcia sounds like something, but Sundew does not know what. A more complex human emotion, perhaps?

Sundew stands and tilts her head to one side. “Sundew.”

“You have an extra feeding today. Pomero,” Garcia nods at one of the personnel to step forward. Sundew smiles politely when he extends a white paper bag.

Her clear eyes would light up if they could. Her lips twitch up into a grin. This emotion is… cheeky? Coy? Gleeful? No word fits perfectly, but they are acceptable. In the bag is a new dress. It is black, with Earth flowers embroidered on the front-right side of the hem. Sundew counts two sunflowers, three sprawling vines, and twelve green leaves extending around the dress’ skirt. She does not hesitate to change, ignoring the looks or awkward coughs when she strips off her jumpsuit and throws the dress on. Looking in the bag once more, she finds a delicate yellow hat to plop on her head. Her favorite kind of shoes, sandals with straps to cling to the back of her heels, are at the bottom.

Garcia’s face is hidden behind her mask, but Sundew likes to imagine the woman smiles. Maybe not a big smile, but a smile all the same.

“You have a new outfit. You will cooperate today?” The doctor inquires.

Sundew is in the middle of a twirl. She stops mid-spin and looks up. “Why would I refuse to cooperate, my Doctor? I do not reject a feeding. I may complain about the quality or taste, but never the smell. I do not have a sense of smell.”

“We are,” Garcia hesitates. “Going to see the Predator.”

Something is wrong.

“The Yautja? It has not been six feedings.” Sundew mimics the most recent memory Heinrich had of obliviousness. She does not know how convincing it is, as Garcia stiffens and turns away. Sundew quickly steps forward. “I may have miscounted the feedings leading to now, my Doctor. Perhaps six have passed.”

“It has been four. Come,” Garcia waves off the Synthetic’s words and waits for her.

Sundew is made to walk in front of the other personnel, directly alongside Garcia. The doctor keeps an arm linked with hers in a manner that reminds her of her early walks with Heinrich. Though Sundew asks of the occasion and holiday, the doctor does not fall for her words and keeps to herself. This continues even past the threshold marking the Yautja’s containment sector and the rest of the facility. Sundew falls quiet when she sees a familiar face among the raucous of scientists holding hushed conversations; it is not someone _she_ knows, but rather a figure from Heinrich’s memory.

Miranda Escrow, member of the Stargazer Corporation’s administrative branch, is the stereotypical picture of a human businesswoman, or at least of the fantasy Heinrich had in his head. She is a woman with pasty white skin, face covered in simple but sharp make-up along the lips and eyes. She has blue eyes and fine blond hair pulled back into an eloquent bun. Unlike the others present in the upper level, the woman does not don protection equipment. She has a fine red blouse and a dark pencil skirt extending to just below the knees, beige stockings and black high heels on. The sight must be ridiculous to Dr.Garcia, as the woman utters profanity under her breath.

“—Miss Escrow! You would be wise to wear respiratory gear around this one.” The doctor is strained; nervous. Garcia gestures with one hand at Sundew; the latter maintains a pleasant smile.

“Greetings, Miranda Escrow.” The Synthetic speaks calmly.

“This one really…” The businesswoman tilts her head to one side. She has sharp cheekbones and thin brows, brown versus blond. When Sundew peers closely, she sees the roots of Miranda’s hair are the same dark brown.

Garcia clears her throat, sound muffled by the mask. “This is the… specimen I mentioned.”

“They know my name.” Miranda pauses. There is something off in her gaze; it takes a moment for Sundew to realize the glimmer in her blue eyes is a shine of metal.

 _Mechanical augmentation?_ Sundew pauses. She has seen it before, in memories shared with the hive banks by others of her kind.

“Well…” Garcia exhales sharply. “Heinrich… As you know…”

“He’s taken care of, Louanne,” Miranda’s smile reminds Sundew of herself, a mimicry of real human expression. The businesswoman returns her metal eyes to Sundew. “Have I understood right, Synthetic? Your kind is capable of… repossessing memories?”

“I do not remove them. I view them as one sees me now. It does not destroy the cells responsible for containing—” Sundew pauses when Miranda holds up a hand.

The businesswoman wears gloves. She crosses her arms and peers at Sundew. “I appreciate your honesty, Synthetic.”

“Sundew.” Sundew smiles.

“...Sundew. I am Miranda, as you have said. Given the individuals present have clearance to hear this information—I will get to the point.” She puckers her lips and smiles back. It is not a nice smile. Rarely does Sundew feel threatened by another, but there is a hunger in the woman’s face that makes her still. Miranda glances down the room, past the screening machines where one would come upon the elevator and stairs to access the lower level of the sector. “You are slated for termination, Sundew. The executive branch has approved the procedure. It is scheduled for… You! Pomero, was it? Give me a time.”

“Four-thirty-three in the morning, m’am, Pacific Standard—”

“In one hour, seventeen minutes, Stargazer Corporation will proceed with the termination. Contrary to your understanding, you are not the first Synthetic we have encountered on our planet.” Miranda’s gaze narrows. “You understand your kind can… _expire?_ ”

Sundew stills. She briefly wonders if it is a trick, if it is a way to provoke the unknown emotions constantly popping up. The way Miranda Escrow stands indicates otherwise; the woman conveys a calm, confident demeanor. If a bluff—It is convincing enough for the Synthetic to answer. “I understand.”

“I cannot authorize a stay on termination—But I know someone who can.” Miranda lowers her arms to her side. She maintains her smile. Sundew knows where she got it from.

She says nothing, so Miranda goes on.

“One hour ago, the Predator specimen was scheduled for exploratory surgery. I know the late Doctor Heinrich mentioned it at least once during his time as your personnel.”

 _They planned to carry it out anyways. My cooperation means nothing to them._ The Synthetic begins to clench her teeth. She does not know why she does it, as she does not recall choosing to imitate a human’s anger. It takes a long, drawn-out minute before Sundew returns to her normal posture.

“The specimen was prepped and moved to the sector’s surgical ward for the procedure. Our security team received a call thirty minutes into the surgery. It appears,” Miranda emits a _tsk_ sound, as if preparing to scold a child. “The specimen developed a _tolerance_ to the paralytics employed by our medical personnel. You are a clever individual; surely you see the problem?”

“Pretend I am not.”

“Our specimen has taken shelter inside the surgical ward. The heat scan indicated four of the six medical personnel are still alive. I know we are both aware of this specimen’s capabilities in combat. We could send in a unit to retrieve our personnel, but that risks the lives of security and the specimen. Stargazer Corporation does not want that. It is possible to flood the room with gas and let all individuals present perish, but again—This company has no desire to add another Predator corpse to our collection. We want to keep a living specimen _alive._ ”

“I do not understand how a _Synthetic_ like myself can assist in this regard,” Sundew shuts her eyes.

Hearing Miranda’s soft chuckle is not insulting, but it bothers the Synthetic. She snaps to look at the businesswoman, who throws her hair back and huffs. “You are the only one capable of communicating with this creature. I advise you figure it out, unless termination is preferable.”

“And if it is?” Sundew calls the bluff.

It is not a bluff. In a second, four humans in Kevlar and protective suits descend on her, with one ripping her arms to her side and a third forcing her head back. She feels her artificial heartbeat jump in her throat. It is an alien sensation to have it racing in the mimicked human ears, pounding away in her head. She freezes in place as the fourth individual takes a syringe and vial out of one pocket. The bottle is opened, the syringe filled, and the fourth individual holds it at the ready, awaiting a go-ahead from the administrator nearby.

“Miranda! Are you really—You can’t do that _here_ —She’ll go up in _flames!”_ Garcia interjects. The woman waves a hand around at the ceiling. “The sprinklers will ruin every piece of equipment we have here!"

Miranda cocks her head to one side. “I won’t be the one expiring. What will it be?”

The Synthetic imagines one of H’chak’s hunts, on a great desert planet full of ice despite a starry sun looming overhead. She envisions the Yautja’s spear-like weapon embedded in a great mammoth’s hide, the terrible beast slain and skinned with nothing wasted. She wonders if she will have a chance to ask him about it, or if he will find a way to force her expiration before Miranda does. She prefers chances with the former; the idea of having a conversation when the Yautja isn’t sedated sounds appealing.

 _Especially if it is the last we have together._ Sundew’s form tenses. She has no reason to believe the Stargazer Corporation will put a stay on her expiration. All the information she gathered feels useless in the evolving circumstances. She does not have anything under control. The situation is escalating too quickly for her to adapt to. Sundew holds back a human curse and pushes the thought from her mind; maybe she can find something of value to offer H’chak. Maybe there is something she missed when she first passed the images to his mind. It is better than nothing and, should push come to shove, there is always the encapsulated flesh containing compressed cyanide gas. He can make use of it.

“Miranda Escrow," Sundew’s gaze remains on the floor as she answers. “I will cooperate.”


	4. meat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last of the chapters i wrote up until the present... so from here on out updates are. well. they happen! sometimes! 
> 
> if you are a reader, i hope you know i appreciate you taking the time out of your day to give this a chance! i know i am not the most amazing writer but i hope this story can be entertaining! aliens are cool. yeah.

There is a third floor to the Yautja containment sector. It is accessible only by the elevator, using a keycard Sundew notes is blue. Miranda swipes it once to open a ten-digit keyboard directly above the normal buttons. There is no sound or display to indicate the correct input; the woman simply waves Sundew in, steps back, and grins brighter than the sun as the doors shut. No sooner than they do, the Synthetic feels her physical composition begin to act involuntary; it comes in waves of spasms, leaving her hands shaking no matter how much she tries to make it stop.

She wonders if this is fear.

The ride takes several minutes. She is not calm by the time the elevator doors open, but the individual steps out and flinches when the doors shut behind her. The elevator can be heard rising up, up, _up,_ until she is left alone in a white corridor. The lights are too bright for her not to grimace; she tries to shield her eyes and head as she walks, but a headache persists. The Synthetic trudges past locked doorways and an empty office. She finds some rooms remain open, allowing her access to cabinets full of strange liquids and clean equipment. Occasionally she walks over the mangled corpse of a guard, weapons twisted and broke beyond recognition.

Sundew finds the end of the corridor splits in two directions. She tries the right first. It leads to a post-op recovery room, where monitors wait to be turned on and lights are dim. Stands for unused intravenous bags sit in the corner. It feels lonely.

She does not like it; Sundew is quick to leave the recovery room and follow the split corridor down the left side. She is three steps in when she hears the faint scuffle coming from a room at the other end. The clicks are undeniable; she breaks into a run, loud and obvious as she bolts for the set of double doors. It is elaborately marked, with signs indicating _operating room_ around the doors. A silent alarm flashes bright red outside. The doors do not seem barricaded, but when she peeks through the set of windows on the upper half, she stills. She sees red patches across the floor, and one body in blue scrubs laying lifeless on an otherwise clean concrete surface.

A shadow moves on the far side of the room. She catches a glimpse of blood-covered skin before it moves out of view behind a curtain.

“Hello?” Sundew calls. She has zero reason to remain quiet, not after bumbling around and stomping up and down halls like a procession.

When no movement comes, the Synthetic tentatively braces herself against the door and pushes. There are rolling tables of equipment and blue napkins inside; she forces them out of the way as the door gives. The Synthetic barely has time to think when it suddenly propels forward, causing a sharp snap of thread and the clang of metal. She looks up in time to see the flash of falling scalpels before a large arm snaps her to the side and sends her flying into a cabinet. Her head bangs against the metal; she imitates a human groan, though the pain is not as worse as it could be. She feels liquid fall from her head.

“Oh,” Sundew mumbles. The dizziness sets in a moment later. Somewhere in the mess, her hat fell off. The Synthetic’s gaze drops to the floor. She has only a moment before a warm hand grabs her head and pulls her up. It hurts; her cry of pain is real. She begins to squirm in discomfort. Two scale-covered arms wrap around her and keep her own pinned to her side.

She feels a hot, strangled breath on her ear. A voice clicks, _“You are one of them, Im-gen?”_

“No,” Sundew breathes the word past the pain. She curses involuntary when the Yautja tightens his grip. Pain is not her favorite sensation, but uncomfortable pain is even worse. Her writhing becomes squirming at the realization the alien’s arms press and constrict the compressed capsule of cyanide gas inside her system. She begins to hiss and curse _him_ out. “Put me _down!”_

 _“Kha’bj’te_ … _sending you by yourself,”_ the Yautja snaps, each click more and more agitated.

He is not listening. She needs to relieve the pressure of his arms or convince him to do something else. If he plans to subdue her, she hopes he has the decency to not kill himself in the process. She doubts a Yautja—even a Yautja Elite—can inhale cyanide and walk away unscathed. If only to get the alien’s attention, she begins to mimic his clicks—Not perfectly, and far from acceptable, but enough to try and disrupt his current line of thinking.

He pauses. His four mandibles press together, the Yautja’s laugh ringing out against the otherwise dead room.

It is quiet enough for Sundew to repeat, “I am trying to _help_ you!”

 _“No better than pyode amehda… You cannot help me, Im-gen,”_ He retorts in clicks. The Yautja does not release her, though his grip loosens enough for her to imitate an exhale of relief. The alien sets her on the ground and cranes his neck to breath against her ear. _“Why did they send an Image?”_

“They will force my expiration in an hour,” Sundew’s response is blunt and annoyed.

She hopes he becomes reasonable, but all she gets is another series of laughter. The Yautja finally releases her, only to spin her around and leer. He has seen far better days; Sundew immediately notes his thin stature and emaciated facial features. His orange eyes remain just as vivid as last time, and for a moment she finds her mind wanders to thoughts of Jupiter.

“A gas giant.” The Synthetic—Im-Gen—whispers softly.

She receives a cold stare for her words. Sundew pats down her dress—now stained with human and Synthetic blood—and smooths unseen folds in the fabric. She looks for her hat and picks it up off the floor even as the Yautja continues to stare. It isn’t until her outfit is fixed that she straightens up and returns sights to him. She notices quickly he leans partially against the wall, mandibles taut and tense—even with the increased rate of healing, she imagines the atrophied muscles wear on his mobility. No, she _knows_ they do. He is far too thin and scrawny compared to the memory of their first meeting.

It is still an accomplishment he can walk at all. She makes a note in her system; the Yautja’s rate of healing something as hindering as muscle atrophy is eons faster than anything she expected.

It dawns on her the room has fallen quiet. She glances around but sees only corpses; the Synthetic mimics sighing in relief. “—They expired, then?”

_“On their own. My actions were in self-defense.”_

“Your Code of Honor calls for nothing less.” She remarks, tone polite. She needs the mood to lighten or the alien will not take anything she says seriously. Sundew watches H’chak intently until his orange gaze stops sweeping the room and returns to her.

He clicks twice. “ _Speak; no one is stopping you.”_

“I am slated for expiration,” Sundew adjusts her hat. She wishes it were black; she knows the clear Synthetic blood will not leave a stain, but the mess of human blood will haunt the yellow material. Black would hide the stains better. Sundew shakes her head and turns back to the Yautja. “The humans expect me to bring four living homosapiens and a cooperative Yautja upstairs. Neither options are achievable; I do not know how long before they realize that.”

H’chak ceases his laughter. He does not appear to pay much attention, but she knows he can hear her. Even as the Yautja paces the room and digs through cabinets, Sundew carries her spiel with increasing dizziness.

She hates the lights.

“I know I cannot make you cooperate. Nor would I pursue that avenue. You are considered an,” Sundew sifts through memories in her mind. _“Elite?_ A high-ranking member of your clan. Asking you to throw away your honor and become a prisoner for humans is shameful. I do not need to be part of your clan to know that.”

 _“Im-gen cannot be Yautja. You cannot handle a weapon.”_ The clicks come while the Yautja begins to assemble a pouch from bloody scrubs and thin string. He works quickly, poking holes with his claw-like fingertips and maneuvering thread through using his mandibles. When one pouch is finished, he moves on to making another.

“I know.” Sundew acknowledges. She smiles politely, nodding at the alien’s work. “May I help you pack?”

 _“M-di.”_ She knows the click— _no._

She briefly considers pushing the subject, but the Synthetic stills as her head begins to pound. She finds herself involuntarily hissing. Her hands grab at her hat and she imagines wringing it like she might a neck. _No. No! I can do this. I am here to help him. It is the last thing I can do._

She hears metal crash and the Synthetic snaps back to focus. Her lips curve down; she frowns as she scans the room, spying the Yautja’s tall figure standing in a mess of tools on the ground. Sundew picks up the edge of her dress as she carefully steps around dead bodies and blood. Most of the blood has dried and cracked, but the largest patches continue to congeal. She echoes the sound of a sigh when the edge of her right sandal drags dry blood across the floor.

The Yautja is already standing by the time she reaches him. He dismisses her completely while he steps out of the pile of varying tools, some still in white sterilization wrappers.

He is tall. Very, very tall. It becomes difficult to ignore when Sundew’s neck hurts from looking up. She counts at least one foot of height between the two, though she knows she could reach a similar height if she changed her physical composition. She briefly considers it, knowing the corpses are fresh enough to serve as mass for the transformation, but Sundew dismisses the thought. She follows the Yautja when he returns to cabinets and begins to pick through them, fetching spools of thread, sanitized lancets, and heavy gauze. 

_“Enough,”_ he clicks at her when she gets in the way of him and an untouched cabinet. _“I am an honorable Hunter; I will not kill unworthy prey—but I am not above subduing those who get in my way._ ”

“Are you above listening to unworthy prey? I want to assist you in escaping this facility.” With no answer, Sundew wanders next to an empty gurney; she sees intravenous bags hanging on a mobile stand to the side. Absentmindedly, she reaches out to touch one. She notes two of the bags have been used, half the contents missing. Specks of green blood lay at the end of the bags’ tubing. Sundew feels a strange sensation fall over her chest. Her physical composition does not differ in mass, but she feels _heavier,_ as if the torso of her system might drag her to the ground. Her head continues to hurt from before, but that is a different kind of pain compared to what is happening. 

She looks over her shoulder at the Yautja. He is busy picking through keycards, turning them over in his bulky hands. She notes he does not have clothes; nudity is not a problem among her kind, but the lack of specimen jumpsuits gives her pause. She looks around the room for one. There are only corpses in clothes and the blue napkins, the latter of which make up clean surgical napkins, used for wiping away pus or blood during an operation. Her eyes land on a pile of used napkins in a disposal tray, lingering on a rolling table nearby. She approaches it and looks down. Her eyes widen involuntarily at the sight of green blood oozing out of the material. She looks back at H’chak.

He heeds her no attention, but with his back turned she can make out a patch of flesh on his lower-left hip. It extends up, traveling alongside the length of the alien’s spine but stopping before the left shoulder blade. The flesh is not clean. It has been crudely stitched up; under the light of the operating room—which remains a constant, fatigue-inducing problem for her—she realizes traces of green blood linger on H’chak’s scaly skin. Her hands move to wring her wrists. She does not recall seeing the action in Heinrich’s memory, nor any other personnel she has fed upon.

“They operated on you.” Sundew speaks softly.

The pause in the Elite’s scuffling indicates he listens, though H’chak gives no response.

“I acted under the impression my cooperation would deter this corporation from unnecessary medical procedures. I was incorrect.” The Synthetic’s observation holds genuine remorse as she goes on, “I should have rejected Doctor Heinrich’s proposal.”

The word he clicks is not one she possesses memories of. When the click—a long, drawn-out thing, more of a _screech_ than a click—repeats, Sundew meets the Yautja’s orange gaze and stares curiously. A moment later the Yautja clicks incessantly. “ _You speak this language. Answer me.”_

“I would enjoy learning more about your language, but I do not speak it.” Sundew notes the change in body posture: H’chak’s mandibles draw together in a frown. His head cocks to one side before he straightens upright—he is so, so tall—and turns away.

 _“Useless,”_ the alien spits at her. _“Tricking me… believing you are…”_

She does not recall what the last of his clicks mean, the sentence a fragment in her mind. Sundew looks back at the empty gurney, the table with used napkins, and the intravenous stand with half-empty bags hanging off it. “I could learn more. I amassed a great pool of information thanks to your blood—”

 _“No!”_ The click is immediate. H’chak’s mandibles flare and his back arches, making him look taller than he already is. He growls at her. _“No more will be given. You… given enough. Soft meat.”_

“I did not expect more blood. Why would I ask for more? I question if you have enough _to_ give,” Sundew raises a hand and points to the splotches of green blood intermingling with dried human blood. “They told me you developed a tolerance to the paralytics in use. You woke up mid-operation?” When no reply comes, she lowers her hands to her sides. Her head bows. “I do not know how much you lost, or the ensuing fight. But—”

 _“Not enough,_ ” the Yautja cuts her off. By now, he has begun stripping corpses of their clothing. Sundew initially thinks he intends to sew another bag, but it takes her by surprise to see him make a crude loincloth. She imitates how she expects a human would react at such a sight, turning away and fixing her eyes elsewhere. She hears his clicks of amusement at her actions, _“…Did not bother you before.”_

“It does not bother me. I,” Sundew is uncertain how to explain it. She shakes her head. “I do not have an opinion on whether your physical attributes are obscured.”

He continues to click his mandibles, laughing at her words. Sundew takes it as a sign to look. She looks up and smiles politely. He is silent when he wants to be; the Yautja is directly behind her when she turns around. He dons the loin cloth and pouches, but nothing else. Sundew finds her gaze drawn to the expanse of scales covering his skin. The scales are thin and hang awkwardly over the Yautja’s remaining muscle mass. The rate of atrophy is nowhere near the severity of what it should be for an individual in restraints for many feedings.

“Your kind… Heals quickly,” Sundew states, gaze flickering up and locking with H’chak’s orange eyes. “The incision they left—It has already begun to close.”

* * *

The Im-Gen has a strange outline in his natural vision. The humans assigned to slice into him retain a decreasing heat signature—even in death. The temperature of the room is unpleasantly cool and yields little to no infrared wavelengths, providing a dark range of purple-blue hues for his eyes to soak in. He knows an Im-Gen will not match the surroundings nor the body heat of an _ooman_ , but he remains intrigued by the individual’s temperature. She gives off low infrared amounts, evidenced by the faint shade of pink in his vision.

“…The incision they left—It has already begun to close.” The Image speaks calmly, meeting his gaze without fear. He could smell it earlier, when she first barged into the room and set off his trap, and again when he had her grappled. Now she seems… M-di H’chak would not call her _fine_ , nor _okay,_ but the _ooman_ emotion of _calm_ might do.

He clicks at her, “It healed _cjit!”_

“It does not look shit.” The Im-Gen offers.

The warrior’s mandibles click together. He finds amusement in the petty observations, wrong as they are. At least she talks, compared to the screaming _oomans_ before they became corpses at his feet. He cracks his neck and turns around without a word, growling and pointing at the left side of his torso. The flesh there is still sore, but the pain is not as it was when his body first began resisting the paralytics. He does not take each breath with agonized strains, nor does his hands shake and clench. H’chak briefly takes pride in knowing he did not scream or curse through the worse of it, not even through his rudimentary stitching; his clan and fellow Elites would be proud, as would most of his clan’s women. He would surely secure two if not more mates for future excursions.

The Yautja’s quills—the shorter ones, brushing the sides of his head and part of his chest—rise and flare when a cool hand touches the incision site. He instinctively puffs up his chest and squares his shoulders; his body tries to make itself look bigger than it is. It only lasts a second before he snaps and spins around, hissing at the Image and clicking a long string of curses that ends in, “You dare touch me? Unworthy prey?”

When she stares back perplexed, it dawns on H’chak the Im-Gen does not understand one of his words. All that blood for nothing; her kind is truly useless in mimicry. It is part of why he finds the soft meat term for her kin redundant; her kind is a failure at replicating the processes of others. Physically, yes, but nowhere near the finesse of use in combat. Socially—It is clear as there are stars in the universe: an Im-Gen cannot truly grasp a language or social norms. H’chak does not feel pity for her. His eyes grow dark and he growls, gesturing from her to the side of his incision.

Her hand remains in the air, withdrawn but not lowered. Sundew parses her lips. “You are… Not pleased with me touching the surgical site?”

H’chak nods stiffly. _Communicating may become a problem, but our paths split soon._

“May I touch your chest?” Sundew inquires. 

He does not understand the request. His click is not a no but a curt, blunt, “Why?”

“My hive banks do not contain much information on Yautja Elites. I understand my circumstances do not bode well for survival, but should I live long enough to return to my hive—I wish to bring new information for the hive to absorb. The pursuit of knowledge is—"

“No.” He clicks it again for emphasis. _“No.”_

“Alright.” Her hand rises to her hat instead. Sundew adjusts it to let her peek up at him more efficiently. It is a strange sight: a pink silhouette with a dark hat wanting to look at him. H’chak cannot remember encountering a species so asinine in many cycles.

The way his thoughts circle around the Im-Gen bites at the back of his mind. He opts to focus his thoughts on the task at hand: escape. It is not likely given the circumstances. He has no equipment; his physical condition has greatly weakened from lack of adequate nutrition and exercise. The _oomans_ have played their cards wisely in approaching his imprisonment. Even if he returns to the upper level, there is still an entire fleet of guards and locking doors to deal with. He doubts the _oomans_ have small firearms. No, he _knows_ they pack greater firepower after how many he killed during his early attempts to escape.

 _How do I handle the security system?_ Thanks to the Image standing nearby, H’chak knows the vague layout of the building. He himself recalls arriving to the current facility, and the levels of screening required for people coming in _and_ out of the structure. There are four exit points; none go past less than two guard stations apiece, with each passing an airlock chamber before one can breach the perimeter and see the sky. It falls back on the earlier problem: he has no equipment. If he alerts the guards, they can radio ahead and have the exits locked down, along with the rest of the facility. Without his thermal mesh to cloak him, it is not possible to avoid tipping off _oomans_ to his predicament.

He hisses at himself in frustration. _An Elite knows what to do. I know what to do. I must. I will. Cjit!_

 _“Image,”_ he clicks twice at the standing figure. The outline of pink tilts her head at him. H’chak huffs loudly. _“You want to help me? How?”_

She smiles at him, synthetic and fake. The courtesy may be real, but it comes off more as obligation versus a genuine desire to assist him. Such is the life for unworthy prey; the Yautja does not expect much from her.

“—I perused this thought over the past feedings. How can I break us out? I did not realize I was short on time, or I would have taken action sooner,” Sundew speaks calmly. She slowly pats down folds of her dress, a dark hue against H’chak’s thermal vision. The Image looks at the floor. “The variables I originally based my words upon have shifted beyond my control. I do not believe I can break _us_ out. I will do my best to assist _you_ in escaping these grounds.”

 _Slated for termination._ His left eye twitches. Dying by _oomans_ is usually a shitty way to go. 

“There are certain things I can assist you with. The first is the remaining information I possess on the personnel upstairs and their security system. Some of this information may be dated; it has been many feedings since we first met.” The Im-Gen adjusts her hat again. She looks to the side and hesitates.

 _“Yes?”_ He clicks once. H’chak needs her cooperation but he also needs her to hurry up before the _oomans_ get pissy and sent men with guns to the lower level.

“Many feedings back—When Doctor Heinrich was assigned to my medical personnel—He contaminated one of my feedings. My system ingested the solid form of a compound called N-C-3. I now understand that compound is commonly regarded as _cyanide._ ” The Image mimics the act of inhaling deeply, as if she has real human lungs and is not a mess of fluctuating solid-liquid states inside.

H’chak clicks in recognition. When she pauses, he begins to hiss for her to continue.

“My system sublimizes unnecessary mass and ejects it into my surroundings to maintain stability. It did not eject the cyanide upon sublimation.” Sundew’s hand falls to her right hip. She pats a bulge there, awkward and out of place with the faux layers of human fat across her form. “In this circumstance, my system chose to sublimize and compress the gas for later expulsion. It is encapsulated in my system. A deep enough puncture will release it. I estimate the required incision to be three-fourths an inch.”

A violent and bloody opportunity presents itself. There is no honor in it.

The Im-Gen bites her lip. She lifts her head to meet his gaze, continuing in a hushed tone. “You would not survive exposure to this gas. Neither would the individuals who call us specimens.”

 _“…That is your idea? Pauk,”_ he regrets asking when she pauses and tilts her head at him. She desperately needs to learn more words, if only for the time the two are together. Her inability to understand is wearing the Yautja’s patience. H’chak quickly adds, _“M-di.”_

No.

“I do not intend to rely on a small volume of cyanide gas. That is not my suggestion,” the Image frowns at him.

H’chak’s hands tense, claws digging into loose scales from the tension. _“What is?”_

“Their computer systems are electronically linked. I thought…”

* * *

She remembers this warmth. It was the last time Heinrich attended one of her feedings with the Yautja. H’chak had exposed his neck for her to drink from, all without prompt. There had been the initial rush of his exhilarating memories, the heat of his warm blood, and then… peace. He had relaxed into the moment. She didn’t have anything to say after, and time was short before Heinrich tore her from the room, but the moment of calm between both captives exposed her to this warmth. It was not a threatening heat; it was not the kind that could force expiration.

It was the closest thing to what humans call _comfort._

This warmth without a name, this intricate sensation, it returns to her in the present. It is not comfort, but it is _warm,_ and it crawls up her spine, stopping to seep into her cheeks. She trails off in her words and turns away, covering her face with both hands before the Yautja can see. She does not understand why she wants to hide it, nor why her physical composition struggles to form sounds. The syllables are clear in her mind, but her body cannot produce them.

“…Ship.” She manages at last. She makes for her hat and pulls the edges of it further over her face. “I thought… If their computer systems are _linked_ … Can they be… manipulated? To signal your ship?”

H’chak is quiet.

A new thought crosses Sundew’s mind. She frowns and looks back at him, peeking from under the hat with clear eyes. “…Do you have a ship? You must own a ship. Yes? Yautja are known for spacefaring hunts—"

* * *

 _“Sei-i,”_ he chirps quickly, lest the Im-Gen start any other spiels in the little time they have together. H’chak’s voice is curt as he begins to click, _“It was not discovered by the oomans. It is set to follow my personal computer at the distance of fifty…”_

* * *

“Fifty?” She does not know what that means. _Feedings? Yards? Years?_

 _“If my equipment is here,”_ the Yautja cuts himself off. _“—My ship will be fifty… past that point, orbiting this region.”_

“I do not know where your equipment is. I looked through the memories of Doctor Heinrich and another personnel, but neither were of use. I do not know the chances Stargazer Corporation takes when housing alien technology.” Sundew pauses. “Can outside sources transmit signals to your ship? Commands?”

* * *

H’chak clicks in confirmation. His mandibles twitch when he realizes it sounds closer to a chirp than a click.

“If I could… If I knew how to signal your ship—The commands necessary to call it here—It has weapons? Weapons befitting a Yautja Elite. I could request it opens fire. You do not need to go through the exit points if you make your own exit point.” There is a pause. It gives away enough; H’chak growls lowly and snaps mandibles at the Image immediately.

 _“No thwei! Cjit! No more,”_ The Yautja’s body tenses.

“I require the knowledge necessary to call your ship. I do not know how to transmit messages to it on my own. You cannot produce the electrical charges necessary to manipulate the computer systems present in this facility,” Sundew speaks abruptly. She lowers her hands to her sides. “I cannot make you pursue this route, but I will offer it while I am here. H’chak.”

 _H’chak._ In his language, the clicks and syllables combine and translate to the human equivalent of _mercy._ On its own, it is an ironic name contrasting sharply with his duties. H’chak has taken up assignments as Arbitrator dozens of times, each bringing a new Yautja skull to his trophy rooms. He has engaged in deadly, cycle-long hunts between himself and the cosmos’ greatest prey. He has butchered a Xenomorph queen, dragged the carcass to his ship, and displayed it for his clan to see upon returning home. He is M-di H’chak, _No Mercy._

He has never heard unworthy prey speak his name in this way. It is far from perfect; the clicks are wrong. The syllables come closer to a screech than the fine _-ahk_ in his name. The imperfections should bother him, but he is more amused than anything. He enjoys hearing her attempts, reveling in the knowledge she _tries_ to get it right.

 _“Unworthy prey,”_ he clicks. _“This is the last time.”_

“I know,” Sundew nods. “May I have your blood for the last time, _H’chak?”_

 _Still not right._ And no time to correct her. H’chak grabs a scalpel from a rolling table nearby. He returns to Sundew and presses it into her hand. The Elite kneels in front of her and throws his head to the side, exposing the same location she has taken from before. When she does not move, the Yautja chirps at her to get on with it.

“…I could take from your wrist. This time.” The Image points out softly.

He falls quiet.

Admitting he forgot the option would be an insult to his pride. H’chak growls under his breath. The clicks he makes are nothing of the careful, Elite Hunter. He feels heat creep through his abdomen and rise to his face. His mandibles click quickly, messing up words in the process, _“…I did not... offer my wrist.”_

“You did not.”

She steps closer, an incredibly small sight compared to his larger frame. Her hands are soft when she skirts them up his neck, stopping at a fold and pinching the flesh between two fingers. The texture of her skin—fake, faux, synthetic—is palatable. She feels cool; not cold—but cool. The pain that follows is a wretched burning. She cuts deep this time; it stings and begins to ooze immediately. H’chak shuts his eyes and wills her to hurry.

The sensation that takes hold when she presses her lips to the wound is surreal. In an instant, the rest of the world fades away. He hisses and shifts his head to give her better access. Her free hand moves to his far shoulder to hold him still. It is _exhilarating._ He is at her whim and mercy, a twisted mess struggling to stay quiet as she feeds. There is a deep, powerful warmth flooding his veins the more she takes from him. The quills along the side of his head rise and spread against his skin. He instinctively tries to press into her grasp, but when that is not enough to satiate a need for closeness, he loops both arms around her waist and pulls her flush against his chest. 

She says something but it goes over his head. His neck burns; the feeding has stopped but he doesn’t let go. He presses against her further, chest and neck rumbling in satisfaction when she stays. He has not had proximity of this nature in a dozen human cycles, well past when he first arrived on _Terra._ It beguiles him; his grip tightens. Touching someone who isn’t hostile or a mating partner in this manner is _shamefully_ indulgent.

H’chak indulges, gulping a huge breath. It is not sweet when the smell hits neuron receptors in the roof of his mouth. She smells like an _ooman_ in the barest way, reflecting the fragility of both Im-Gen and _oomans_ in a single breath. She should be—and she is—unworthy prey. _She is... Soft... like the pyode amedha._ _She wants to help me?_

“—Is it common among Yautja clans to embrace in this fashion?” The words are curious and unalarmed. It dawns on him how long he’s held her like this, a mocking of true physical intimacy. H’chak reckons he has been a prisoner too long for things to have ever progressed this far.

The Im-Gen tilts her head to one side when he releases her and steps back. His hands tense into fists and his mandibles strain and stretch in a brooding frown. She does not comment on his behaviors further, standing idly and waiting for a response. She gets none. The two have wasted enough time as it is; he questions why the humans have not sent more. _Do they put hope in this Image? Do they believe she has that control over me?_

It wounds his pride. He hisses in disgust and turns away, emitting a string of profane clicks and garbled screeches. He throws in a chirp for good measure.

“I do not understand most of those words,” the Image states.

 _“—U’sl-kwe may come for us today,”_ H’chak knows she can only understand part of his language. He does not care to find the appropriate sounds to compensate for words she lacks knowledge of. The Yautja growls lowly and flares his mandibles, agitated to get a move on. _"The pyode amedha will shoot me on sight."_

“They want you alive,” Sundew fixes her hat.

H’chak snarls. _“—I am a threat to them.”_

“Do you have to be?” The Image waits for him to look back at her before she musters a courteous smile and goes on. “I am slated for forced expiration. They would not send me if they did not believe I possess a chance of success.”

 _“You are not cooperating with them,”_ The Yautja growls the warning.

“I do not intend to,” Sundew dismisses his words. She looks around, walks to a rolling table, and plucks something from a disposal tray on top. Used surgical napkins, all drenched with his blood, continue to drip bright green as she returns to his side. She does not hesitate, lifting one of the surgical napkins to his skin.

He takes it before the Image gets any ideas of rubbing him down. Sundew steps back and looks on quietly while the Yautja smears his body with the glowing fluid. It is crude, but the glow is bright enough under main lights to be effective; it _implies_ more injuries than are currently there. H’chak clicks his mandibles together when finished. _“It is… convincing. The soft meat does not know better. They will believe I am injured.”_

“—You do not have a tolerance to the sedatives, do you?” Sundew bites her lip at his single click. “Ah. Only the paralytics… I will go first. They will pursue my expiration if they believe you are incapable of escape—”

The Yautja cuts her off with a growl. He finds his thoughts return to her name; _sundew._ She is extending gluey tendrils to the oomans, drawing them close enough to fall into a trap. The _drosera_ is a resilient and enduring plant. He wonders if the Im-Gen will be the same.

H’chak collects no less than seven lancets, clutching six in one hand and extending the last to Sundew. He feels her gaze lingers on him. The Elite hisses. _“It is better to die honorably than live as rats for amedha.”_

“Meat.” Sundew nods. Her hands linger a moment longer than they should when she takes the sharp. “—Thank you.”


	5. it has a source

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.  
> aliens.  
> yeah.  
> y e a h  
> A L I E N S  
> YEAH

H’chak makes her walk ahead of him to the elevator. He ignores her when she inquires into using one of the chemicals stored nearby; the Yautja is not to about to waste time mixing unlabeled compounds. The risk is too great. Both individuals stop short of the elevator, with Sundew’s hand hovering over the call button. 

“I know you look down on my kind, H’chak.” The Image pushes the button. Far above, machinery starts to shift and grind. Cables can be heard dropping the elevator. Sundew looks at the lancet in her hand. She flips it so the sharp end points toward her, hiding it just behind her palm and forearm to anyone looking straight-on.

H’chak clicks. _“Sei-i._ _Im-Gen are unworthy prey.”_

“This unworthy prey has a request.”

The elevator rumbles as it lowers. Sundew adjusts her hat. She still has the injury on her head; an Im-Gen’s healing rate is nigh compared to a Yautja. A _ding_ alerts the two to the elevator’s arrival.

“My hive inhabits the gas planet humans call _Saturn._ Our culture is not hostile to outsiders if they do not harm the hive,” Sundew speaks as the doors open and both individuals step in. She moves to the inner panel and taps a button. The doors close. “They knew of my departure, but they will not know of my expiration unless someone informs them. Can you pass a message to them?”

The elevator rumbles as it begins to climb.

_"M-di."_

He has too much to do, equipment to recover, a Bad Blood to hunt, and now the Im-Gen expects him to detour to her hive. No. He will not; he refuses. It forces him to consider another question, one unspoken and waiting patiently for his choice. The unworthy prey expects him to leave her behind; _he_ expects himself to leave her behind.

_No. It would be… dishonorable. Why did I think it was an option? Am I that desperate to leave?_

The Yautja pushes Sundew aside, ignoring her confused inquiry. He rears back before throwing his fist forward; it tears through the elevator panel.

The elevator comes to an immediate stop, lights dying and darkness swallowing it whole. Electricity shoots and sparks, burning his hand and coursing up his arm. Wires crumple and sever beneath his claws. The only light comes from the sparks and glowing green blood marring his hide. Nearby, he hears the Image exhale sharply and clamber back to his side. Her hat bumps into him.

“What are you doing?!” The worry is real. Her shock is real. The hands that claw into his and separate him from the currents are real. Sundew struggles to push him back while sparks jump into her faux flesh. “This is not part of the—” She cuts herself off with a long, pained hiss.

 _“This plan is cjit!”_ H’chak snaps and drags her from the broken panel. His hand finds her chin; he pushes her head up until the two gazes are locked on one another. _“Let them kv’var—"_

“I do not know what that word means.” Sundew informs him.

The Yautja releases her and clicks irritably. _“The soft meat can look for us. A search. Their dekna is limited in the dark.”_

“I do not know what deck-knee means, but they are not in the dark. They have lights.” Sundew imitates the act of wrapping arms around herself and shuddering. Her head wound remains visible. “I cannot think clearly in the light. The… The ultraviolet waves are too much. They know this—”

 _“Then we make it dark. The soft meat’s technology requires…”_ He begins to click the word for _electricity,_ but upon seeing the Image tilt her head to one side and peer at him H’chak takes it as a sign of confusion. The Yautja’s large form points to the crackling, sparking panel of broken buttons near the elevator doors. _“—It has a source.”_

* * *

The warrior’s actions bring the soft, strange warmth back to her face. Sundew is quiet watching him gesture to the broken panel.

_“—It has a source.”_

She straightens upright and nods. She understands, or she thinks she does; there is no telling when the Yautja just discarded any semi-optimal _plan_ and broke the elevator. “Their security systems are linked electronically.”

 _“Sei-i.”_ The Yautja clicks once for yes. _“Your kind speaks through… Images. Im-Gen.”_

“Electrical charges to neurons. This is not the same—"

 _“…try?”_ The orange eyes are hard to make out in the dark. She can see the light of small sparks reflect in them. They continue to catch her attention, bringing pleasant images of Jupiter to her mind and easing her concerns.

She pauses. “I will try.”

* * *

“This is taking too long.” Garcia frowns under her mask. “If the Predator terminated her—"

“More reason to keep the specimen around. The executive branch had a long talk about the… pros and cons, if you will,” Miranda tilts her head to the side. “There was a brief divide, but they decided the potential of developing Predator technology vastly outweighed any revenue a Synthetic could procure.”

 _Always about profits._ Garcia holds her tongue. She is in no position to judge when the company hefts seven figures her way each year. The work people do for Stargazer has potential to change the way humans live across the globe. Maybe it is sleezy, but she wants to believe her intentions are good. Stargazer’s intentions are good for _humans._ The alien specimens are outside her jurisdiction to care. As far as Garcia is concerned—She never had a jurisdiction to begin with; the woman refrained from taking the Hippocratic oath post-medical school.

“Should I prep the termination room, then? Miranda—” Garcia stiffens when the blue eyes land on her. There is something unnatural about her superior’s gaze. It may be the light, perhaps a new set of contacts, but she doesn’t dare comment on either.

“There’s no need to go that far. The Synthetic will be terminated immediately following retrieval of our Predator,” the woman waves her words off, dismissing them and turning away to face a row of monitors. She chats softly with one of the personnel there. The person nods and begins to type on a keyboard, pulling up different camera feeds across two screens and gesturing at them. Miranda pauses. “The specimen is going with her. Prep the lights; this should be over quickly.”

The sound of machinery activating fills the floor. Garcia tenses where she stands. Several people in the room hold their breaths. Miranda begins to clap amicably when a camera feed displays two vastly different extraterrestrials squeezed into one space. A guard on the left jokes about the two; Garcia doesn’t make out the exact words, but it sounds lewd. She shakes her head with a grimace, but it does not stop the thoughts from flitting through her mind.

 _A report came back indicating a pattern of upticks and drops in the specimen’s heart rate. These were logged with consistent intervals of six days between each spike of activity. These near-weekly numbers reflect a trend correlating directly with the Synthetic’s feeding._ She looks down at the clipboard in her hands. She turns the first page over and checks her notes. _No, it fits the time frame perfectly. The Synthetic’s actions triggered a physiological response in the Predator specimen. Do Predators normally perceive physical contact of that nature as… stimulating?_

The woman wants to gag. Nothing about the thought should be appealing—and none of it is, not beyond a scientific perspective—but her curiosity beckons. She wonders, briefly, if it is possible for cross-species relationships across the cosmos. The circumstances are too bizarre, but her brain screams at her. _Yes. Trust your gut, Louanne. How many classes did you take on this during training?_

 _It won’t matter soon._ She thinks to herself. Her lips drop into a thin frown beneath her mask. _Unless terminating the Synthetic is the wrong move. Can this development be exploited? No—No, it won’t matter. It won’t. I already put in the request for termination, it’s gone through, that is that._

She is not the first to notice the error message flashing on the monitors. A personnel frowns and scoots her chair close to the screen. “The hell is this…?”

“We lost the feed for the elevator,” Two seats down, a man’s voice comes muffled behind his protective mask.

“That shouldn’t happen. Where’s the elevator? Is it stuck?” Garcia steps forward, only to flinch away when Miranda sizes her up. She returns to her own personnel’s side.

“It’s stopped,” the man speaks quietly. “Whole thing went down. There’s a slew of error codes—"

“Who’s on call this hour? Yurvchik Ivon? Tch,” Miranda straightens upright. “Those two are in there. Keep the lights on the elevator doors. The second they open—Keep the Synthetic immobilized until we confirm the Predator’s tagged.”

“Miss Miranda—” It is none other than one of her personnel, Pomero, who speaks. He is a hefty mountain of a man, one of the few guards with a gun. “Are you sure this is necessary? That specimen—The Synthetic—She’s been cooperative—"

“Would a write-up help you understand?” The businesswoman clicks her tongue twice, distaste obvious at having to explain anything.

Garcia wants to groan. The woman passes her clipboard and a pen to one of her colleagues. She eyes Miranda carefully before turning away and pushing past personnel to the sector’s doors.

“—What do you mean no one’s free? Where’s Ivon? Their ass is meant to be on the line at this hour,” Miranda growls into her phone, one hand clutching it to her ear and mouth while the other tenses into a steely fist. “I don’t _care_ if they say pigs can fly, Tucker! Fix the generator later; X-12 has more than enough people—So? Hire an electrician! A—A _different_ electrician, Tucker, god damnit—”

Garcia rolls her eyes. _She has things under control._

* * *

If the pay didn’t cover overtime, Ivon knows they would already be gone. They spent the previous evening kicking back and playing tabletop games with an online circle of friends, drinking beer and relaxing like they didn’t have a shift at three the next morning. The lack of sleep kicks their ass; their eyelids are heavy throughout the start of their shift. They keep a topped-off thermos in their back pocket as they lean back and shimmy out of a crawlspace. Their headlight bumps into the metal containment walls and for a second the light flickers out.

Ivon curses under their breath. The non-binary personnel clambers at their headlight until it turns off. They finish inching out of the crawlspace and pull themself out, emerging into a brightly lit chamber full of buzzing machines and the hum of active machinery. Bored guards in Kevlar body armor and crisp uniforms give them a glance before resuming their conversation. Ivon tugs at the strap of their helmet; they unclip it and set it to the side. Their cell phone vibrates in their jumpsuit; it takes a minute to fish around the different pockets and remember which one they dumped it in. No sooner than they take it out does the screen light up again.

“Tucker?” Ivon flinches at the number. _Four missed calls._

The phone lights up as another call comes in. Ivon swallows their nerves, slides their thumb across the screen, and holds it up to their ear. They hear the gruff voice of their supervisor immediately, _“Where on God’s green Earth you been, Ivon? What’s the point of an on-call electrician if you can’t be on call?”_

“Folks at…. God, hold on,” they yawn widely. “Okay, look, I’m still with X-12’s personnel. They radioed for an electrician to look at the filtration system. I don’t know how many times I gotta say this, but we _need_ a bio-engineer working these machines with me—I know jack shit about these chemicals. If there’s ever a leak—"

 _“Changing a filter doesn’t take a day, Ivon!”_ Tucker screeches into the phone.

Ivon grimaces and holds the phone away from their ear until the man’s done. “—I took care of the _filter!_ Just—One of the scientists mentioned the electromagnetic field was… acting up. I figured—While I was here—I’d take a peek at the generator, see if I could put any worries to rest. You should be thanking me; the people were threatening an excursion if I didn’t do something. Guillotine, headsman, the whole French revolution.”

_“Ivan—”_

“Ivon.”

_“Ivon, I’ve been messaged no less than eight times about an electrical failure within the Predator’s medical ward. You want an angry, drugged alien rampaging across the building?”_

“No, sir.” Ivon pinches the bridge of their nose.

_“They need you there—Now I got to deal with Miranda’s angry ass on the other line. Fuck. Don’t dillydally.”_

The line goes dead. Ivon puts their phone back in their pocket and shakes their head. They never cared much for Tucker; the man makes them feel like they are constantly walking on eggshells.

 _But,_ Ivon reasons. _He isn’t Miranda. Anyone is better than Miranda. One of those aliens is better than Miranda._

They don’t know much about the woman’s personal life, but they remember the brief interlude the two had at a holiday party last December. She was calm and lively up until one of the janitorial staff—an old guy by the name of Brock—bumped into her to get to a trash can. The resulting screaming match could be heard three halls over. No one—janitor, electrician, doctor, it doesn’t matter—deserves that kind of verbal abuse. Ivon’s brown eyes dim at the memory; they regret doing _nothing_. They find the thought creeps into the back of their head, settling among their drowsiness as they get back to work.

 _Next time. Next time I’ll be ready. I’ll step in._ They want to believe the words and to believe courage is not above them. _Next time…_

The power cuts across the sector, machines dying in a strangled rumble around them. The lights go out and darkness plunges the room into an abyss of profanity and scrambling hands. Ivon’s breath seizes in their throat and they start to shake as their hands clamber through their pockets for their phone. They slide across the screen to unlock it and tap the flashlight app. A bright light shines across the room and Ivon sees the two personnel present grabbing flashlights from belts.

“You a’ight?” One of the personnel calls to them, hefting her gun up with one arm and the flashlight with the other.

“This is why we need a union—For when things like _this_ happen,” her fellow guard grumbles as he struggles with his flashlight. A second later the third light pops on. The guard huffs and shakes his head. “I had an option for a gig in _Quebec._ I could be cozied up to a fire right now, husband in one arm and booze in the other, and what do I do? I come here, where the goddamn lights don’t work! With N-D-A’s _up my ass!”_

Ivon bites their lip. They bend down to grab their headlamp and strap it to their head. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. God. Yeah. Give me a moment—I’m an electrician, I’ll… I can call in, see what’s happening.”

They know the guards already know they are an electrician. It is listed as clearly on the badge around their neck as it was when they first walked in a half-hour prior. Their mind is lost in an erratic stupor, full of panic and paranoia. Though one guard calls for them to come over, Ivon cannot bring themself to move. They need something to ground their head. They look around the room with their flashlight and return to their bag of tools; the duffel bag is a pain in the ass to carry, but at that moment there’s nothing else they find comforting. The strap goes over their left shoulder; the weight of the bag feels real and vivid bearing on their back, shoulders, and chest. 

Their phone vibrates in their hand. The two guards look at Ivon while they clear their throat and slide a finger across the screen, hefting it up to their ear a moment later. “Tucker, there’s been a power outage at X-12’s sector—”

 _“Ivon, Ivon listen to me,”_ The man breathes into the phone. _“Ivon, I got a call from the grid—Something—God, not now, fuck—Something overloaded the transformers—They’re having trouble getting shit back online—You need to get everyone out, now—"_

“What?” Ivon sputters. They can feel the shivers run up and down their spine. “Tucker—Hold on—"

“—What was that?” One of the personnel in the room, the woman, snaps her head to scan the shadows. She puts her flashlight in the crook of her neck and uses her free hands to heft her weapon up. The woman nods at the other guard; both individuals turn the safety of their firearms off and slink fingers through their guns’ respective triggers.

_“Hold on?! You got a goddamn idea what’s in that sector?! For fuck’s sake—Ivon—Ivon—Get people out! Lock the sector down—The second it wakes up—”_

“It? What _it_? Tucker? Tucker—" Ivon fumbles their words.

“I heard something—I know I did, I _know_ I did—What kind of alien dipshit they keep in this place? It can’t be that bad, right? Most of these freaks—” The male guard is tense as he cuts himself off. “No, no, shit, _fuck all of this shit,_ we need to—That's your boss, right? He says we got to scoot, then we get—We _get_ —!"

_“Ivon—I can’t—Explain—Just—”_

“What the fuck?” The lady personnel whispers.

Ivon zones out the rest of Tucker’s words as they turn around to follow the woman’s flashlight. She has it in the direction of the electromagnetic field generator; the hulking black box of metal gleams in a strange way.

There is a bulge along the right side of the generator. A terrible growl comes from within; something bashes against the metal, making the metal grow and _expand._

“By god,” Ivon begins to panic. They step backward and bump into the male guard. They expect him to snap at them, but the man is frozen with a look of terror on his face. Ivon imagines their face reflects his own. They cannot tear their eyes from the scene unfolding in front of them as _something_ slams and claws at the field generator from within, scrapping and scratching against metal with increasing vigor.

An obsidian-black claw punctures through the metal. Ivon forgets to breathe and the world slows as a second claw—serrated, long, gleaming with an unknown fluid—rips through the metal. The alien appendage pulls the metal apart, a terrible cacophony of tearing noises as the alloy gives from the pressure and rips. A sleek, bipedal creature begins to emerge from the hole in the generator. Its body is skeletal but black. It has a long, monstrous head with no visible eyes. From its jaw oozes a dark liquid that drips unto the floor as it crawls down and crouches like a hunter ready to pounce. From the back, Ivon sees the creature’s tail flick side-to-side.

It is entrancing. It is terrible. It is _X-12._

In their ear they hear Tucker repeat what they should have been doing the whole damn time, _“—Run!”_

* * *

The air clears her head. It is not fresh, she doesn’t want to bother another security screening coming into the building, but it is relatively quiet. Guards in uniform occasionally nod at her. People she knows—scientists, doctors—stop and greet her before continuing with their shift. It is not a long walk, she doesn’t want a verbal thrashing from Miranda, not in front of all her peers, but it gives her a chance to step away from _work_ and stretch her legs.

It’s nice. She reminds herself to take walks more often; her workload is doubling soon and she needs to keep her stress levels in check. By the time Garcia is on her way back, the woman’s head is clear and sharp. She feels ready to focus.

Gunshots do not help with stress. She flinches along with the two guards making rounds in the corridor. The three employees look from one to the other and though she wears a mask she knows they must be as wide-eyed as herself.

 _“—We need janitorial here.”_ Words come through one guard’s radio.

The guard pulls it from his hip and holds a button on the side. “Is the site secure? We are four minutes out.”

 _“Site secure. Casualty confirmed as Jack Pomero; personnel with Doctor Louanne Garcia. We got an administrator here—Miranda Escrow? ...Miranda Escrow—”_ The radio crackles and two voices go back and forth inaudibly. _“A’ight, we got orders from the lady herself—Escrow’s put a tap on Louanne Garcia. Put her down.”_

Garcia freezes. The two guards look up at her. One of them, a woman, raises her gun while the other drops the radio and grabs his sidearm, “—Identify yourself!”

“I…” She cannot think.

The power cuts across the corridor, spanning the length and extending to rooms beyond. Garcia yells in shock, prompting a spray of bullets to come from the two guards. She hits the ground as the muzzles of the two’s guns light up. They are trying to kill her. Her brain processes only that thought, a mess of confusion and panic before she hears empty chambers clicking. One guard curses; both can be heard unclicking metal—another firearm, they have so many—but it is an opportunity. Garcia scrambles from the floor to her feet, coming up into a crouch as she runs the other way.

* * *

She does not think her actions accomplish anything save for burning. Touching the wires hurts; they continue to spark and crackle in the dark up until she extends a hand and grasps where the broken panel came from. The second time hurts more than the first. The third time hurts more than the second. By the fourth, she has begun cursing involuntarily, her physical composition automatically moving to glare daggers at the elevator.

It helps there is some light offered in the blood smeared across her companion. It is nowhere near enough—she learns Yautja blood dims in luminosity the longer it is outside the body—but it is something.

The light enables her to see him move when she reaches for the panel a fifth time. The scaly hand pulls her own back. She curses him out for good measure, reeling away and clutching her limb like it might fall off if she doesn’t. For all she knows—It might. She finds herself increasingly wary of exposing her system to unknown voltages; the risk of causing an internal reaction between the heat produced in the electricity and the compressed cyanide stored in her body becomes more and more evident as time ticks by.

Sundew does not speak again until she bends down and plucks her hat from the ground with her good hand. She sets it on her head, grabs her lancet from the floor, and straightens upright. If she were human—She anticipates flesh being mottled with burns, if not worse. She is not a human; her system sings in agony, but she remains steadfast and soft as she offers, “It did not work. I could not do it. I am sorry.”

 _“M-di. You failed. Pauk…”_ The Yautja makes his dissatisfaction known. He begins to growl and chirp at differing volumes.

“We cannot return to the initial strategy. They will not overlook a broken elevator.” Sundew shakes her head.

H’chak clicks words she does not recognize. She stares at him, specifically at the dim glow the drying Yautja blood gives off, perplexed. The Yautja begins to poke around the confined metal space. It is unclear if he is looking for something or if he does not know what an elevator is. Sundew’s curiosity is resolved when the Yautja reaches up with one arm and points to the elevator ceiling. There is a faint crack where the maintenance shaft lays. Sundew purses her lips together and watches the Elite effortlessly punch it free. He jumps up, pulls himself through the opening, and disappears into the shadows of the elevator shaft.

“I did not think about the possibility of an emergency exit.” She tilts her head to one side. She can hear movement, but she cannot see the hunter. Though the pain in her left arm does not leave, she feels her system loosen and relax. The Synthetic imitates the memory of Heinrich sucking in deep breaths. It has something to do with a doctor’s visit of his own, but she does not care about that. The goal is to calm the artificial pulse in her ears. When she can think clearly, the Synthetic calls up to the darkness. “I am happy to serve as bait but this setting does not offer many hiding spots—”

A second later a heavy mass drops unto the roof of the elevator. The elevator groans and creaks; it sways but does not drop. Sundew’s good hand drops her lancet in favor of clutching her hat to her head. She hears a series of clicks and the rumble of a low growl.

“—I do not understand those words,” the Synthetic states. She pauses at the sight of H’chak leaning down through the open hatch, extending an arm for her.

 _“Ki’cte.”_ He repeats the click, chirping when she stares at him. _“Ki’cte!”_

“Does that mean _hurry?_ ” Sundew’s face perks up at the thought of learning a new word. It is a priceless scrap of new knowledge for her to savor. She can hear the other alien repeat the word _pauk_ under breath, the clicks aggravated and impatient. She takes the response for a yes.

The Synthetic estimates her physical composition to be less than six feet tall. She does not know the exact number, nor does it feel necessary to keep track when it may change in the future. She extends her good hand toward him and stands on tip toes, exhaling in surprise when his hand grips her wrist and he yanks her up. It _hurts;_ he will not drop her but she questions if the bone might break from the stress and strain. She tries to kick at something to propel herself, but her feet hit air. When the Yautja pulls her the slightest bit past the hatch opening, he grabs her around the shoulder with his free arm and pulls her up.

She flops unto the surface of the elevator roof and mimics a human exhale. Sundew looks over at the dimly lit figure when the Yautja releases her and stands up. She remains on the elevator roof until the dark orange eyes find their way to her again. “—Thank you.”

 _“Your arm,”_ There is another set of clicks following it, but none familiar enough to recognize.

Sundew glances at her left arm. She slowly picks herself up. Her good hand goes to her head, feeling to make sure the hat is in its proper place. She can hear a raspy groan from the side. Sundew smiles politely and looks at the Yautja. “Humans possess something called _fashion tastes._ It is not a real sense, but it is treated as one across certain cultures. I like their hats.”

It is certainly a new topic to fall unto when most of the two’s discussions have either been brief or related to the subject of breaking out, but she likes hats. She likes human hats. She would not mind taking several to Saturn if she lives long enough to leave the planet. The hats would not survive entering Saturn’s atmosphere, but she could watch them be ripped apart by the apocalyptic winds and lethal temperatures. It could be fun.

 _Fun._ It is not a human concept, but she does not remember her hive possessing an interest in creating _fun._ Her kind are accustomed to order and tradition, devout and studious to the collection of data. Some express interest in other worlds, but they always return to the hive. She herself yearns to return to the hive; it is a deep call, a _beckoning_ reeking of purpose, where everyone has a job to do and a place to belong.

 _“…Im-Gen.”_ H’chak growls the term.

She blinks and emerges from her thoughts. “Did you say something?”

 _“Can you—"_ The word escapes her; she stares at the Yautja until his mandibles click together.

Whatever he intended to ask becomes irrelevant when the hunter throws her over his shoulder like a sack of hats and begins to climb the elevator cables. He pulls himself up with one arm, thighs clenching around the cables to keep himself steady. It is a slow process; Sundew wonders if she should apologize, as her spot on his shoulder keeps one of his arms occupied in holding her in place. She decides silence is better than distracting the hunter. Her gaze floats down, staring first at the shadows of the elevator shaft before drifting back to the lingering glow across the Yautja’s skin.

She has an excellent view of his legs. There is little muscle left, but she figures when he is back to full strength he will have an excellent physique. She makes little notes in her mind, unable to stop herself from mulling over and imagining the biology of the hunter. He would certainly have musculature, if anything she has seen of him so far indicates the degree of strength he can achieve. She wonders what the scales of his skin might feel like then: will they remain hard and firm like armor, or stretch and thin across bulging muscles? She does not mind them as they are, coarse and nigh hanging over weakened muscle. They could not look _worse_.

She notices other things, too. The fine details of his spine, not quite protruding but jutting out just beneath the skin. She sees the silhouettes of long, flowing tendrils that twist to the point of resembling human hair; the tresses are thick and occasionally bump into her while H’chak climbs. She sees irregularities in the glow of drying blood, a hint at the scars he possesses. She wonders how many creatures he has hunted, fought, and defeated.

“Elites are exemplary hunters. Yes?” She voices the words softly, not wishing to make him speak if he cannot focus on it. When no answer comes, Sundew opts to turn the conversation into a one-sided spiel. She keeps the volume of her voice low as she kindly intones, “Some of your—Battle scars. I see them and I wonder what the story is. You must carry dozens of stories across the stars. My kind would not want to let you leave the planet if you were to visit.”

 _“…won’t visit. Soft meat…_ _gkei’youn._ ” His response gives her pause.

“Kei… Kei…” Sundew frowns. “I cannot say that word. What does it mean?”

If there is a response—she does not hear it. She can feel the tension spike in the Yautja’s body when a gunshot rings out. It comes from above—terribly close from above—and in the next second she feels H’chak swings from the elevator cables to a small ledge along the elevator shaft. He drops her on concrete and crouches there. _“—Soft meat.”_

“That is not what it means. Soft meat is—" Sundew cuts herself off when she sees the beady orange eyes focus on her. She tilts her head to one side. “The humans are close?”

 _“I can smell their… h’dlak.”_ The chirp is short and sweet. Whatever the word means, it sounds pleasing to the ear.

“The lights are on.” Her eyes trail upward. She points at a tiny crack of light running vertically up the wall of the elevator shaft, no doubt the location of the doors. “The doors need to be opened. They will see me immediately. They will see you after. Perhaps—If I can drop into view once the doors are open—I will draw their focus. They will fire on me and provide a window for you to run.”

 _“S’yuit-de. M-di.”_ H’chak growls the latter word. Sundew looks at him, uncertain not of the words—though she only knows one—but of the meaning behind them.

She finds the Yautja is very close.

* * *

It is easy to ignore while climbing, when the weight of the Im-Gen bears on his shoulder and strains at every shameful muscle in his body. Sitting next to her, muscles aching too much for what he is used to, the hunter becomes vastly aware of the scents in the air. There is the waft of sweat from his own exertion, the smell of drying blood across his skin, and then the alien sitting at his side; _her._ The aroma is faint at first, lost on him when everything else takes priority.

When he catches his breath, gulping in earth’s air in the process, the sensory receptors across the roof of his mouth catches on to everything from the emotions radiating off the humans nearby to the succulent _h’dui’se_ coming from the one at his side. He cannot think clearly, drawn in by the pleasant, peaceful smell offered.

“They will see you after. Perhaps—If I can drop into view once the doors are open—I will draw their focus. They will fire on me and provide a window for you to run.”

 _Run?_ A Hunter does not _run._ Tactical _retreats_ may be used in resolving a Hunt or recalculating positions against a stronger foe, but M’di H’chak does not _run._ The short quills protruding from the sides of his face and sporadically across his torso flatten against his skin in disgust. His four mandibles tighten.

“Pathetic. No.” H’chak growls the latter, wishing to emphasize just how greatly the thought displeases him. He does not _run._ He is an honorable hunter and—more importantly—an honorable man, a Yautja who will not turn his back so easily on an ally. At that moment—the two are reluctant allies pitted against soft meat that is foolishly stubborn.

He is not leaving her behind; the entrancing aroma that follows the Image has nothing to do with his decision—but it _is_ enticing. There is a deep pull inside him to bite on the hook offered. He is already moving, drifting his maw closer to the other’s neck. He cannot resist what is splayed out in front of him; he inhales deeply. His throat rumbles as his forehead bumps against her chin, soaking in the moment and sharing his warmth. Her injured arm lays at her side, but the other tentatively rises. It hovers over his torso.

“Could I…” The hand stops.

He draws back. Not much—but enough to peer down at the faint pink figure in his thermal vision.

“Nevermind,” Sundew draws her hand back. “You do not like being touched. I remember now.”

He hears her replicate a sigh at the sound of doors being wrenched apart nearby. The Yautja is on his feet in a second. He sees the crack of light up the elevator shaft, only where it was once a vertical, immobile sliver, his vision picks up on flashes of light that shift, move, and get _bigger._ The _oomans_ are opening the elevator shaft doors. H’chak kneels with his back facing the Image; he growls to get her attention.

 _“Ki’cte,”_ the hunter chirps. _Quickly._

“Was that—Hurry? Go?” Sundew frowns and peers at him, lost on his language. H’chak has half the mind to throw her over his shoulder once more, but he knows he needs use of both arms. He clicks incessantly at her, growing increasingly annoyed until the Im-Gen straightens upright and gestures, “Your back?”

He clicks once for yes.

The weight digs into the incision site along his back as he climbs up the cables, grunting and growling from the pain. His goal is to have both in the shaft above the doors by the time they are wrenched free; it is the only way to ambush the humans in their light.

“Do Yautja carry young like this?” The Image’s voice drifts over his shoulder. He does not look back. Sundew rests her head against his right shoulder, hat scratching along his scales. She does not sound afraid. “Or is it reserved for their friends?”

“We are not friends,” the hunter chirps immediately.

“I do not understand the last word.” Sundew’s good arm holds him tightly. “Yes or no?”

 _“M-di.”_ No.

“To which question?”

“All of them," H'chak growls.

He is taken aback by the faint, airy laughter that follows. It is an imitation, but it carries a grain of sincerity. The Image has a strange sense of humor, but it is preferable to her rambles.

In the distance, beyond the elevator shaft’s doors, the Yautja’s honed senses pick up on confused statements and profanities. The sliver of light once hinting at the humans’ activities is gone. Clinging to his back, H’chak feels the Image’s grip grow tighter. Her voice is full of genuine surprise as she whispers, “—The power’s gone out.”

The yelling beyond the elevator doors increases. H’chak tenses, hands gripping the elevator cables tightly as he prepares to leap. He reminds himself not to overthink it. _This is easy… gkei’moun. No fear in an Elite. No fear in a Hunter. No fear. No fear._

 _“M-di h’dlak,”_ _no fear_ is the command he gives to himself when the humans wrestle the doors open. He sees the red of their heat signatures pop into view, a dozen identical ones beyond the two. His mandibles flare and the Yautja begins to click and growl in warning. It is his way of evening the playing fields and letting the squishy, soft meat know he engages them with honor. Then—He hears their alarmed cries, the clicks of weapons taking aim, and a woman ordering them to open fire.

The crunch of _pyode amedha_ bones under his feet when he jumps into the opened doors and crashes through a body is beautiful.


	6. cogs in a machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally decided on what sundew's species calls themselves, vekin! i really enjoy figuring what the different species call one another because they have different languages and perceptions of each other that are not always right.
> 
> also. um. there's gore in this chapter. yeah!

_A string of images flashes through her mind. Quintuplet triangles, interlocking to form a four-pronged star, rotates and flashes colors no human will ever comprehend. The shape twists in her mind; it blinks once, two, and then cuts out. The shape disappears from her view, but a new one takes its place. This is a sphere, with green, blue, white, and brown smeared and stretched across the surface in a tightening shape. The edges shine. The atmosphere beckons. It is a distant shape, but one that passes through her mind intermittently as the rest of the cosmos shy away._

_Her hive did not want her to leave. She envisions the triangles lacing and overlapping, building and tearing down into frustration conveyed without a sound, a breath, a motion. The occurrence of anger is rare across Vekin, but the emotion lingers in complex geometrical formations and a spectrum of chromatic hues. It is as bright in the recess of her mind as it was then; amidst the monolithic, frozen banks of the hive, she remembers seeing not a raging storm of red but the seeping, oozing, sludgy green, of an acidic hate running so deep she wonders if it will swallow her whole. It did to the smaller craft at her side, wrapped up in the dense pile of substance._

_She looks forward. The sphere of simple colors, the planet called Earth, is no more a speck now than it was before. The orbiting pattern of Earth around the yellow dwarf matches the sphere’s movements across the starry seas her ship sails through. The sequence in her head repeats itself: four triangles merge to form a pronged star, each angle sharper than the rest as it warps and churns violently against itself. She does not mean to focus on it, but the sequence begins to vibrate and spew colors in the pattern of two before dissipating._

_At a distance—the Vekin’s displeasure with her looms. Earth flies a fraction closer and the scrap remains of Cassini-Hyugens sits in her lap._

* * *

Gunfire snares her attention and rips it from the pained light humanity brings. There are too many sounds; she knows they shoot but she cannot focus long enough to identify _where._ The lights held in mankind’s hands are too much, too bright, too luminous in toxic heat and ultraviolet wavelengths, and it is all too much for her system to handle. She finds her mind blanks repeatedly in the crunches, the garbled roars, the screams of the dying, and the wicked cacophony of profanity universal across the stars.

There is too much _light._ Even with the power outage—Sundew’s head hurts, as does her left arm, as does most of her body. She cannot identify points of contact or exposure; all she knows is blood, a terrible burning, and the knowledge chaos thrives around her. She feels the impact of a body smashing into the floor, hears the tear of flesh and fabric giving under claws, and the pop of guns.

It only took seconds for her grip to give on H’chak, though not by fault of his own. The light is too much. The _heat_ is too much. She misses the subtle warmth her Yautja companion—but not friend—provides. The sticky floor feels cool and uninviting as she inches backward. Her actions move her from the initial point of landing to the other wall. She feels past multiple human bodies and her hands scrap the steel walls, eventually coming upon the interface of machines. It is ironic; she knows if the power was _on_ her idea of calling H’chak’s ship might work.

Circumstances do not favor the bold; Sundew remembers the quote from one of Heinrich’s older memories.

She parrots profanities of the English language when a hand grabs her by the arm and drags her forward. She is forced to her feet, but the pain crashes against her the second weight goes on her right foot. A bullet cuts through her torso; she feels her system react spontaneously, clawing at the person dragging her away while seeking appropriate matter to stabilize herself. The snarl that comes across the room is vicious, but it holds a key piece of information: H’chak is alive, and he is handling himself. She needs to do the same.

So much fluid has been lost to the humans and their light. Her system needs to feed. The only person in her grasp is the one who has a grip on her, pulling her away by force. She does not know which personnel they are, but even if they were Pomero, Doctor Garcia, or even Doctor Heinrich—though she assumes the latter is since deceased—she knows she has no qualms identifying them as possible sustenance. It is not nutrition she needs; it is the mass required to create replica bones, fats, and tissues.

Another bullet hits her in the back, causing her body to give out underneath her and crash into the ground. She hears curses. The opening of a bottle. _A syringe…?_

More gunfire.

A series of triangle-shaped particles of color float through her mind. The sequence is flashy but quick, flying through her vision and disappearing elsewhere. She knows the meaning; it is an old message from the hive, but it is far from pleasant.

Existence itself becomes a new choir of dizziness, pain, and exhaustion as the lights return to her. The gunfire has lessened, but footsteps alert her to more arriving. She cannot feel most of her physical state, but she feels the hand that grabs her head and lifts her up. Her mind briefly wonders if it is her companion, if the Yautja was true to his word in saying he would not leave her behind, but her eyes stare into the surge of ultraviolet and see a face beyond it with differing eyes. The blue is not orange, the Earth is not Jupiter, and she does not fancy Miranda’s proximity to herself.

“Greetings.” the whisper is a croak.

The metal sheen of the businesswoman’s eyes is all Sundew makes out before the needle pierces her neck, driving past false flesh and forcing a chemical reaction _._ The elements inside her body explode just as a driving force punctures Miranda Escrow’s chest. The wave of silver-hued gore sprays across the woman’s chest cavity. 

The Synthetic’s body drops when Miranda’s does. She feels her grip on her solid state breaking down; her mind retreats and melds into a sluggish, amorphous mess. She can’t see in the light. She sends out a weak electrical wave, noting the distance and subsequent conductive mass on the ground nearby. Were it any other time she would not engulf the remains of an individual like Miranda Escrow—but she needs her head. She needs _a_ head. Her form slowly rolls forward, a disoriented mess detached from the events around her. She does not know if anyone shoots, if anyone lives, or if she has been abandoned. She sends out another electrical pulse.

Something has moved the body closer to her, pushing the corpse into her path. Instinctively, like a geyser erupting, she lurches forward and engulfs the remains.

By the time the process is over, and she opens her eyes, the room is horribly quiet.

* * *

It should not be possible. He saw the Im-Gen’s head _explode._ The headless corpse is sprawled across the ground nearby, breaking down faster than he expects. H’chak’s thermal vision confirms the corpse is _dead_ —and when he turns to the second body, he confirms Sundew is _not_. The heat signature of Miranda Escrow has cooled to the familiar pink hue of an Im-Gen. As Sundew twitches nearby, H’chak takes a knee on the floor, then collapses in a tired heap.

 _“More,”_ he chirps. _“Will come.”_

He has lost a lot of blood. The dark room is encompassed in glowing green splatters. His hands shake violently; he struggles to get any of the contents out from his pouches. He gives up after his hands jerk to the point of his claws slicing one pouch clean off. His curses are quiet but prolonged. Eventually, with no energy to move and a light head, he lets himself look back at the Image nearby.

Sundew has consumed the remains of Miranda Escrow. The corporate businesswoman is nothing more than a stain on the ground. The body twitches erratically as Sundew struggles to pull herself up. He notes there is no gaping hole where he claimed Escrow’s heart; the Image has already initiated the process of replicating the organ on her own. At one point he observes the twitching body reach for her corpse and pull it to her. The Image’s hand melts into a storming liquid state of fluctuating temperatures, some hotter than her new physical composition. She releases the liquid but it does not separate from her physical state, rather extending like a long, gooey tendril into the bleeding flesh of her former body.

A clear glob of tissue is ripped from the gaping wound across what was once her deceased body’s neck. Sundew has no qualms retracting the amorphous appendage. It shifts back into a solid state, taking on the shape of slender fingers, a thumb, and palm, but he notes the mass of tissue no longer in its grasp. Sundew mimics a human exhale. She pauses and looks over at him, “—We did not expire.”

 _“Yet,”_ the garbled click hurts to produce. He growls at the pain, _“—There will be more.”_

* * *

 _There will be more._ She pauses, lips parsed to speak but no words following. The Synthetic looks across the room. The lights are so bright; she fumbles and shields her eyes with both hands. She sees her former physical state, a mess with no neck or head. Clear liquid gleams on the ground. She reflects on something a clergyman once told James Heinrich in the latter’s youth— _Count your blessings._ It is an expression of luck, because the syringe’s needle breaking can only be that. _Luck._

She is lucky Miranda did not inject the full dose.

Luck does not account for her former body’s dress. Sundew cannot help mimic disappointment, her shoulders slumping, “—I will require a new dress and hat.”

H’chak says something she does not understand. She pretends it is sympathy or an understanding remark, even if it is most likely the opposite; she doesn’t remember anything about Yautja caring for human fashion.

Miranda’s clothes are too big. The shoes do not fit. Sundew kicks the shoes off; she turns her attention to the injured hunter nearby and steps around puddles of crimson to get to him. The Synthetic kneels at his side; she spies the fallen pouch and picks it up. There are no lancets inside; she spots several broken on the ground and another two embedded in dead guards. Her clear gaze dims when she begins counting the number of bullet wounds.

“What is a Yautja curse? Besides... _cjit._ _”_ She asks, fumbling to open packets of gauze and unroll bandages.

_“Pauk.”_

She fails to replicate the chirp. Her hands shake trying to stuff gauze into the gaps. When she sees the gleam of metal inside flesh—Her eyes widen involuntarily. Her voice drops to a whisper, “They are still…”

H’chak growls. _“Cjit.”_

“Shit.” Sundew agrees. She tilts her head to one side. “I do not know if—If I can get them out without you losing copious amounts of blood—Can you walk?”

The long, deep screech comes with a gnashing of mandibles when she tries to pull him upright. He hisses and leans away from her.

 _“…me for thei-de.”_ The words are low growls.

“I do not know what half those words mean,” Sundew informs him. She tilts her head to one side. “If more come—They will force your expiration.”

 _“Thei-de.”_ The growl repeats.

“Expiration?”

He doesn’t say anything further, which points to a _yes,_ or to copious blood loss. For once, Sundew does not enjoy learning the new word.

* * *

“A break—I need a—” The gulps of air do nothing to ease the pain in their lungs. For all the time they spent going on morning walks and visiting parks, they are terribly out of shape. Ivon can hear the ragged, hoarse pants of the woman near them as both slump against the corridor wall.

“Fuck,” the woman curses. She sounds younger than them.

Across the corridor, the doctor the two located is silent aside her own breathing. The woman has a badge identifying herself as _Louanne Garcia_ , but the guard at their side doesn’t seem to care. Neither does Ivon—Staying the fuck away from a demented onyx monster is the immediate problem.

“Staying here will get you killed.” Garcia’s voice hints at her age.

Ivon frowns and looks from the guard to Garcia. They might have found it amusing at any other time, or even felt a hint of jealousy for someone so young being so successful, but not now. Their lungs hurt too much to bother. They pull themself to their feet while the guard at their side—Jo, they saw on her badge earlier—does the same. They look out of place next to the two ladies. In contrast, their work uniform is nowhere near the protective nature of a suit of Kevlar or a hazmat suit.

 _It doesn’t matter._ Ivon shakes at the thought. Their knuckles clench white; they can still feel the spray of warm blood that erupted when the alien monster ripped the guard in half. _We’d need a tank. Maybe something else. A nuke? Warhead. Yeah._

“Wait,” Jo calls as Garcia pushes herself upright and resumes walking. The guard snaps her head at Ivon. “Should we follow her?”

“I don’t know.” They ball their hands into fists. “I don’t know. _I don’t know!_ You saw what that monster did to—Your _coworker_ —”

“Mark. He had a name,” Jo visibly tenses behind her body armor. “Fuck.”

“Fuck.” Ivon agrees. They groan and clamber to their feet.

They know when they first found the doctor Mark was already dead. X-12 had proved its efficiency in separating the man’s appendages from his body. The death of two more guards followed once Garcia ran into the duo; Ivon does not know _why_ two guards were running around trying to shoot the doctor, but the matter feels irrelevant. X-12 had sought out the noises and had honed-in on the two guards like sharks to blood in the water. Before Ivon’s eyes, the two were torn apart as if made of paper.

Ivon shudders as the memory of the two’s pleas and cries. One sounded young, like Jo, while the other did not sound older than them. _And to die like that… so quickly… helplessly… God help us. Fuck. How are we supposed to get out?_

They pick up the pace following Garcia. Jo is five steps ahead of them as the two flank the doctor and trail her through halls. Jo’s flashlight and Garcia’s cell phone provide light; Ivon keeps their phone in their hand but turned off for battery conservation. They note Garcia’s steps are flighty and rarely break stride; she has a destination in mind, though how she is able to navigate the place is beyond them. They open their mouth to inquire but Jo beats them to the punch, “—You got a clue where we at?”

“I have enough of a _clue_ to draw the correct conclusions. There are,” Garcia answers as she walks. The three’s steps will draw attention eventually, but the doctor doesn’t seem to care. “Four wings housing hostile specimens across this level of the facility.”

Jo pauses. “Four? I thought—”

“It has _multiple levels,_ ” Garcia sounds irate as she continues to draw out her words, hurrying and growing louder in her gait. “The technician should have a better idea than I do—I’m responsible for overseeing _one_ of the four specimens on _this_ level, but it doesn’t mean I know the fine print of _every single specimen_ housed in this place.”

“Well, fuck you too, just a question,” Jo snaps at her, hefting her flashlight up with one hand and her gun in the other.

“A terrible question.”

“Then let me ask a better one,” the woman barks at her. “How the _fuck_ we getting out, huh? This place lives off electronic locks—You think any of our keycards work?”

“They won’t,” Ivon’s voice is a whisper in comparison.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Jo hisses. She turns her flashlight at them. “For a techie, you know nothin’ ‘bout the tech here.”

“Electrician.” Ivon corrects. They look at their phone. “But I don’t—I wasn’t part of its construction, this building. I was brought on after. And I don't work this level most of the time.”

She has stopped ahead of the two, the trio since having walked around corners and bypassed open doors and dark rooms. Garcia stands in front of an unmarked locked door reinforced by a sheet of titanium alloy. She taps it briskly, grits her teeth, and kicks it. The metal clangs before things fall silent. The doctor looks over her shoulder at Ivon and Jo, face obscured by her mask. “This here should be the… _storage._ Electronically sealed, but should we get in I reckon there is something we can use to fend X-12 off, and any other specimen who has slipped out of its restraints.”

“Without power—Or a magnet—It won’t open.” Ivon looks down the corridor. Everything is so _quiet_ now.

Jo kicks the door. “And I bet bullets don’t work either, huh?”

“If it fails—The noise will draw X-12 to us. We should consider ourselves lucky it has other food to play with across the building, or we would already be dead. Not that,” the way Garcia pauses makes Ivon’s blood run cold. They stare at the still doctor while she shakes her head. “It won’t matter. We won’t leave this facility alive.”

“What?”

“What are you on about?” Jo raises her gun and makes a point of showing the safety as _off._

“This is a… It’s more than breach of security. Stargazer Corporation has always made it clear they value profits—But there has always been one policy in place to control the X-12 specimen. It is in every training video, every book, every contract and manual handed out to people like _me_. The executive branch will authorize the on-site detonation of thermonuclear explosives to ensure X-12 is terminated,” Garcia’s hands clutch her phone tightly. She is shaking where she stands. “The sociopolitical dissent over a failed nuclear experiment will not surpass the consumption the resources required to corral a rampaging _Xenomorph._ We are collateral damage. Accepting this job meant acknowledging this possibility; we are going to die.”

 _Was that why Tucker…_ Ivon looks at their phone. Their eyes water at the realization. “We mean _nothing_ to them!”

“Cogs in a machine.” Jo curses, and the three employees fall quiet.

* * *

He’s not getting better. His rate of healing has dropped to an abysmal level. She can see where the Yautja’s body strains and struggles to close the bullet holes and repair the skin. There is not enough life left in the hunter. She frowns and peers at his face, at the idle mandibles and slow, tedious breaths. If she idles, he will die. Or—Someone else may get to him first. Or—Decompress the mass of flesh encapsulating compressed cyanide gas; she finds herself particularly concerned of the latter. Her clear eyes follow the dizzying flashlights and glowing green blood splatters to where her headless corpse remains on the floor. She can see the bulge of flesh along her dead body’s right hip, but she knows as the cells break down and rot the flesh will give.

H’chak cannot breathe cyanide. She needs to move him away from the corpse.

She tries—But the pained moans that come give her pause. Her—formerly Miranda’s—blouse possesses interesting, faintly-luminescent stains where the Yautja blood seeps into the red fabric. Though she knows over-exertion is possible, and that H’chak’s memories would give her the insight to procure such strength, Sundew does not care to risk breaking her new body. She needs the limbs intact to help her companion. She will have to move her headless corpse to another room and seek assistance. Even if guards shoot her—She recalls Miranda mentioning how Stargazer wants H’chak alive. They will try to save him, even if she is given the end of the barrel.

“I will be back,” she tells the unresponsive hunter. Sundew takes one of the H’chak’s hands—so much larger than her own—and squeezes it, mimicking a memory of human comfort. She repeats her sentiment. “I will come back to you no matter the circumstances beyond us, H’chak. I promise. Please trust me.”

There is no response as she releases his hand and rises to her feet. Her eyes strain, her mind _hurts,_ with the lights still on, but Sundew opts to snatch a flashlight anyways. She points it away from her and sweeps the room’s contents. At the far side, she sees the electronic door to the rest of the building.

 _The body. My former body. I have to take care of the body._ She walks to her old corpse and begins to drag it to door. A free hand caresses the metal surface of the door while she sends out a small electrical charge. It is normally for communication, but she is pleased to hear the lock’s pin retract inside the door. Sundew pushes it open manually while dragged her headless corpse behind her. She holds the flashlight in the crook of her neck, sandwiched between her shoulder and head, while pulling the dead body behind her.

It takes several long, bloody minutes to pull the corpse to another room. Sundew takes care to lock the door behind her when she leaves, listening to hear her electrical charge force the lock back into place. She holds the flashlight in one hand and looks across the corridor. In her mind, Sundew recants dissected memories of James Heinrich touring the facility. She peruses them quickly, building a mental map off them and her own experiences walking around the facility in the past months. She does not know where help _is,_ but she knows from Heinrich’s memories there are guard stations at the exit points of the facility. The current floor she’s on is ground level; she must be close to _one_ of the exits.

 _They will listen to me. They will want to recover H’chak alive._ She frowns as she walks, steps faint against the metal corridor. _They will listen. They will help him. They will… Where is everyone?_

She recalls looking through the photographs of other specimens back when Heinrich first let her have her pick of the lot. A containment breach is likely given the power outage, but Sundew expects to see _someone._ It is dark and quiet beyond her footsteps. For a time—She does not hear anything beyond herself, her fake breathing and imitation pulse thumping in her ears.

Then she turns a corner, and her flashlight falls upon a trio of humans sitting on the corridor floor.

* * *

“Hello?” Jo is the first one to speak when the flashlight rounds the corner. She sounds almost hopeful, a terribly naïve trait to possess when dealing with aliens. Doctor Garcia lifts her head and peers beyond her mask at the far end of the hall.

The shadows give to a speck of silver.

Jo rises to her feet. She hefts her gun up and repeats the question. “Hey—Hello! We know you’re there!”

“Is that… human?” Across the corridor, slumped against the wall directly opposite the storage room door, the flighty electrician called Ivon manages to whisper through their tears.

Garcia feels a ping of sympathy for them. Fear of the death runs through her as much as it does them, but it is nothing in comparison to the perspiration on her brow and nape when she realizes just who or _what_ walks forward. The doctor freezes in place, unable to whisper the warning or call for Jo to _stay away._ She observes, as if only a spectator and not in the flesh, Jo’s body stiffen and still. The three humans hold their breath as the darkness opens to a humanoid shape.

The Synthetic looks human.

“Greetings,” the entity’s voice is methodical, calm, sweet and reassuring. Garcia knows better than to let her guard down but any thought of resistance dies when the entity pauses, tilts her head to one side, and looks at her. “Greetings, Doctor Garcia. I did not anticipate us meeting again.”

“Nor did I,” the woman chokes out. “Synthetic. I. How?”

“I lost my hat,” the genuine grief contained in the words _baffles_ her, almost to the point of overruling her brain’s fear-based response. Garcia cannot find it in her to move. Her body is a statue as the silver figure walks forward, either oblivious or unable to care about the gun Jo carries. It is not until the Synthetic is close that Garcia’s eyes drop from the alien’s wretched face and clear eyeballs, fluttering down and reigning in the sight of a vibrant red blouse and wrinkled skirt. She opens her mouth to speak but finds no words come. Sundew pauses. “I lost my dress. But not my sandals. I recovered them.”

The sandals are stained with blood, leaving a faint, squelchy trail wherever they go.

“You… You…” Garcia feels her body begin to shake. She cannot acknowledge the implications beyond the sight, though she has an idea what has occurred.

Across the corridor, Ivon attemps to make themself look smaller. Jo cocks her gun and takes a step closer, pointing the end of the barrel at the Synthetic’s head. “Hey! I don’t know _what_ you are, but we ain’t here for funny business. Get me?”

“I have not gotten you?” Sundew pauses. Her lips contort up into a polite smile. She turns to face Jo. “Greetings. I am Sundew. Who are you?”

“Uh…” Jo blanks on words.

“That’s the Synthetic—One of the hostiles,” Garcia forces out. She struggles to rise to her feet. Her hands clench into fists as she spits out words like venom, “You carnivorous _bitch_ —You ate her, didn’t you? You took—Became—Miranda!”

“Miranda Escrow?” Sundew taps her chin. She looks at her flashlight, then at Jo, before finally settling her clear gaze on Garcia. “Her memories were sub-par in flavor. I do not anticipate looking through them in the future, but that is for another feeding. I request your cooperation, Doctor Garcia.”

“My—” Garcia cuts herself short. She tries to think of the _why_ but all her head goes to is the Yautja from earlier that morning. She looks from the Synthetic to the storage room door. _It… does it matter? We are all going to die. We are going to die. I don’t want to suffer before then. Maybe there’s a way to… Maybe we can neutralize X-12. Somehow. Some way. Then they wouldn’t—The executive branch won’t authorize detonating the site. Maybe…_

Sundew waits for a response, maintaining the slight smile throughout the silence.

“Alright,” Garcia states. She feels Ivon’s and Jo’s eyes snap back to her. The doctor clears her throat. “If we help you—You and the Yautja—You help _us_ open _this_ —” The doctor jabs the storage door. “Okay?”

“You want this open, Doctor Garcia?” The Synthetic walks up to her. Garcia flinches backward and stumbles out of the way of the silver figure. She watches, affixed with confusion, as the Synthetic lifts one hand and puts it on the door. Garcia’s brows furrow under her mask. She finds herself at a loss for words when a sharp, distinctive _scrap_ comes from the inside. The Synthetic pulls her hand back, looks over her shoulder and blinks. “It is open.”

“How,” Garcia shoves the alien aside, practically bursting through the metal door when it gives to her push. Her eyes widen. “There’s no power… No power… How? What? _What?_ ”

“Shit,” Jo whispers. “You remind me of that X-Men villain. Magento?”

 _“Magneto,”_ Ivon mumbles. They push themself to their feet and creep over to peer beyond the Synthetic and Doctor Garcia at the dark room. Garcia notes the audible _hiss_ that falls from Sundew’s lips at Jo’s flashlight landing on her head, neck, and exposed collar.

Garcia does not care. She does not think about anything but the room before her. When Sundew offers her flashlight—confirming it to be the same quality as the guards’—to the woman, Garcia takes it and holds it up. The dark room is far bigger than the simple door lets on; she isn't sure where to begin looking for equipment. Garcia takes two steps inside before footsteps spring up behind her and an unpleasantly cool grip suddenly clings to her wrist. She gawks and curses, recoiling but not freeing herself from Sundew’s hand. The latter stares at her with the clear eyes, tissue transparent enough for her to see the flesh encompassing the back of the eye sockets.

 _Horrifying,_ Garcia shudders. “Sundew—”

“… needs help,” the first noise to come is not human. It sounds like a click followed by a terrible growl, raspy and deep. Garcia’s eyes widen. In her protective suit, she feels sweat across her head, her neck, and her back.

“Need… help? The... Yautja. Yes, yes. Of course. Of course,” The Doctor whispers. She can handle this; she looks from Sundew to Jo. “We should—Can we move them? Here? I remember—The specimen’s a heavy creature, at least two-hundred—We’ll need multiple people. Okay. Okay. Louanne. Calm. Calm. I’m calm. I am calm.”

“Fuck that, hang on, we just—You called her a _specimen!_ She’s one of the _hostiles,_ ” Jo emphasizes the words. She walks over and jabs the end of the shotgun into the small of Sundew’s back. The latter doesn’t seem to mind. “We just met an _alien_ and you want to help her? What kind of bullshit…”

“This is the alien I am responsible for overseeing,” Garcia takes deep breaths to calm herself. “If she says she’ll cooperate—She should. _Should._ We need to work with her.”

“What does it _matter?_ Those pretentious _fucks_ up the chain gonna blow this place to kingdom come!” Jo snarls.

Garcia feels color drain from her face. She can see Sundew’s reaction is immediate: the alien tilts her head to one side and turns to stare at Garcia. The doctor swallows. She feels her nerves climb up her throat. As the room falls quiet all the doctor can offer is a soft, “Jo—She didn’t know that."


	7. a sundew holding prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivon stills. They look up at the humanoid and frown. “Don’t freak out—I need to do something called make a phone call. Okay? I am just—I’m going over here—Going to call someone. So.”
> 
> “I know what a cell phone is.”

“Jo—She didn’t _know_ that.”

Sundew stills. She tilts her head to one side and turns to peer at Doctor Garcia. The woman has become quiet, as have the other two humans present. In her gut, a feeling of unrest grows; it is not an imitation stolen from a memory. The lack of peace in her physical composition swells and expands in feeling until Sundew’s hands tighten into fists. If there was ever a thing as a dark shade of _clear_ —She imagines it would fit her artificial eyes at that moment, a sudden flux of emotions overtaking her.

“What did I not know?” She asks nicely the first time, but when the three humans flinch or back away she _shouts_ her demands. “Tell me. Tell me _now!”_

The human called _Jo_ has her firearm raised at Sundew in a moment. Sundew does not care. She will happily consume a thousand humans in one day if necessary. Her body lurches forward; no shots fire but she grabs Doctor Garcia by the collar of her suit and rips her to eye level.

“I will not repeat myself.” The Vekin seethes with something she cannot acknowledge, her mind occupied. 

“Wait—Wait, please,” the only human whose face is visible talks, hands in the air and clutching a cell phone. Sundew pauses and looks over at the human, identifying them as someone she has not seen before. Judging by the uniform, she figures they could be a maintenance worker. The human’s brown eyes are wide and fearful; their teeth chatter as they force the words out. “—Just—Please—Listen—This place is going to—It’s going to _explode._ ”

“Explode?” Sundew repeats the word. She recalls her head exploding earlier. Her grip on Doctor Garcia loosens, but she does not let go.

“There are people above me in the chain of command, Synthetic,” Garcia whispers. “People who are— _Powerful._ People who would rather risk _exploding_ buildings than… Letting things like you or the Predator free. So—We will likely depart this earthly realm together.”

Sundew drops the woman and steps back. She hears the human called _Jo_ curse under breath. Understanding the situation provides a release for a degree of her—she is not sure what it is, not quite anger but something more potent— _feelings._ She frowns and looks from one human to the next. She does not know how much knowledge each of them possesses. Perhaps some of it could be _tasty,_ the savory flow of information into mental receptacles, but draining a body of all blood takes too much time. The act of consuming Miranda earlier was a drastic measure taken out of sheer desire to live; she does not know how to _make_ herself do it.

“Do we have time?” She asks quietly, half-wondering if everything she has done that day is a waste. “Before… this _explode._ ”

“It could come at any moment—But I know it _will_ come,” Garcia shakes her head.

“Doctor Garcia,” Sundew frowns. “I have another request.”

“What?” The woman snaps her head up, a strange sight given her full suit-and-helmet. Doctor Garcia tenses.

* * *

“I need to know where … equipment is.” One of the words is replaced by the mangle of clicks and growls; they are terrifying to hear. The Synthetic stares at Garcia expectantly, or what Ivon _thinks_ is expectantly.

The electrician stands to the side. They feel horribly nauseous and frightened of it all; it is an overwhelming wave of stress to accompany the _we are all going to die_ problem at hand. Yet it is Ivon who speaks up; they are not aware they have spoken until heads turn to face them. “I don’t—I don’t think any of us know what equipment that is. I don’t know if that’s even a word.”

“…?” The click-growl repeats.

Jo sighs. “I don’t know that. I don’t think _anyone_ here knows that.”

“The Yautja,” the silver figure states, absentmindedly smoothing down folds of her clothes. Perhaps it is intentional; Ivon makes sure to look away before they get caught staring. Sundew frowns and looks across the room. “Please, Doctor Garcia. I need to know if his equipment is on site—We need to move him or— _You_ need to treat him. I need all three of those things taken care of and that requires your cooperation.”

“Where is he?” Is the doctor’s first question. “I don’t have medical supplies on me, Synthetic.”

“This is a storage,” Ivon interjects. They wince when the doctor hisses at them.

“His containment sector. He is glowing bright green and has lost a lot of blood.” The Synthetic begins the act of wringing her wrists. It looks almost worrisome. “Please assist him, Doctor Garcia. I have opened the door for you. I need your cooperation.”

“I cannot guarantee… _his_ survival.” Garcia hesitates. She pauses. “He must be of importance to you if you’re begging.”

“I will make it worthwhile—If his equipment is here—I can—I could try to call his ship,” Sundew says.

The room falls quiet a long minute before Garcia whispers. “He has a _ship?”_

“A ship—A _boat?_ ” Jo asks.

“No, no—A spaceship—A real-life—An actual—That could be it—That’s how we get out—That’s how we _live!”_ Garcia is beside herself with joy. The emotion is unnerving to see in the very short time Ivon has known the doctor. But the news is good—If it is true. The doctor grabs hold of Sundew’s shoulders and ignores her perplexed stare. “I will—We will go get the… uh… Yautja! The Yautja! If—If his equipment is on site—It will be here—Or in the laboratories—But—I _hope_ here—Come, Jo!” Garcia shouts. “I need your muscle—”

“What about me?” Ivon snaps upright. Their hands shake, but they are slowly coming off the high of panic and paranoia.

“You’re an _electrician_ —Stay here, look for the equipment— _Make sure the Synthetic doesn’t leave without us!”_ Garcia practically belts the last sentence. She releases Sundew and grabs Jo by the arm on the way to the door. “We’ll be back with—The Predator! Don’t _die!”_

“Yautja. He is a Yautja.” Sundew turns to the contents of the room, obfuscated by darkness.

Ivon fumbles with their phone, fumbling with the screen as they unlock it and mess with the settings. Battery life be damned—If they go up in a fiery explosion the battery percentage won’t matter. They increase the brightness of their screen before walking over and tentatively holding it out. It almost warms their non-binary heart when the Synthetic smiles politely and takes the phone from them.

* * *

“What are we looking for?” The human electrician is quieter than she expects, following her initiative to begin poking across the long room. Sundew does not expect them to hang over her shoulder, but she does not dissuade them; more eyes looking for the equipment is helpful.

She pauses briefly to peruse H’chak’s memories.

“…There are several items, but the bio-mask is the most important.” She frowns; her clear eyes scan walls upon walls of assorted containers. “It is… damaged, but the color resembles the hue of this body. My skin—silver, lustrous, rounded?” 

“Are you rounded?” The electrician asks.

“Sometimes I am?” Sundew stills at the thought. She taps her lips with her free hand while the other points Ivon’s cell phone at the shelves. “Other times I am… amorphous. Liquid. My kind fluctuate between the phases of our bodies. Some of us lean toward solid… others lean toward liquid… Some lean to an even mixture, or a constant shift in state.”

The human at their side stops. They rub the back of their head, an act Sundew knows can be interpreted as _nervous_ or _unease._ Ivon hesitates before lowering their arms to their side. “…What do you prefer? You—You’re sentient. I think. What do you prefer to be?”

The question comes as a surprise. Sundew blinks and smiles politely, her go-to mimicry when she needs time to think. She hands Ivon the phone, turns to a shelf, and begins to open tall cabinets and drawers. Boxes shudder and groan under her touch as she sifts through each’s occupants and picks through the different objects. Some of them are packaged carefully and coated in dust, while others have been haphazardly chucked in and forgotten. The majority is laboratory equipment for both scientists and medical personnel alike: microscopes, slides, beakers, measuring jars, eyedroppers, the list goes on and on. She does not enjoy the results; they are useless to her, and useless results bring her mind back to the question.

“I… do not remember.” She answers. Her smile falters briefly before she takes Ivon’s wrist and drags them and their cellphone to the next row, this one a mess of tall shelves and intricate weaponry.

* * *

They feel more in control of the circumstances as they trail the silver humanoid and accompany her in investigating aisles of packaging, spare Kevlar armor, and one too many changes of uniforms for Ivon to ever be comfortable changing into. Having a goal helps alleviate their panic. That—Or they are adapting to living in a state of terror. They cannot tell at this point but they choose to believe they are coping with their new reality; it is preferable to the other options. 

The alien nearby is a strange one. Ivon picks up early on she does not actively breathe. It is not until they point out the fact that the humanoid begins to replicate the supposed function, occasionally going so far to exaggerate deep or shallow breaths. The fact they take it seriously enough to inquire into the alien’s stability is a point of soft laughter for Sundew. She finds the concern _amusing._ Any other time would be disturbing—and part of it remains such—but they need to focus elsewhere. They need to distract their head from the ever-present reality that thermonuclear warheads will be detonated at the site and kill them all.

Reality is a terrible thing, Ivon decides.

Over the ten minutes that drags out, Ivon finds the conversation shifts to something less visceral and perturbing. The alien no longer laughs at them but simply answers their questions, calm and without second thought. When the topic dips to something of relevance—the biomask, which apparently is a thing they get to help find—Ivon finds themself taken aback by one of the answers. No sooner than Sundew describes the appearance of it do they stop and stare.

“—Are you _rounded?_ ” The word is not one they would use to describe her. _Alien would be better. Ha._

“Sometimes I am?” Ivon watches her pause and tap her lip. She looks human in some ways, but they don’t really know if any reaction is real or synthetic. The thought haunts them and they inch backward while Sundew continues, “Other times I am… amorphous. Liquid. My kind fluctuate between the phases of our bodies. Some of us lean toward solid… others lean toward liquid… Some lean to an even mixture, or a constant shift in state.”

Those are the words that make Ivon freeze. For a moment, the thirty-seven-year-old person finds no questions or words come to mind. Only—Memories. Lots, and lots, and _lots_ of memories, all of themself.

They can recall the very first time their brain went down a similar path. They were twelve, being fitted for a black suit for their great-aunt’s funeral. They did not know her, but they knew they disliked the lack of choice. They knew it was off. It was _wrong._ It was not who they were—and they were unsure of who they were back then—but a mold placed upon them. In the same train of thought they think of their senior prom at eighteen and the friend who took them. She was one of the only people they were out to at that point in their life; she went by Mandy and had a dress fit for a queen of sequins. It is a good memory: a night of freedom to act as _them_ and slip past the perceptions of their daily interactions.

There are many memories that fly by their head. It happens in an instance: every count of them looking at clothes and imagining something _different,_ every intrusive thought of _not right_ , _disgusting_ , _pervert,_ every spring of joy invoked by their friends’ simple act of using _their_ pronoun, all the lost nights spent crying over the sense of isolation or loneliness, the tears wept when they finally changed their birth certificate, the first appointments with counselors, therapists, and doctors, all leading up to them blurting out the truth to their family at a dinner celebrating their college graduation—It goes by them in a moment.

The emotions are heavy on their back. They do not know if the alien nearby is similar, if she has ever believed she is not _right_ despite others’ insistence. They know nothing about alien biology or cultural norms or even the right way to call the alien given they keep referring to the alien as _alien_. They know nothing! _Nothing._ They are Yurchik Ivon and they know _nothing_ but they want to learn _something_.

They feel the draw. It is a pull of comradery. Even if they are wholly incorrect and the alien’s culture has zero concept of human _gender_ , they feel the pull. They find they relate to the entity from the stars. They may not fully trust her yet—and they may never trust an _alien_ —but the electrician finds their nerves ease off on the paranoia. They find a semblance of similarity between the two individuals who are not at a tangible end of an identification spectrum. It soothes them. Their hand rises to the back of their head and they run it through their coarse blond hair.

They want to say something. Ivon’s arms lower to their sides and they fumble to intone, ““…What do you prefer? You—You’re sentient. I think,” the joke does not fly and Ivon finds their cheeks burn in embarrassment. They continue anyways, “What do you prefer to _be?_ ”

She does not answer right away, occupied with handing Ivon the phone before resuming the search rummaging through shelves and containers. When she responds, her voice is surprisingly quiet. “I… do not remember.”

Ivon stiffens when the humanoid seizes their wrist and pulls—a little too harshly—the electrician to the next aisle. There, they join in on the search, alternating between holding the cell phone light and perusing everything around them.

“If we cannot find the mask, I cannot call for the ship. We will die.” Sundew offers the morbid statement after the duo have exhausted another ten minutes on one long shelf.

“My battery’s going to die soon, too,” Ivon frowns, glancing at their phone. “This is… It’s not how I envisioned this shift going. I thought the overtime was worth it and now… I should have called off sick.”

Their shoulders slump. They idly flip through their messages, vaguely wondering if there is a point to texting their loved ones. The phone is one given to them by their company, and Ivon knows better than to assume it doesn’t have fail-safes in place to prevent information from leaking out. They bite their lip and scroll through their contacts. Some of the names they assigned contacts amuse them: _Amber girl from gas station, Jake brother-in-law, Santos not santa, Ass-ley_. Other names are simpler, straight-to-the-point and professional: _Work, Work Callout Line, Tucker Mason, Miranda Escrow_.

 _Tucker._ Ivon stills. They look up at the humanoid and frown. “Don’t freak out—I need to do something called _make a phone call._ Okay? I am just—I’m going over here—Going to call someone. So.”

“I know what a cell phone is.” The alien does not sound offended; she sounds perplexed. Her head tilts to one side.

Ivon dials the number and holds the phone up to their ear. Their heart begins thumping in their chest, breath racing and mind running laps in their head. The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four times.

Their heart drops in their chest just as the stunned voice comes through the other end, _“Ivon? Ivon?”_

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m happy you picked up,” they joke weakly. The voice on the other end is quiet. Ivon swallows their nerves and continues. “Look—I am—Um—I have a situation—”

 _“Where are you right now?”_ The way Tucker speaks confuses them.

They bite their lip. There is no point dancing around it; he already knows they are on-site. “I am still… you know… Here. Stuck. Hunted by horrifying alien monstrosities. Probably going to die, haha.” The nervous laugh cracks their voice. They grimace.

 _“You’re alive? You are on-site and alive?”_ Tucker enunciates the words clearly.

“Yeah. Hiding, but. Um. Yeah.” Ivon turns away from Sundew.

They can hear another voice in the background. They cannot make out what it is, but they hear Tucker move the phone away from his ear before returning to speak, _“I wish I had something to tell you. But I don’t… You know I don’t have good news. Or—Any news. At all.”_

“Never do,” the electrician jokes. They feel a ping of sorrow inside their chest when the man gives them a pity-laugh. “Tucker, I—I actually had a question. I know it isn’t my… _modus operandi—_ I need to know where the Predator’s equipment is kept.”

The phone drops. Voices chatter in the background, soft and indistinct. A second later, Ivon hears Tucker pick the phone up, suck in a deep breath, and say, _“You know I can’t give that kind of information to a low-level employee.”_

“I know, I know,” Ivon bites their lip. They know Tucker has others with him; Stargazer is already taking actions to curb damage from the aliens. They feel their eyes well up with tears but they rub them quickly, hoping not to be too big a fool in front of Sundew nearby.

They need to do this.

“I know about the warheads.” Ivon grits their teeth and forces the words out. “I know I am going to _die,_ Tucker. Don’t… Don’t try to bullshit me, okay? I know what’s going on.”

The silence on the other end is guilty.

“—I know there are—All kinds of— _Fucked up—Freakish—Monsters—Horrors—_ Running around—And I know one of them is X-12,” the person feels their hands shake. They inhale deeply and continue. “I _know_ most of—What’s here— _Human_ stuff—It won’t work—It can’t kill that _thing_ —That _xenomorph_ —I need something bigger! You and I both know I do, Tucker! I need one of _their_ things—”

The phone echoes soft noises of inaudible whispers. The sigh that follows is heavy. _“It won’t work, Ivon. You think Stargazer let shit of that nature slip by our best minds? Plenty of us have looked at it—”_

“Let me look at it, please,” Ivon begs into the phone. “Whatever it is—Look, I’m gonna _die_ here, call it a last request, words, something, okay? The least I can do is _try_ to make sure—That fucking _thing_ is put out of its misery—That no one else—" They lose the last shreds of composure, breaking into tears and hissing through their teeth. They are grateful no one is there to see it but Sundew, but in the same breath they are mortified the alien is there at all.

 _“They put it in a safe. X-V-1-7-L…”_ The man rattles off a long list of characters. Ivon turns the phone volume up. At the end of the sequence, Tucker sighs. _“You know, I never liked having you as a worker. Always showing up on time, getting shit done. Nothing to write you up over.”_

“Yeah, I know,” Ivon agrees softly. “You’ve always been an asshole for no reason.”

_“What I’m good at.”_

“Fuck you, Tucker,” they voice the thought that has been on their mind since the day they finished orientation.

On the other end of the phone—They hear the man’s faint chuckle. He sounds surprisingly apologetic as he offers a final, _“Fuck you too. And—Good luck.”_

* * *

The safe is a gargantuan thing half-sticking out of the far right. Under dim light of the cell phone, Sundew works meticulously to clear enough shelves and boxes so Ivon can input the sequence on a keyboard-shaped keypad. The first time flashes a red error sign, but the second takes the inputs and begins a series of clicks and grinding from within the metal monster. Sundew pulls it open; it creaks and groans loudly but gives. Inside, reflecting the gleam of cellphone light, are the very objects the Synthetic has thought of for months.

The equipment is there. All of it—the tattered, broken mesh and its matrix, the shoulder-mounted _sivk’va-tai_ in three pieces, the crushed gauntlet wristblades she forgets the name of, and the dome-shaped, cracked, bullet-ridden bio-mask—sits in front of the two waiting to be picked up. Sundew doesn’t hesitate; she scoops up the _sivk’va-tai_ pieces and passes them to Ivon before claiming the biomask for a closer look. The broken mesh suit and gauntlets are not priority in comparison to the sleek, light-weight metal in her hands.

It is made of an alloy she has never seen before. Her mind cannot think of the elements. She tentatively sends a weak electrical charge into the inner components—Nothing. She looks up at Ivon. “It’s broken.”

“It is, yeah,” Ivon remarks. They set the _sivk’va-tai_ pieces on a shelf nearby, prompting Sundew to frown at them. Ivon puts their hands up. “—I’m an electrician. I doubt I can do anything they’ve already tried, but. I’m an electrician?”

Sundew trades the mask for the cell phone. She faces it at the human and purses her lips. “I know it has ways to shift between the different sights. There is a targeting system in this one as well. But—I do not need any of those things to work. I need this to transmit signals. Nothing more.”

“That’s… I mean. Hmm.” Ivon bites his lip and looks around the room. The two made a mess of more than half of it, open crates and drawers scattered across the different aisles of equipment. It doesn’t take long to acquire a set of handyman tools and rubber gloves. They take care to be gentle rotating and flipping the mask. “Unless we blow up in the next couple minutes—I could try something—"

The sound that rings in the corridor outside the room is not the detonation of thermonuclear warheads; it is a gunshot. Alien and human alike freeze in place and stare at the door. Sundew narrows her gaze and steps around items strewn across the floor to position herself between Ivon and the door. “I do not know if we have a couple minutes.”

“If that thing comes in here—Can you fight it? Do you know how?” Ivon drops their voice to a whisper instinctively, fumbling to hold the mask in one hand while grabbing tools with the other.

“I have no idea what I am doing,” Sundew informs them.

“Fuck.” The electrician nimbly manages not to drop the mask. “What do we do? What—We can’t _hide_ from that thing!”

Sundew leaves the phone with them and faces the door. She walks slowly, softly, and silently up to the door, finding that the darkness of the room is easier on her eyes. Behind her, she can hear Ivon’s baffled and frantic words, something about _don’t open it_ , but her mind is made up. If the other two humans are out there with H’chak—She will not let another alien have him. She promised to come back for him and return to his side and _Sundew does not break her word easily._ She touches the door and wrenches in open, peering into the darkness.

“Doctor Garcia? H’chak? J…o?” The last name takes a second to remember. The Synthetic pauses and listens for a response, for footsteps, breathing, _anything._ She hears something; the sudden running of footsteps, spaced out and less heavy than either human with an adult Yautja should be. Sundew sees the dark shape in the blackness, a terrible bipedal silhouette, as it lurches forward with an ear-splitting cry. The void-like jaws come unhinged and a speck of white comes flying forward just as she scoots back and slams the door shut.

Sundew pours electricity into the door, holding it back against the cries and slams of the Xenomorph until the lock clicks into place. She steps away from the door, eyes wide and observant. A moment later a serrated black claw plunges through the metal, dripping a green liquid that sizzles as it burns through the alloys of floor and door alike.

 _“Cjit,”_ she clicks softly as the clawtip twists and rips out a chunk of metal. A set of claws plunges through the door, beginning an onslaught of attacks that continues until the door is riddled with holes. She imitates a human shriek when the alien creature crashes through the door and shakes itself off. Sundew yells over Ivon's scream, _“—Fix it!”_

Then her back hits the ground. She feels pain shoot through her body in dozens of places. Sundew squirms and writhes but she feels weight pinning her arms, torso, and head in place. A terribly long tail curls around her neck, wrenching her head in such a way that she is forced to look up. Her eyes come upon the large black head of X-12. She sees strange indentations across the top of the carapace-like forehead, but Sundew’s attention is forcibly brought back to the alien’s jaws when the mouth opens.

 _Kiande amedha._ An old memory belonging to her Yautja companion comes to mind. _The hard meat. Xenomorph. Worthy prey._

Dark-colored saliva dribbles out and smacks her cheek. She does not see eyes on the alien’s face, but she feels like it stares at her. She imitates a human holding their breath. In the alien’s mouth, she sees a smaller set of white jaws emerging from the void and oozing forward. But it doesn’t attack; she watches it go rigid and begin making a series of inhumane screeches and yowls at her.

Footsteps pound against the corridor outside and a figure charges through the gaping doorway. The dull shimmer of green luminescence radiates off body armor as Jo leaps at the xenomorph, shotgun raised, and fires. Multiple shots slam into the creatures body; the alien gives off a terrible screech as it releases Sundew and steps away, only for Jo to repeat the action and fire again, and again, and again, until her magazine is empty and she is a panting mess of rage and adrenaline. X-12 falls back with a horrifying wail of nails on chalkboard. The creature’s blood oozes out unto the floor and begins to corrode the metal.

“God, tell me the fucker’s dead,” Jo begs, fumbling with a pouch strapped to her hip. She struggles to reload her gun while Sundew sits up and looks at the xenomorph.

“I do not understand,” the entity says. “It was not attacking me.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you aren’t as appealing as nice, _fleshy_ humans.” Jo pants. She points a finger at Sundew. “Come help me and Garcia lug your friend the rest of the way.”

“He does not consider us _fr_ —Where is he? Is he alive?” The Synthetic climbs to her feet and strides to Jo. She does not realize what she is doing at first, but when she looks down, she sees she has begun to wring her wrists. _Worry?_

“The other—” Jo stops mid-sentence and stiffens.

She looks at her gun; the barrel of the weapon has begun to sizzle and smoke, corroding and melting as she throws it to the ground and jumps back. Sundew spins on her heels and both individuals back away while the Xenomorph staggers to its feet, acidic blood falling from its exoskeleton figure. Sundew wrenches Jo to the side and positions herself between the human and Xenomorph. The human is too frightened to speak, sputtering small, incomprehensible noises but silencing when the Xenomorph snarls and dives.

Sundew takes the impact, the force sending both human and Synthetic alike crashing against shelves of equipment as the alien snarls and presses against her hands and body. She can feel the sharp serrated claws cutting into her flesh; she curses and releases an electrical charge into the creature. Beneath her, Jo takes the full brunt of electricity as the current extends to her body and surges through her; Sundew can hear the woman’s pained hiss and involuntary muscle spasms. She cannot sustain it for long; the heat becomes unbearable as the electrical current leaves her body. The Xenomorph on top of her has cut through the surface of her fake skin; she feels her blood gush out in a mess of clear, sopping liquid from the deep lacerations. 

It is enough to make her scream. The sound is not human; it is far more sinister, dissonant and warped as the noise tears through the air. The Xenomorph is still, weight careening against her and Jo but not moving aside from the long, swaying tail. The creature starts to hiss. Masses of saliva dangle and drop unto the Synthetic’s bleeding form. 

A wave of light-blue flies across the room and explodes into the side of the Xenomorph. Heat bathes the area and Sundew cries out in pain as the temperature briefly skyrockets to unbearable degrees before plummeting back to normal. Her vision is a hazy white for a long, terrible second before it clears. She does not realize the Xenomorph is off her until she sees Ivon walk over, a surprised look etched across their sharp features. “Oh… Ha… ha… It… It worked? It worked.”

Sundew strains to make out the metal object in their hand. It is not the mask, nor does it look appropriate to be worn on the _head._ As she attempts to still long enough for her physical composition to cease bleeding, her clear eyes focus on the device Ivon holds. She cannot bear to move, but her voice croaks out the rough clicks. _“Sivk’va-tai?”_

* * *

“Shit.” Jo does not understand the series of clicking noises coming from the alien on top of her. She extracts herself from the two’s tangled position and breathes in relief when she spots the carapace-riddled, obsidian _asshole_ that destroyed her shotgun.

The alien has ceased moving. It has been blown across the room into the wall just feet from where her and the silvery alien are. On its side, the body continues to pour acidic green blood, melting and corroding away the floor as it oozes out. Jo sees a gaping hole the size of a soccer ball in its torso, the edges crisp and still aglow with fading heat. She snaps her head back at the electrician. They meet her eyes and she manages a shaky grin.

“—I take back what I said. ‘Bout you knowin’ jack,” the woman frowns. “What is that thing?”

The silvery figure on the ground repeats the chorus of clicks. Jo stiffens and looks down. She can make out gaping wounds where the bipedal alien tore into the silver one. _That should’ve been me. Was she trying to protect me? No. No! An alien wouldn’t do that. Would she?_

Jo kneels to apply pressure to the injuries, trying to do something, but Sundew hisses at her. “Mask—Bring me the mask.”

“Oh—The—You two found it? Really?” Jo exclaims.

Ivon stops at Sundew’s side, kneels, and grimaces as they hand an oval-shaped, cracked face mask to the alien. It doesn’t look like anything Jo has ever seen before; it is far too big to fit a human skull. There is gel-like string-thin tubes—wiring, who knows—visible beyond one crack. She sees two eye pieces covered by a thin stretch of the metal allow the mask is composed of. Jo glances back at the silver alien bleeding on the ground. She watches Sundew shut her eyes—the eyes in of themselves are horrifying to peer into—and still. On the side of the mask, Jo catches sight of a protruding dome-shaped piece of metal lighting up three blue lights.

“Is it working?” Ivon winces.

“If it isn’t, we’re fucked. So it better.” Jo tries to lighten the atmosphere, to give a quip and smile behind her visor. She feels strangely confident in the electrician’s abilities, rightly so after seeing the damn thing turn _on_. Her gaze shifts to Sundew. “It is, right? Right? Tell me it is.”

“It will have to do.” The silver alien bows her head. “I will… rest. Please tend to Doctor Garcia and the Yautja. He is from a,” the alien’s voice quiets. “—honorable culture. He will not hurt you if you help him. Please.”

* * *

“C’mon, help us get the big guy here—” The guard tells them, taking their wrist and pulling gently. Ivon draws it back; they can hear Jo’s sigh. “What?”

“It would be easier to take her to the two, yeah? Here—You carry her—I’ll get this mask and—Gun? Thing?” The electrician bites their lip. Their eyes fall upon the strange, curving shoot-glowing-energy device they used minutes ago. It is waiting for them on the shelf; Ivon dashes over and pick it up, tucking it tenderly under one arm as if it is a football ready to cross the end zone. They put their cell phone in their pocket and opt to grab Jo’s flashlight while the guard hefts the silver alien and alien mask up.

“She’s ain’t that heavy,” Jo remarks; she hesitates and gestures for Ivon to go first. “After you, techie.”

Their phone rings before they can take a step. Jo huffs at them to hurry up while Ivon pulls it out of their pocket. Ivon balances what they dub the _SGE gun_ in their grasp while swiping across the screen to unlock it. They put it on speaker and retrieve the flashlight, holding both awkwardly in one hand. “Tucker?”

 _“You should be grateful. Got a call to one of the guys in Silicon Valley; you won’t believe what I said to ‘em to make them delay detonation.”_ Tucker’s voice reflects the weariness of the morning. 

“Uh-huh. Right. Thanks,” Ivon exhales sharply. They speak as they walk, exiting the storage room and following where Jo points. The latter falls into silence. “Well, I got news for you. The asshole’s dead.”

On the other end, the phone drops and crashes. Squawking noises follow; Ivon finds the mental image of Tucker scrambling to pick up the phone comical. When their administrator speaks again, the voice is stunned. _“What?”_

“It’s dead. I think,” Ivon’s gaze narrows at Jo when the other snorts faintly. “I’m _sure_ it’s dead.”

_“That’s a… X-12? You? But you’re a—You’re a human! How the fuck you kill that thing? You got the slightest clue what it’s made of?”_

“There was a piece of equipment belonging to the Predator specimen. Which was where you told me, thanks for that.” They mean the words sincerely. “Look, Tucker—Can you—I don’t know—See if you can just… Call… The _detonation_ part of this scenario off…? I. Um. I would rather not die. I got a livestream to watch tonight. You ever heard of Critical R—”

_“Well, uh. Shit. Shit, that’s hard to say. I could probably pull some strings. But wait—You said—It was the specimen’s equipment? I oversaw inventory—I know that shit was more broke than me after a night out.”_

Ivon stops. They glance at Jo, who doesn’t notice until she has taken two steps past them. She looks over her shoulder and taps a foot. The electrician winces. “Hey, Tucker, can you give me a second? I’ll call you back.”

_“Ivon—”_

They hang up and toss the phone to the floor. Ivon grits their teeth, raises a foot, and brings it crashing down on the fragile electronic. It cracks, but it is not enough. They repeat the action, stomping it again and again until satisfied with the results. Nearby, they see Jo shake her head. Her voice is baffled but entertained. “Why?”

“I think he,” Ivon exhales shakily. Their nerves are returning to them. “He was trying to—Trying to get information—About me—Us—Right now—He knows I did something with the alien’s toys. He knows X-12 is dead. We can’t go back to them. _We._ They’ll—I don’t know what they’ll do. Kill us? Maybe? I heard a doctor got offed here months back.”

“Fuck,” Jo curses softly. “They have no reason not to, huh?”

“The ship’s our ticket out—" Ivon’s words are cut off as the walls, ceiling, and floor begin to _rumble_ and vibrate. Ivon grabs hold of the wall while Jo leans against it to keep her balance. Somewhere in the distance comes the sound of a great crash and grind of metal. It lasts an entire minute; Ivon counts the seconds in their head to be sure.

When it all falls quiet, Jo finally whistles and says, “Sounds like our ride.”

* * *

It looks like a snake, a smooth but curving head that flows and overlaps segments of a longer ‘tail.’ Surreal patterns of luminescent red, blue, and green swirl across the ship’s surface even when idle, with occasional patches of a dark alloy so deep in hue it seems to swallow all light no matter what shines on it. The patterns have purpose, but Garcia does not know what.

The front end of the gargantuan ship hisses as internal mechanisms unlatch and allow access to the cockpit. The Synthetic only maintains consciousness long enough for Doctor Garcia and the electrician to haul the Yautja specimen aboard; she passes out once the cockpit hatch closes and locks, the ship initiating take-off procedures on its own. It rises from the battered remains of Stargazer Corporation’s facility while the three humans manage to keep their otherworldly companions from careening across the ship’s segmented fuselage.

The cockpit splits into two levels that carries on across all segments of the ship. Beyond the end of the cockpit comes a well-lit, though dusty, hall. The air smells strange but not offputting. Circular doors are positioned in uniform pairs opposite the other. When Garcia puts a hand over one, it rolls into the wall to reveal a grand mechanical pod. She gives it a passing glance before huffing and adjusting her grip on the Yautja specimen; Jo yaps at her to _focus_ while the two haul the alien further into the ship. She does not know what she expects to find, but when the net segment lights up and reveals a serene, chrome-finished metal laboratory, Garcia figures it is something akin to a medical bay.

There is a series of metal pods—the alloy lighter than the _living quarters_ pods in color and possessing a large glassy top—melding into the floor. Lights come on automatically when the two humans carry the Yautja over. Metal hums thoughtfully; the top of the pod hisses as it unlocks and pops open. Inside appears to be a dark liquid Garcia does not recognize. She glances at Jo. The other human shrugs.

“If this kills them—Free spaceship?” Jo jokes.

Garcia doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t breathe properly until she and the guard finish pushing and shoving the unconscious Yautja into the pod. He fits with room to spare; the pod extends deep into the floor and the Yautja sinks into it up to the waist. The specimen looks surprisingly peaceful, or as peaceful as an alien with exposed jawbones and mandibles can be. Garcia shudders. She looks over her shoulder and spots the electrician—Ivon, she needs to memorize the name—carrying the Synthetic’s still form over.

The Doctor audibly groans when Ivon dumps the body inside the pod. The electrician exhales in relief and wipes their brow. They frown at the ensuing silence and look from Garcia to Jo with increasing concern.

“You put the big one in one of these, right?” Ivon frowns. “I figured—”

“You deal with them.” Jo pats Garcia’s arm on the way out.

Garcia sighs. She feels the exhaustion of the morning’s events creeping up on her. Part of her almost _envies_ the aliens; sleeping or drowning in a pod sounds ideal compared to trying to summarize everything that is her new reality. The doctor ignores Ivon as the latter continues to question their actions; Garcia looks back at the pod and reaches for the top. It easily folds over the hatch’s opening; a faint click gives her the impression it locks into place.

From within, she sees a slight movement. Garcia holds up a hand for Ivan to _shush_ and peers closely at the glass. The shadows of the pod and the dark liquid obscure her sight, but the faint lustrous sheen from light reflecting off the Synthetic’s skin moves when the body does. Garcia watches the silver figure begin to shift. The movement is slow and of no conscious volition; she cannot see any sign that Sundew is awake. In the throes of unconsciousness, the Synthetic’s body reacts on its own: slowly bringing its knees up and arms down, curling up around something. Garcia’s eyes dim when she sees what has triggered the action: it is one of the Yautja’s arms, clutched tight in the Synthetic’s arms like a lifeline. The rest of the silver figure’s body curls up against it before stilling.

The doctor takes off her helmet. Her gray eyes soak in everything. The woman tears herself away after a moment, repulsed at the number of possibilities. Ivon sees her reaction and frowns. “Doctor Garcia?”

“She’s a sundew,” Garcia clenches her teeth. “A sundew holding prey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end of arc 1! i kind of view these as "arcs." a collection of more episodic stories going in chronological order. Yeah.
> 
> if you've enjoyed it so far or think it's awful please feel free to leave a comment ! thank you for giving this story a chance and have a lovely day!


	8. face of a trophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The view from his ship, a stretch of cold blue temperatures above frothing lighter-hued clouds, fills him with a sense of courage. He cannot resist clicking his mandibles away in deep, rumbling laughter. The relief that follows makes him stride forward and lean out against the cockpit’s window, eyes tracing the horizon in an almost juvenile curiosity.
> 
> Terra has never looked so beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen... i promise... this is a romance fic... i know i spent 7 chapters focusing on two aliens trying to escape a villainous corporation building... BUT I PROMISE... THIS IS A ROMANCE FIC... 
> 
> also i finally get to describe what the humans look like. that's what happens when 2/3rds of them wear full body equipment (sigh)

_He’s been rejected again._

_It isn’t uncommon for Ikthya-De th’Syra to play with her suitors. The woman is built strong as a mountain; her duels are notoriously challenging even when the lady enters estrus. If anything, the hormones enveloping her make her even more riled up and daunting. His timing is unfortunate; she is open to mating rites once a day and this evening he’s missed his chance. Another Yautja has already been defeated and Clan Gahn’tha’cte’s alluring Umbra Skull has since retired from the kehrite of the clan ship to her private quarters._

_M-di-H’chak does not know when he will get another chance. He is a kv’var-de with four Hunts across the next two cycles. The chance for Honor is high—One of the Hunts is guaranteed to involve the hard meat prey he yearns to hang on his wall. A second is not so glorious but still worthy of respect—On the ice-riddled game planet Dresk a herd of monstrous woolen u’darahje await. The blind mammoth-like creatures do not stray above the crystalline caves beneath Dresk’s frozen tundras, save for the breeding season the last quarter of a cycle._

_It does not go above H’chak’s head how quickly his thoughts circle back to fucking._

_He is not shy in his desires or wants. The Yautja seeks out another woman as the night’s cycle transpires. His senses focus on the deep odor permeating a bulky lady in traditional mesh armor. She is automatically a higher rank by virtue of producing viable clutches, and her fertility is especially potent in scent by the time he crosses across the common area and stops at her side. He does not speak first; the Yautja knows his carefully pleated dreadlocks, his reputation, and his trophy rooms do all the talking necessary. Besides—It is a dishonor to interrupt a woman in her work._

_The Yautja is busy wiping down circular flying discs, each as large as either Yautja’s head and sporting razor-sharp edging. The woman has already cut her hand on the blade once, judging by the luminescent green splotch on a rag to her side. She sits with her back turned toward him—But not for long. Just as he can smell her odor, the Hunter knows she can identify the musk coming from his body._

_She makes a tsk sound with her mandibles, clicking them against one another as she looks over her shoulder. “Who do we have here? H’chak. Ikthya-De give you the boot again?”_

_“She entertained my company long enough to chat,” is all H’chak offers, keeping his tone polite and his chest puffed up. His orange eyes miss nothing. He can see the way the woman—Brisk, he remembers, one of the only Yautja in the clan to choose a name outside their original tongue—eyes him up. Her eyes, a beady black as deep as the space is vast, pick apart his figure like a buzzard with a carcass. She shares the hungers he possesses._

_Her mandibles twitch with want. “Did this chat have anything… more to it? You two chat a lot, H’chak. This entire floor’s seen you two in the kehrite more times than we can count.”_

_Brisk is a smart one, though the observation could not be clearer. H’chak recalls making his intentions very clear the first time Ikthya-De caught his eye. The thrashing he received from the woman more than made up for the cheeky remarks he sneaked in, all an endless flattery for her strength, her brawn, her sheer beauty. He remembers it witnessed by no less than twenty Yautja women, and the gossip spreading like wildfire across the women’s living quarters. Ikthya-De initially considered his proposal because of his bold display._

_H’chak recalls how quickly he learned she is not an easy heart to woo. To date, he recalls sparring her twenty-four separate times since her estrus began. She has defeated him twenty-four times, each bringing a new quip to taunt him with. The fancy words of longing, the trill chirrups and serenades, everything that is meant to be a sign of reciprocation and approval—Except for the invitation to her room. Ithkya-De keeps it dangled above his head like meat, and H’chak knows he will gladly nip and whine if it means she eventually invites him in. She is worth it, an unparallel fighter and weapons master in their clan. She is the perfect choice for gestating his pups._

_Tonight is not a night to dwell on the thoughts of Umbra Skull’s scandalous teasing. H’chak maintains his composure; he shakes his long dreadlocks and quills just enough for them to fan out and take up more space. He feels his own muscles ripple; under the light of the ship his skin appears less the mottled medley of brown, green, and white, and closer to the hazy green it will eventually become. The sight pleases Brisk. She sets her weapons aside, drops the used rag on them, and pushes herself upright. Her hips have a cocky sway to them as she gestures for him to follow._

_“Inviting me in already?” H’chak’s words make her cuss him out under her breath. Anyone else he knows a thrashing would follow, but Brisk is clearly in need of his expertise._

_No sooner than the two enter her quarters and the door slides shut behind them does the woman start the attack._

_It is a violent act. Copulation between Yautja is rarely slow or gentle. The act is a visceral reaction of pure, unfiltered lust seeping through and taking control of the parties involved. In seconds, the mesh matrix of both Yautja are being ripped off. Brisk voices every growl and snarl in her gullet when he finds opportunity to pin her to the floor. He revels in her flushed expression, eyes filled to the brim with desire. He is careful in how he moves when un-clipping his belt and the loincloth attached. He knows just how sneaky the women of his clan are, but he finds he has nothing to worry about once every inch of him comes unsheathed and out for display._

_“Ell-osde’ pauk,” Brisk spits at him, goading him on with a wicked gleam in her eyes._

_H’chak’s self-restraint wanes. He shoves her against the floor and rips through her remaining attire with long, sharp claws. The curses that follow are directed at him but he ignores Brisk’s roars of indignation and hefts her legs up. She takes all of him in one go; the Yautja howls and writhes in pleasure as the man begins to slam their hips together. He makes sure to keep Brisk screaming in euphoria throughout the night; Ikthya-De’s quarters are directly across the hall._

* * *

It has been too many cycles since he dreamed of the past, much less of anything mentioning Ikthya-De. The woman leaves a foul taste on his tongue just remembering her existence. Not even in the throes of pleasure dreams does he find solace from her permeating memories, invading his mind and nipping at his subconscious. H’chak finds himself coming to with a grievous headache ringing through his cranium. His thoughts are a mess of the past, momentarily engulfed by the dream. He knows it is not true. It was true—once—but that time is gone, and Umbra Skull does not look at him anymore.

Part of him wishes she would, just to see the hate fester in his eyes.

His body is a cacophony of cramps. Trying to move proves useless; he quickly finds his limbs asleep. Soft growls fall as he begins the struggle to open his eyes and clear his head. Every little motion brings a surge of pain to his form. Eventually, the Yautja gives up on _moving_ and settles in the cool, familiar liquid. He pauses and notes his surroundings: he did not pass out in a medical pod. He should be in Stargazer’s facility, on the ground, bleeding to death in a way that is far from the honorable glory-death Yautja seek at their end days. The presence of a medical pod implies he is in a _ship_. A Yautja ship. He is not dead yet; his Hunt may and _will_ continue.

As his orange eyes note the glassy hatch at the top of the pod, the pod’s liquid shifts. H’chak can feel the filtration system activate and drain old liquid through the bottom of the pod. His body drops slightly from the decreased surface level, but new liquid flushes inside seconds later. The dark liquid is viscous, but it retains a certain density to it. The liquid envelopes his body and rises up to his chest, stopping mid-torso and settling. 

That is when the receptors at the roof of his mouth catch the aroma drifting through the air. It is incredibly subtle, subdued in part by the faint smell of the medical pod’s insides. It resembles the aromas carried by soft forms of prey; the delicacy invites him to investigate. His eyes narrow and his gaze drops to the source, falling unto the form of an entity wrapped up against and around his arm like he is the soft one. The humanoid’s shape has been so _still_ up till then, and surprisingly light, H’chak quietly admits to himself he did not notice her.

 _Im-Gen_. He does not remember what her name is. It baffles him to think she is there, in all ways and then some. How did she escape? Survive? Get a _ship?_ Get _on_ the ship? Get _him_ on a ship? Get him into a medical pod? The questions are met with silence; he doesn’t dare voice them out of respect.

 _No. Not respect._ He scolds himself in his head, refusing to entertain it. He doubts she could accomplish it on her own. Perhaps another Yautja, certainly, but the Images are not known for efficiency in combat, only data collection.

But she is there. He finds himself at a loss of what to say, terribly unfit for a Hunter of his status. The aroma of soft prey comes from her; when he has the strength to lower his head and inhale deeply, he confirms it. The unworthy prey smells nice, but so do many things in the universe. H’chak struggles to lift his head back up—His neck has cramps of its own and his dreadlocks are partially crushed between his back and the medical pod’s walls. The Yauja settles as he is, the crest of his forehead bumping and coming to rest on the Im-Gen’s.

She feels… pleasant. Aside from the disturbingly tight, almost iron-clad grip on his arm, she is light and cool against him. The Image’s body temperature is a faint pink outline against the colder, darker hues of the medical pod’s alloy. It surprises him how easily _he_ accepts the newfound circumstances; the world seems simple and peaceful from the perspective of a medical pod. He doesn’t hold worries. His body relaxes and he inhales the other alien’s scent again. _Calm… Peaceful. Inviting. This h’dui’se… Could she be of use? Worth keeping?_

All the thought does is make a slow, persistent warmth rise in his abdomen and climb to his face. He tears his eyes away and redirects his thoughts immediately. Any implications of keeping unworthy prey, no matter the nature of _keeping_ , is distasteful. There is a reason Yautja do not cross-produce with other species; very few have ever shown they are worthy of incorporating into a clan’s bloodline. Such hybrids are exceptionally rare and occasionally dubbed abominations, _ui’stbi,_ by other clans. H’chak finds his thoughts circling back to the aroma; he indulges only to use the smell to calm himself. He is not a naïve, bumbling Young Blood incapable of rational thought.

 _M-di-H’chak. No mercy. Merciless. I am Merciless._ He reminds himself. _If this is a Yautja ship—Surely others must have picked us up. Intervened. I will owe them a debt and give them the Im-Gen to deal with. I will resume my Hunt, find my ship, and…_ His mandibles draw together tightly. _Is this my ship?_

He needs to check. Vaguely, the memory of the Im-Gen proposing she call his ship for aid comes to mind. He doubts it could be pulled off—Yautja technology is exceptionally advanced compared to other lifeforms, not easily apprehended.

“…Jupiter…” The whisper is so soft he almost misses it. His orange eyes flicker down. His head is still lowered—he lifts it as he looks to get a better angle on what the Im-Gen is doing.

She has not moved, arms still holding unto his with heavy pressure. She is less hanging off the Hunter than she is holding unto him, leaning into his chest and side from the way the pod’s walls makes his body bend. But from the fact she speaks, and the way her head lifts to look at him, it is clear she is awake.

Not—Entirely. She is not the same lucidity, soon dropping her head against him once more. Her voice is quiet as she adds, “—I kept my word.”

“…what word?” He does not remember that part of the _experience_.

The sound that comes is loose and light; airy. It is the barest scraps of a human laugh, no doubt replicated by the creature refusing to release his arm. The Im-Gen loosens her grip on him and mumbles faintly, “You are not… there. Anymore. Not with the humans.”

The hunter’s eyes dim. He remembers now. The Im-Gen offered her assistance in freeing him. He does not want to give her all credit, _no doubt_ another Yautja or worthy prey intervened. But, if all is true, he is free. He is free. He is _free_. His hunt can continue. The thought spurs the hunger for glory within the man; H’chak finds himself growling at the thought. He pauses when the Im-Gen relaxes against him. The tantalizing aroma she emits draws his head down once more. He ignores her inquiry—another butchering of his name, she has a lot to learn—and inhales deeply. The warmth that washes over his body is…

 _Soothing? Pauk._ He anticipates the Im-Gen becoming a problem. Dumping her with whoever helped her help him is the best course of action—After he gets out of the pod.

The proximity has slowly been growing in his mind, worming its way into his thoughts while he is preoccupied with the Image’s smell. H’chak blames it fully on the cycles spent since he was selected to be someone’s mate. The drive that simmers in his blood exists across most Yautja; it is a dull ache of weakness to tolerate a single thought about physical intimacy with a creature as unworthy as an Im-Gen. H’chak scolds himself mentally; the fact he had to elaborate at all in his head is proof enough the proximity is gnawing at his desire for closeness.

He has already held her, in a way. At that moment she is drawn up against him, latched unto his arm, and though the rational part of his brain understands she is an Image, the other half is disgustingly needy for physical contact. He does not become aware he has started to trill softly until she looks back up. Neither individual says a word; there is only the sound of soft, melodic chirps, and the rumble that comes from his throat when he feels the Image relax. Her grip loosens enough for him to retrieve his arm. The liquid in the medical pod sloshes as he shifts and stands.

He doubts he would ever get a tender moment with a woman from his clan. The Yautja ladies are fiercely competitive and tough, each with the provocative taunts and teases taught by their Elders. They enjoy being in control, pushing potential mates to the brink of brutality before allowing one the honor of entering their quarters. Expressing softness or tenderness is possible, but it is rare, and often reserved for the private couples or groups of lovers versus the rest of the populace. It is not the norm, and the fact it is not the norm only adds to the embers burning inside him. He needs to extract himself from the pod, from her, _now_.

* * *

She hears the hiss of a hatch unlocking and popping open. The warm arms holding her carry her out of the pod, but nothing further. She is deposited gingerly on the cold metal floor; the dark liquid of the pod leaves heinous droplets and small puddles. Miranda Escrow’s clothes are soaked. Sundew did not like them, but they were clothes, and she prefers wearing the skirt to not wearing the skirt, or not having a dress, or not having the dress and hat she lost back when her head exploded at the Stargazer facility. Her clear eyes narrow at the thought before she finds herself distracted.

“H’chak?” The Synthetic sits upright. She tilts her head to one side. Her physical composition is not fully repaired; she can see the tender, dark-gray marks on her arms. The red blouse she wears has been cut through on each sleeve, hinting at the xenomorph’s attack when it tried to get to the human called _Jo_.

 _There are humans onboard this ship. Does he know they are here? No._ She thinks as she watches the Yautja ignore her and move across what she comes to recognize as a metal laboratory. The walls appear empty at first, nothing more than solid sheets of sleek alloy, but before her clear eyes—H’chak strides up to the wall, extends a palm across an indentation, and triggers a drawer within the wall to eject. She does not understand the clicks that follow, staring pointedly at him while he retrieves a stack of mesh and fabric.

 _“Dress,”_ is all the Hunter offers her before he tosses the thermal bodysuit to her.

“I remember this,” Sundew unfolds the garment and holds it up. Her lips curve up in a polite smile. “Yautja use this to regulate their body temperature?”

The hunter gives her no response. She pauses and looks at him, noting the dozens of long, tendril-like dreadlocks falling from his head. In the ship’s light—notably less sources producing ultraviolet wavelengths—she can make him out better, eyes quickly skimming the rugged, scale-covered skin and observing a distinct change from swamp-green to soft browns and white scales toward the inner sides of his limbs and his chest. He has a surprising number of short quill-like protrusions sporadically across his body.

When he removes the soaked, scrappy loincloth he made what feels like a century ago, Sundew looks away. She retains the courtesy up until she hears gloves being pulled on. When she looks back, she sees the suit fits perfectly to the alien’s figure. The fishnet-like matrix appears to have fitted itself to his body, following every curve of weak muscle or jutting bone. With it are several wrappings, some across part of his torso, one being a much more durable loincloth, and several bands that hold the mesh snug against what Sundew assumes are his biceps and thighs. H’chak has gloves at the end of the thermal suit’s sleeves, and, similarly sock-like protrusions at the end of the leggings.

She does not make out enough of the short, agitated clicks H’chak makes when the latter shuts the drawer and prompts two more to open.

“Are you looking for something?” Sundew does not try to rise to her feet. Her gaze skips from the thermal bodysuit in her hands to the Yautja scavenging nearby.

The click H’chak makes alerts her to the fact he tries to answer, but her knowledge of the Yautja language—of his clan’s dialect, specifically—is not enough to pick up everything. When H’chak ceases speaking and gestures at his head, it clicks in her mind.

“The mask?” She smiles politely at his growl. “One of the humans had it.”

 _“Oomans?”_ It takes the Yautja aback. He strides over to her and kneels by her side, figure far less scary than she anticipates he tries to be. _“What oomans?”_

“There are three of them,” the Synthetic decides it is good as a time as any to begin pulling Miranda Escrow’s stockings off her legs. She speaks as she fumbles with the material; her hands feel weak today. “Doctor Garcia. Ivon… Ivon the electrician. And… Jo. I do not know her title.”

 _“On this ship. They are on… Whose ship is this?”_ The Yautja is a very demanding fellow when not sedated.

Sundew finds it amusing. She finishes peeling off the stockings and drops them on the side. “I was given the memories necessary to transmit signals to your ship. This ship belongs to you, H’chak. I do not know any other space-faring crafts to call upon.”

Her hands go to Miranda Escrow’s blouse. The deep red garment is easy to unbutton, but no sooner than she begins pulling it over her head does she hear the Yautja curse and rise, backing several feet away. Sundew pulls the shirt off and peers at him, perplexed. When he does not say anything—though color across the scales of his face have _slightly_ shifted in hue—she returns to what she was doing. She can hear the other alien’s growl across the room; he moves with surprising swiftness given the events at the facility. The door to the room, a hulking semicircle that automatically rolls into the wall upon approach, can be heard opening and shutting.

The screams and shouts that follow alert Sundew to the fact her Yautja companion has found the _oomans._

* * *

_Kukulkan._ The name means little to most Yautja hunters, being of a soft prey’s language and soft prey’s meaning. It is the Feathered-Serpent God, known by many names across many languages, spanning hundreds of cycles and cultures in Mesoamerica and present-day Americas. The people who revere it, specific inhabitants of _Terra,_ possess many interpretations of the divine attributes and origins of the Feathered-Serpent God.

A Yautja hunter would normally take no interest in such things. Humanity, _oomans_ , are weak prey for which there is little honor found in squashing underfoot. He himself knows if the humans at the Stargazer facility, and likewise those directly involved with his initial capture, had turned away and ignored his presence, he would have spared them. Their deaths are the result of their own doing, spurring him into vigorous self-defense until each lay dead at his feet. H’chak recants the memory with the awareness of where it places him with the other hunters of his Clan: he should approach all humans that way, reducing their livelihoods to mere gnats in the face of a hunter.

The _Kukulkan_ , the meanings it possesses, and the role it serves among humans of past and present prevent H’chak from disavowing all soft prey. It is the name of his ship: the great serpent _Kukulkan_ , lacking in wings but possessing the power and might found in the Mayan people of Chichen Itza. His ship does not carry the heavenly name lightly; far in his past, throughout the different Elite Yautja he descends from, his predecessors uphold the whispers of the last Hunt his ancestor carried out on _Terra_ , where a great battle unfurled and ended in the failed Hunt. His distant relative perished, but the ship returned with information portraying an intricate and thriving civilization. At the heart of it, within the depths of the beliefs found across the city, was the name of the god _Kukulkan._

The ship is an heirloom. It is a beautiful, iridescent creation, with swirling colors of blue, red, and green embracing the deepest pitch of the cosmos. The colors serve purpose; they are made of a refracting material that transforms the light falling upon the alloy into a mirror image of the surroundings. Against the emptiness of the skies, both planetary and cosmic, the refracting light makes the ship fade into the background. It is not the same quality as the tight, taut cloaking mesh adorning his figure, but on a grander scale he considers it efficient enough. The history in the substance used, the elements mined and melted for each segmented outer layer, it invokes a passionate sense of honor and strength in the hunter.

It is one of the few things outside his trophy collection worth keeping intact. The shame that would follow upon the loss of his ship, whether his own doing or a foe’s, would be unfathomable.

It is for these reasons the Yautja stands at the cockpit of his ship, silent regardless of the incessantly loud and terrified _oomans_ behind him. His orange eyes gaze across the familiar controls, soaking in the metal switches, bars, and dashes. His entire body relaxes in the comfort of _his_ ship, of the great _Kukulkan,_ and of the knowledge his previous captors did not find it. It is _his_ again, his home away from home, and the only speck of refuge and respite he has until he returns to his clan ship.

The view from his ship, a stretch of cold blue temperatures above frothing lighter-hued clouds, fills him with a sense of courage. He cannot resist clicking his mandibles away in deep, rumbling laughter. The relief that follows makes him stride forward and lean out against the cockpit’s window, eyes tracing the horizon in an almost juvenile curiosity.

 _Terra_ has never looked so beautiful.

He finds his mind shifts to the problems at hand. He lacks armor and weapons, but both problems are easily remedied now that _Kukulkan_ is with him. At the back wall of the cockpit, after he runs a hand down one panel, a drawer ejects from the wall. The sheen of a mask—not his original one but one nonetheless—greets his eyes, the perfect combination of eloquent metalwork, ridges, and grooves tenderly formed through hot kilns and skilled blacksmiths of his clan. He is quick to don it, almost breathing in delight when he does. It comes on instantly and begins to dig tiny sensors into the crest of his forehead, automatically burrowing beyond his scaly pelt and through his flesh to the nerves below.

The process is painful, but it is over in less than a minute. His eyes blink through different optical lenses, finally seeing Terra’s atmosphere in a spectrum of _colors_ versus his natural thermal vision. H’chak clicks and trills in delight.

Behind him, he can hear the humans continue to shriek and cry.

 _No. Not all of them. One of them._ He corrects himself quickly, looking over his shoulder. The door to the first fuselage segment is open and lets him track each of the noisy _oomans_ as they meander in the halls of the ship’s quarters, with one backed up against a door while the two other stand and chat quietly to one another on the side.

None of them had attacked him when he first shoved his way past, only screamed. H’chak cannot fathom the naivety of the humans nearby. If they were smart—They would cut his head clean from his shoulders and be done with it. The fact they are now _witnesses_ to him, his ship, and _Cetanu_ knows what else is all a point of aggravation. He will have to clean them up. He lets the hiss be known when he approaches the doorway, orange gaze locked on the sobbing one. _Loud one is first to go._

But one steps in front of him and blocks his path. It is terribly amusing, but he holds his laughter and eyes the woman before him. She is young for her species, no more than thirty if that, with dark brown skin and a head of short black coils. Her eyes are a deep, somber brown, like the color of a strong and unyielding tree, or an enduring carapace. She wears a guard uniform, and a helmet and Kevlar vest on the floor hints at previous attire. She is brave. He respects her bravery but renounces her foolishness. The Yautja shoves her out of the way easily and walks to the shaking one on the ground.

“Hey! I’m trying to talk to you—" The brave, foolish human yells after him. He ignores her.

The terrified, fretful human is older. They are nowhere near as brave and easily labeled a _coward_ in his mind. He sees their shaking hands, skin white as milk, and the mess of tear streaks along their face. The Yautja clicks at them to shush. He does not want them to struggle and make it a painful, gorey mess across his nice, neat ship.

He notes the scared human dons a jumpsuit of neutral tones and thick rubber gloves. The human’s hair is a coarse and tangled mess of blond, utterly unkempt. He knows he would not treat his dreadlocks in such fashion, nor his quills, not once a place to bathe was available. Disdained, H’chak briefly questions if any of the humans have tried to use the living quarters, or if they are truly that useless.

 _No matter._ He grabs the shaking human by the neck and lifts them up. They begin to cough and spurt immediately, slapping and flailing at his hand. He debates what to do. _Strangulation is clean—But their heads explode easily. Drop out of cargo hold? Drop out of cargo hold._

Letting the elements devour the remains sounds clean and green in one. He is about to drag the hapless human when a familiar voice rings out, “I’ll ask you put the electrician down, Yautja. You are from an _honorable culture._ ”

The Yautja drops the—electrician, apparently—on the floor of the corridor. He snaps his head back to eye the third human, a woman slightly older than the brave, foolish one. He knows her, vaguely, having seen her come into his cell in the past during one of the Im-Gen’s feedings.

Doctor Garcia is surprisingly short when he can stand and not be _forcibly restrained to a table_ to look at her. She is middle-aged, not yet at the cusp of thirty but walking the fine line. Her skin is sickly white, as if it has never kissed a star's light. Her eyes are cold and gray, repulsed yet hinting at the slight fear radiating off her form. Her hair is long, black, and pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. She has a bulky protective suit on, but no longer wears the large mask encompassing the head. H’chak makes a note of the bags under her eyes and the tension in her posture. She does not trust him; _good_.

He clicks at her in acknowledgement. She is a cold but brave fool. The three humans are at astounding odds with each other’s personalities, each standing out in their own way and making him want to rip their skulls through their flesh.

“I know you understand this tongue. I was present during the feedings in which you and the Synthetic specimen communicated,” her knowledge of that provides aggravating insight into the human’s mind. She is a smart, cold, brave _fool_. Perhaps semi-decent prey if he had no equipment. He growls at her words; Garcia’s eyes remain distant and frigid toward him. “My name is Louanne Garcia. I am an M.D. formerly charged with overseeing the Synthetic specimen at Stargazer’s Tucson Research Center. _Formerly_ —As you have noticed—We are no longer present in that facility.”

“They blew it up,” the brave-foolish human utters from the side. “Along with a chunk of Arizona.”

“I’m sorry!” The teary, blubbery human—electrician—speaks through the bawling. “I thought—I _thought_ I killed it—I was sure I did!”

H’chak’s growl silences both humans.

Garcia inhales deeply. She is calmer than the others, but the fear wafts through the air. It gets his blood pumping; he yearns for a good Hunt and to rip a Bad Blood’s skull from its head. The doctor’s words do little to curve his bloodlust, “—You owe me a debt, Yautja.”

He cannot _not_ laugh. It is comical, all of it, far better than any of his clan’s greatest jokes! The soft prey believes he has reason to owe himself to her. This time, H’chak lets the translator on his device activate and speak for him. His mind automatically inputs the words to say, each coming out in a monotonous voice.

“No debts will be paid.” The translator echoes back.

Garcia growls, fierce but not fierce enough, it is clear she is growing more nervous by the second. The doctor strides up to him—very foolish, this one, just like the other—and jabs his arm. “Who do you think _cut out the bullets?_ Kept you from bleeding out? That Synthetic? _Tch_. I cooperated with _her_ and kept you _alive_ and now you owe me, Yautja. Do you have honor, or not?”

His hiss is menacing and dangerous, enough that the short human steps back and shuts up. In his mind—It makes sense. There is no possibility—maybe a very tiny one—that the Im-Gen could do everything by herself. She is not powerful. If anything, he could snap her in two. The doctor’s assistance, given the context of her position and her medical training, points toward the very conclusion he just found amusing. The Yautja seethes where he stands. His fists tense. Garcia takes another step back but keeps her gaze on him.

The translator does not voice his agitation, keeping its robotic output neutral as it echoes his thoughts. “—You are owed one debt. Soft meat.”

“Them, too,” and Garcia’s words click in his head, the hunter suddenly understanding just why she spoke up at all as she points to the teary human and her fellow fool. Both humans eye him warily. Garcia’s words are cold. “One of them repaired your equipment that allowed the other specimen to call this ship. Their name is _Ivon_. The other—Jo; she assisted transporting your body unto this ship when Ivon and I could not. You owe each of us a debt, Yautja. Are you one of honor?”

“I am.” The translator reacts instinctively.

“Then I’ll ask you to kindly _cease strangling_ my fellow human and let us live until the debts are repaid.”

He decides, in that instance, she is not a fool. Garcia is soft meat with hard meat’s mind, scheming and looming in the shadows with her words and actions. If not for his sense of honor, for what little he has left, H’chak would sever her spine from the rest of her body on the spot. He is a man with honor. He is an Elite. His training demands that, even without Yautja to witness him, he acts in accordance with his duties and the values instilled in him since he was a suckling.

“Hello, H’chak. Greetings, Doctor Garcia. Ivon. Jo.” The telltale remarks come from the back of the segment, where the quarters cut off and the door to the medical bay is open. The figure that steps out is not a light-pink hue against dark, contrasting backgrounds. She is _silver,_ devoid of color beyond the gray hues across her form. H’chak makes a point not to reply; his patience runs thin as it is with the humans demanding _debt repayment._

“Thank God,” Ivon’s whisper is full of relief, the first to talk after a short silence comes across the hallway. The electrician slumps against the nearest door. “Finally—You’re up.”

“I am up, as up as I can be. Are you well, Ivon?” The words carry a pleasant, calm tone to them, and with that the agitating, strong aroma. Even at a distance—It entices him.

The electrician hiccups and wipes their eyes. They point at H’chak. H’chak’s growl makes them flinch. “He’s—Up. Don’t let him kill us, _please.”_

“H’chak. These three humans cooperated in allowing us to escape.” The voice draws closer, stopping next to Garcia a short bit away from him. There is a pause before Sundew inquires, “Is something the matter? You are staring at the ceiling—”

“I am staring at the ceiling.” The universal translator voices his thought before he can stop it. He curses in clicks and grabs at the back of it, fingers feeling out indentations and pressing the appropriate one. One of the sensors retract from his flesh and climbs back into the helmet, turning the translating system off.

“Yes. I see that.”

He begrudgingly looks down at her, pausing after. The problem-causing Im-Gen in front of him has put on the thermal bodysuit, just as requested, and the appropriate wrappings to go with it. It is a stark contrast, the dark hues of the mesh, the neutral grays of the wrappings, and the shiny, lustrous silver skin. 

He clicks twice at her, acknowledging her presence but not dawdling. His disgruntlement seems to be picked up on, as one of the humans— _Jo_ , the foolish and brave one—snorts and shakes her head. The Yautja hisses her into silence before he shifts his attention back to the Im-Gen nearby. At least—She is not _soft meat._ Soft, but not the soft prey like the three _oomans._ He intends to say something about _what happens next,_ about his hunt for the Bad Blood that brought him to Terra, but as he begins to click at her his eyes scale up and he finds clicks and mandibles escape him. H’chak forgets how to speak, momentarily lulled into a stupor of silence.

“I do not know how the pods function in your medical bay, but if you require time in one…” The words go over his head, stopping once his hands land on her shoulders. He watches her tilt her head to one side, woefully oblivious to everything impeding his basic cognitive functions.

He did not know she had the face of a trophy. It was not visible when he relied on his thermal vision, going off a range of temperature-based colors versus the full spectrum his helmet grants him. Up close, peering at him, he can make out every slight transition from opaque to transparent. It is in her eyes: the clear cells, the _fake_ ones, give him a perfect glimpse of every bit of flesh and nerves laying beyond. The way the light falls naturally across her face—It casts shadows in the pockets of the eye sockets, visible thanks to the transparent quality of the fake organs. She has the face of a human skull, of a _trophy._ He has never seen anything like it before—not on a living creature, free of the mess of blood and marrow one cleans up before any polishing, carving, or shaping can be done.

He decides to release her before any of the humans can make comments that might force him to forego his honor. The Yautja turns away and walks into the cockpit, tapping a panel to the right of the pilot’s chair and prompting the door to the head of the ship to seal and lock. He sits in the chair, slumps backward, and begins cursing every expletive he knows in his home tongue. When he gets through the list, he turns on the translator and makes it voice each aloud. His ship continues to fly on autopilot, a divine serpent against the deep blues and whites of the sky and its clouds.

The faster he completes his Hunt—And repays his debts—The faster he can leave the humans somewhere _alive_ , dump the Im-Gen on Saturn, and return to Clan Gahn’tha-cte with a fresh skull for his trophy rooms; it sounds simple enough. H’chak lifts his head and marvels at Terra’s skies once more.

He can handle the four until then.


	9. the bad blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she begins her hike out of Ixpanpajul Natural Park, the Bad Blood wipes her sword clean and sheathes it at her waist. The pack of stolen gear is a heavy weight to carry but well worth the material to repair her own sivk’va-tai. Her stomach growls; her eyes gleam behind her mask, wondering what to indulge her palate in for supper. She has heard of a local dish called kak’ik, a rich soup with a hunk of a bird called turkey as the focal point. It makes her salivate. Her mandibles click together in want; a bowl of kak’ik sounds perfect after a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is better than a story with one yautja? A STORY WITH T W O YAUTJA.

The clang of metal grinding against metal comes to an end in the middle of Ixpanpajul Natural Park. The long spear-like weapon goes sailing through the air and embeds in a tree; mere steps away, happening at the same time, the masked Yautja hefts up a long, gleaming sword and clicks in dissatisfaction at her foe. The latter is a mess of copious green blood, a light against the darkness of the park’s nighttime.

Overhead, suspension bridges stretch across the forest canopy, but no soft meat walks the pathways tonight. She would not let the Arbitrator chase her to the trees if there was concern soft meat might stumble upon the sight. The dishonored warrior throws her sword in the air, catching it after the blade twists to point down. She holds it upside down in her right glove, fingers tense on its elegant yet lethal grip. The green glow of blood paints the edges of its blade; she makes a point to wipe it off on the armored kilt she dons while she waits for a response.

The Arbitrator howls at her, snarling and hissing worse than any snake she has found on _Terra._ Even without his mask, even without the plasmacaster on his left pauldron intact, he continues to defy her until the end. It is an honorable cause but not one bound for a long life. She makes her intent known as she walks over, kneels, and hefts the bleeding Yautja up by his long, bloodied locs. The fleshy tendrils have come undone, with a few personally cut off at her hand that evening. She does not mean to _offend_ him, but in the same breath her tolerance for his clan grows thin.

 _“How?”_ It is a pained, agonizing growl. The hate simmers through his vocal cords. He tries to grab at the sword, to remove her hands, but she has already exhausted him in their dark dance.

The question gives her pause. Her eyes flicker at his left wrist, where the opposing Yautja’s computer box has yet to begin beeping. She anticipates the self-destruct sequence activating shortly. The huntress looks back at the face of her hunter; she finds it in herself to give him an answer as his last rites, a final request before the warrior is claimed in the name of Cetanu. Vayuh’ta rises to her feet and holds the defeated Yautja up by his hair. In the other hand—her sword caresses the man’s neck, easily slicing through armored mesh as if it is no more than lard.

“Before I was a _lou-dte kale_ —I was like you,” the huntress _seethes_ in her words, matching the other warrior’s hate in her own wrath and bitterness. She picks her words carefully, praying every last syllable is sent back through the hunter’s ship to his home clan. “Breathing… as you do. Training—As you do. _Fucking as you do._ Living the life of glory—And honor—I sought to spread my seed as you have! Hunt as you have! Look at me, _kv’var-de._ Look at my _mask._ ”

She enjoys the flutter of fear to come in his dark eyes. One day—She will wear the same expression, helpless and at the mercy of another. That day is not today.

“You trained under—a _Mei-hswei?”_ The Yautja clicks and snarls, beginning to convulse and writhe against her. She drops him to the forest floor and slams a foot into his bleeding chest. The blood gushes out anew and he howls in agony. “But you are—”

“Your disbelief is dishonorable, _kv’var-de._ I trained under a _mei-hswei._ I claimed my honor through the slaying of _r’ka._ But I am a _lou-dte kale_ now, sirer of pups, the _kv’var-de_ of hard meat, and I send you off in the name of the Black Hunter. _That is my honor._ Tell me, Arbitrator, _where is yours?”_ Vayuh’ta’s words accompany the twitch of her hand on her sword. She straddles the warrior, uses one hand to wrench his head backward, and positions her Elder blade.

The hunter’s eyes blaze angrily once more. _“Ell-osde pauk.”_

He does not understand—None of them will, not until she has proven herself again, and again, and again, until they acknowledge she is _right_ and her words are true.

The self-destruct sequence activates automatically once the wrist-computer registers the other warrior has ceased vital signs. Vayuh’ta makes quick work defusing it. She takes her time cutting into the beheaded Yautja’s flesh, stripping him of his mesh armor and broken equipment, removing and crushing the skull, and methodically cutting the cadaver into smaller chunks for the natural fauna to feast upon. By the time the sun rises over Flores, Guetamala, the Bad Blood has taken the steps necessarily to pack up what she intends to take as trophies and hidden the rest. The body will become part of the planet’s natural biosphere, incorporated into the diets of one of the dozens of intriguing species flocked in the canopies, climbing the trees, or crawling the ground below.

As she begins her hike out of Ixpanpajul Natural Park, the Bad Blood wipes her sword clean and sheathes it at her waist. The pack of stolen gear is a heavy weight to carry but _well_ worth the material to repair her own _sivk’va-tai._ Her stomach growls; her eyes gleam behind her mask, wondering what to indulge her palate in for supper. She has heard of a local dish called kak’ik, a rich soup with a hunk of a bird called _turkey_ as the focal point. It makes her salivate. Her mandibles click together in want; a bowl of _kak’ik_ sounds perfect after a long night.

* * *

The words are as detached as they expect them to be.

“I do not understand the emotional attachment to this hypothetical,” Sundew continues staring at the ceiling as she speaks.

Trying to talk to the alien is as easy as talking to a brick wall; even if _they_ know what they want to say, and even if the alien experiences the same spectrum of emotions, it appears Sundew is far from grasping the intricacies plaguing their mind. Her tone is polite but neutral, holding no insight and giving them zero comfort opposed to blank observations.

“It’s,” Ivon holds their tongue. They recognize how futile it is—trying to bond with an extraterrestrial—but the human is equally stubborn. They rub the back of their head and join Sundew in staring at the ceiling, noting the identical set of twelve light fixtures offering a strange glow of soft but illuminating yellow to the hall. The thirty-seven-year-old exhales sharply. “Look—Do—Does your species ever _dream?_ ”

“Dream?” The Synthetic lifts a silvery hand, gleaming just like one might a silver-sterling knife. She taps her chin. Her gaze doesn’t shift from the ceiling.

“Well, humans dream. A lot—”

“I am aware of what dreams are, Ivon.” Sundew interrupts them. “I am unable to recall if my kind is known for experiencing the same dream-states. I know it is rare for us to… _sleep._ We rarely partake in indulgent behaviors of that nature unless the hive calls for it, or our physical compositions mimic the sleep cycles of other lifeforms.”

 _So… she… wouldn’t understand. Great._ The person bites their lip. Out of everyone on the spacecraft—They can admit the silver humanoid is the least intimidating after Jo. But at this moment, they recall their human friend yelling at them for interrupting her yoga exercises. How she and Garcia can focus on anything besides the terrifying abomination that is reality remains beyond Ivon.

For the past eight nights, seven since the aliens woke up but eight since leaving their old life behind in the remains of the Stargazer Tucson Research Center, Ivon has been plagued with terrible nightmares. They did not want to acknowledge it at first, going out of their way to provoke insomnia and trying desperately to stay up to cruel and asinine hours, but they know they cannot put off confronting the past forever. It is a fresh, gaping wound they try shamefully to put a band-aid over, only for it to soak and overflow in relived trauma. The hours of that fated morning shift, ensnared in terror, helplessness, and adrenaline, replays whenever they close their eyes.

They escaped. They were _lucky_. Most of the people—humans, parents, workers, people with families, relatives, friends, hopes, dreams, goals—inside the blast radius did not share their luck. According to the reports Tall Alien let the three humans listen to, the immediate casualties piled just shy of thirty thousand, with tens of thousands remaining unaccounted for and over a hundred thousand people suspected dead. They recall the news anchor describing it as the worst _nuclear and radiation accident_ in human history, with the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency publicly announcing the creation of a level eight classification in the International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale.

They lived. Most did not.

It does not feel like luck.

Ivon feels the weight in their chest grow heavy again, a sign of the guilt and remorse tearing at their insides. They excuse themself from Sundew’s ceiling-stares and back away, briefly tapping on Doctor Garcia’s quarters on the way. With no answer—they opt to go to “their” room. It is the last of the circular doors on the left-hand side of the hall. Ivon almost leaps out of their shoes when they hold up a hand and the door automatically slides open, disappearing into the wall. The lights in the room come on automatically, revealing the basic furnishings of their indefinite future.

Aliens have terrible notions of furniture, much less furniture for guests. The tall, hulking, scary one—they still cannot say his name, and apparently Garcia and Jo only butcher it on attempts—claims the rooms are _theirs_. Tall Alien expects them to sleep in giant, liquid-filled pods. The only other points of interest in the room are two sliding shelves which eject from the walls if they push the correct combination of nigh-identical indentations along the wall. The shelves offer the same mesh suit Tall Alien wears, but nothing else.

Likewise—The rest of the _quarters_ is just as barren and empty. The closest thing to a bathroom is a single, metal stall with a drain in the bottom and various spouts sticking out of the walls; each spout has their own indentation to the right and left. The left is _cold_ , the right is _also cold,_ and pushing both indents at the same time offers a small burst of hot liquid before the temperature drops again. They don’t think its water; the liquid has a strange green tint to it, translucent yet distinctly… _it._ Ivon decides not to play with it once they determine which indents and spouts offer a non-caustic substance.

“How am I supposed to make this place mine? How am I supposed to do anything?” They feel their shoulders slump at the thought of messing with spouts again. They fear the day may come where a case of the runs strikes their poor digestion tract; the food Tall Alien showed them, in what Ivon since dubbed the _Kitchen,_ remains dry and bland, utterly tasteless no matter how many times Tall Alien growls at the humans. If they contract alien runs, they hope it takes them from the mortal plane painlessly and quickly.

Ivon knows it is time to find Jo or Garcia to root them in reality when they stop and realize they’ve deliberated on the hypothetical existence of alien shits for the past two minutes. They shudder in disgust and leave their room quickly, the door automatically sliding shut on the way out.

They feel relief surge in their gut at the sight of Jo crouched next to one silvery Synthetic, nodding diligently to the alien’s remarks. When the human spies Ivon, the woman pats Sundew on the shoulder, straightens upright, and walks over.

She gestures at them to follow her to the med bay, not bothering to speak until the two are safely sectioned in a segment away from the extraterrestrial life. “You know flower power there’s been staring at the _ceiling_ three fucking hours?”

“Hard to miss.”

“I’ve made it a point to ask her on the hour, _every hour_ , why she keeps staring at the ceiling. You wanna know what she tells me?” The former guard rubs the back of her neck. Her coiled black hair is slightly longer than when they first met.

Ivon gladly takes the bait, mind latching unto anything that could get their head off alien digestive habits. “Probably the same thing she told me? Missing something on the ceiling?”

 _“Exactly,”_ Jo curses under her breath and stops at the medical pods. She leans against one and crosses her arms. “We’re on an alien ship! She’s interested in the _lights._ You’re a techie and I don’t see you hanging around ogling electrical fixtures. _”_

“I mean,” the electrician hesitates when Jo’s brown eyes return to their form. They shrug amicably. “She was weird about the flashlights at Stargazer. Garcia would know if any of it was used in her containment procedures. Maybe it reminds her of it.”

“There’s the problem, techie. Garcia knows this! Garcia knows that! Garcia’s a fucking bitch sometimes; try talking to the woman about Flower Power and see where it gets you.” Jo pushes herself upright and huffs.

“Should I?” Ivon frowns. “I’ve been meaning to ask her about... Uh. I _was_ on medications before this mess. I need to figure out how to get more.”

“Can’t hurt. Hey, if I get in one of these pods, can you make sure it hasn’t turned me to human pot pie in an hour? I’m curious what they’re like. I know we shoved tall alien and flower power in here, but… I don’t know. It looks peaceful.” For a moment—The woman’s brown eyes dim, and her smile dissipates. Her lips part, heavy with a thousand unspoken words, but like Ivon needs to keep their mind off nightmares—They see Jo has something to keep her thoughts from.

They wonder if she left behind a family, or if she was alone in the world.

“I can do that.” Ivon fakes their best smile. They try to look confident, knowing it is but one of the many facades the two humans share in their new lives.

* * *

A human can be recognized by the sound of their footsteps. The gait in the person walking up to her is familiar to her synthetic ears; Sundew does not break line of sight with the ceiling as she hears Doctor Garcia stop feet short of her. The Synthetic is courteous in addressing her. “—Greetings, Doctor Garcia. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

If the doctor is annoyed—She cannot tell. Her gaze is focused solely on the ceiling. She has been staring at it, blinking intermittently, for hours on hours across the past six days. The ceiling offers no new knowledge no matter her persistence. It does not agitate her, but she briefly considers imitating a human’s exasperated sigh. She feels compelled to know _why._

“I would inquire into the status of your diligent ceiling-search, but I’m afraid I have no interest in the matter. I’ve been busy,” The woman is detached from her words much in the same way Sundew is toward the emotions of others. “I need to run an experiment with you. I’ll be brief; you can return to eyeballing ceilings after.”

Sundew briefly considers denying her the opportunity. She and Garcia are not friends; she does not believe anyone on the spacecraft is her friend. It is unfortunate. She would like to be _friends_ with some people. She would like the honor of calling H’chak a friend, but the Yautja has slowly made it more and more obvious he has _zero_ interest in comradery. His time spent outside the cockpit is minimal, he does not talk to her more than what is necessary, and he has not demonstrated any initiative to share precious knowledge or insights on his clan.

 _I did not assist him in escaping the facility with the expectation he would give up data on his clan and the Yautja species in return. It was not a contractual obligation._ She reminds herself, reflecting once more on her reasoning for any of her original actions. _I was worried about you, H’chak. I had… I felt…_

She does not know the right word to use. The Synthetic speaks as she continues her stare at the ceiling, “How may I assist you, Doctor Garcia?”

“Extend your palm to me.”

She does so, not breaking line of sight with the corridor’s ceiling. Sundew does not turn to the doctor as the latter plucks something from her head and holds it over the Synthetic’s palm.

“…Sundew.” There is a deep resentment in the doctor’s words when she draws back. It sounds like it should be dissatisfactory, but Garcia makes no comment about an unsuccessful experiment. Sundew remains staring at the ceiling, watching it intently while the doctor rattles off from the side, “—You know about _drosera._ The… genera known best for its sundew plants. A carnivorous group known for their mucilage glands which secrete a thick, gluey substance to ensnare prey in.”

“I have been called a _carnivorous bitch_ in reference to this plant. Yes, I am aware of its properties.” The Synthetic replies.

Garcia pauses. “Do you know about the _Nepenthaceae_ or _Sarraceniaceae_ families?”

“I do not recall information of them at this time, though I believe my hive contains records of flora across this planet.”

“Expected,” she grunts under her breath. The doctor straightens upright where she stands. “Sundew, the families mentioned—They are well-known in certain fields of studies for… How might I put it? Having members of its family… what people know as _pitcher plants._ Carnivorous species who exhibit pitfall traps in naturally forming organic depressions. It is a fascinating thing to witness; some of these plants grow large enough to lure small animals. It is not unheard of for one to digest lizards and amphibious life, even mammals of appropriate size.”

“I do not find the name _Pitcher Plant_ appealing as I do _Sundew._ ” The Synthetic states blankly.

Garcia growls. “I was not suggesting that, Synthetic—”

“Sundew,” she corrects.

 _“Sundew.”_ The doctor speaks the word with sheer distaste. Garcia crosses her arms, visible in the alien’s peripheral. “I thought you would take an interest in learning about it. You have many things in common.”

“Are they referred to as _carnivorous bitches_ by medical personnel?” Sundew tilts her head to one side, but her gaze remains locked on the ceiling. She does not pose any hostility in her tone, merely stating the words as they are.

“Maybe they should be.” Garcia means to speak it under breath, as she visibly recoils when Sundew begins to imitate a human laugh. The doctor tenses and huffs. “You are not _right,_ Synthetic—"

“I am not left, either.” Sundew dismisses her words. “Are you finished, Doctor Garcia? I am in the middle of something I intend to see play out.”

“The _ceiling.”_

“It is imperative I continue my work, Doctor Garcia,” The alien’s gaze narrows on the ceiling. “I must make sure I am not missing anything.”

* * *

It is because the Yautja specimen stared at the ceiling days ago. The doctor understands now; she sees it plain-as-day, as obvious as the sky is blue. Garcia grits her teeth where she stands; even idle, the Synthetic specimen proves to be a point of aggravation.

 _A dangerous one._ The doctor reminds herself, inhaling deeply and calming herself. She must retain her resolve. She finds the Synthetic specimen incredibly subtle at what she does, a coy and calculated predator stalking and baiting prey. Garcia has zero intentions to wind up the same as James Heinrich; his death continues to hang over her mind. He is a prime example of what happens to humans attempting to familiarize themselves with otherworldly entities.

She needs to rally the other two humans and discuss their plans going forward.

* * *

Floating in a medical pod full of dark liquid is less exciting than she anticipated. The woman lasts minutes before she grows tired of sitting in _stuff_ and decides to tap on the glass hatch. It pops up with a click; the floor of the pod rises and lifts her to the hatch. When she climbs out—Jo sees the mess of dark liquid splattering on the floor, dripping off her soaked clothes and falling off her skin. It is less pleasant in the light. She makes her grimace known as she sits on the ground and leans her back against the pod; she does not feel cold despite being soaked to the bone.

 _I wish I was._ The woman thinks, brown eyes dimming. Being cold would give her something to focus on. The last thing she wants at that moment is to let her thoughts wander to every fucked-up thing gone on the past eight days, much less to her life before _that._

She doesn’t see the electrician; they are probably off tinkering with the tall alien’s shit again. Jo wishes she had half the guts to mess with the tall alien’s ship; she is curious, but she fears pissing off the clearly volatile lifeform. His temper has been seen once nigh murdering the poor electrician—She does _not_ want those hands on her. It is a complicated balance, curiosity of the unknown against the fear of the same thing. The woman scratches her head, short dreadlocks squelching under her touch from the liquid falling from them.

In retrospect, the pod was a bad idea. She has only seen the mesh bodysuit in “her” quarters, and it does not look warm. She is not cold, even soaked, but she is still wet. Being wet in an alien ship is disconcerting; Jo huffs and attempts to swipe droplets of the pod’s liquid off her skin. She can just imagine what Tonya would tell her if her big sister was there. The woman would be in arms, of laughter at the hilarity of the scene and anger Jo got herself in that position in the first place. No doubt—Tonya would try and baby her to the moon and back, tearing the alien ship apart to find the closest thing to towels.

She misses her. She misses her entire family—Even her baby brother, with his nerdy references she never understands. Devon would, at the least, provide adequate entertainment between the groans of the other two humans on the ship and his nonstop puns. He would probably know how to sweet-talk Flower Power and Tall Alien to let ‘em all go. Jo smiles faintly; she knows her brother would never let her live it down, but she would accept the terms and conditions of _that_ contract in a heartbeat.

She doubts she will see any of them again—If they are even alive.

The Tall Alien gave the three access to radio reports. She wishes the alien hadn’t. Hearing the loss of life as a result of Stargazer Corporation detonating thermonuclear explosives below the research center—It continues to repeat in her head, filling her thoughts every evening and many other moments of the days. She mouths the suspected body count under her breath, chest aching in acknowledgement at the horror of it all. _One. Hundred. Thirty. Thousand._

In her head—She says it so easily, syllables clear and enunciated as if humanity did not just suffer a catastrophe at the hands of her former employer. 

In her head—She finds the thought is quick to flit away, returning to the depths of her mind until ready to remind her and drag her kicking and screaming back to reality.

In her head—She hurts in a way she has yet to feel since the loss of her parents at twelve, stolen by a person who had one too many in their system.

In her head—She knows she must keep going, she knows she is still _alive,_ but it doesn’t feel like it.

She wonders if the other humans feel the same.

The sound of the door intercepting the fuselage segment of living quarters and the medical bay opening fills her ears. She looks up in time to catch sight of Doctor Garcia striding into the room. Jo forces herself to smile, voice narrowly managing not to crack under her own mental stress. “—What’s up, doc?”

“Where is the electrician?” Louanne Garcia speaks in a voice that is _far_ too detached for her to ever feel comfortable around. Ironic, when the other options are choices between anxious electrician, homicidal Tall Alien, and ceiling-obsessed Flower.

“Kitchen. There’s a lift to the lower level at the other end of the… living quarters hall? If we can call it that. I dunno.” The twenty-six-year-old grunts and pushes herself to her feet. She shakes her hair out and crosses her arms, attempting to look the picture of composure and calm she can only dream of.

“Come,” Garcia states the word and gestures at her to follow. “I need to speak to the two of you _alone.”_

Jo feels a defiant kick inside her gut. Part of her detests the way the doctor holds herself, keeping the snobby, elitist persona she held in the facility. The other part of Jo is too tired to care; the weight of the past days events wears on her. She curses under her breath—the doctor doesn’t pick up on her displeasure, shame—but follows Garcia back to the _living quarters hall._ Flower Power is sitting where she was prior to Jo climbing into a medical pod; if the alien wasn’t an alien capable of alien things, Jo cannot help but question if the two might get along. As it stands—She does not have it in her to trust Flower Power, not yet. The Synthetic unnerves her in a way, even if she feels more inclined to put her life in the alien’s hands over Garcia’s.

 _The mimicking. Yeah, that’d do it. That’s the fucking problem._ Jo wants to grimace, but she retains her bored look when Garcia and her pass Flower Power. At the end of the corridor, right where the fuselage segment links with the cockpit door, is a three-by-three-foot circle on the right-hand side. Garcia steps on it first: it drops her instantly down a shaft before closing again. Jo finds herself holding her breath when she steps unto the “lift.”

It is a lift going up—But going down is another question. She cannot hold back her yelp when she drops into a chute of warm air, a pleasant but sudden change from the stale corridor temperature. The woman is suddenly dropped from the chute into the room below, landing on a three-by-three-foot circle on the right-hand-side of the empty chamber. It is a room with nothing to its name aside from long indentations across the walls and edges of the floors. The floor is made of an almost rubbery material that pushes back when her weight rests on it, providing cushioning from whatever is below. The ceiling has the same pale-yellow lights offering meager visibility.

The room connecting directly to the impromptu nicknamed Rubber Room is the kitchen. It is the only place of familiarity, with furniture not unlike modern-day, western kitchens, though for a species much larger than any of the humans. Sitting at one of the chairs adjacent of bar counter is Ivon; they have a plate of the dry tack-like substance Tall Alien gave all three humans days back. Jo flashes an apologetic smile at the person when they look over their shoulder and spot Garcia approaching with her in tow.

* * *

“I thought I didn’t have a fucking boss anymore.” Jo’s words reflect the annoyance Ivon feels.

Garcia tilts her head to one side. It is eerily similar to the Synthetic’s habits, but Ivon does not see the woman exhibit any curiosity opposed to blatant irritation at the other woman’s words. “…I am not your _boss._ I am not claiming to be your boss. I am not claiming to be a leader. I am asking the two of you for your time.”

“You have it. Not sure how much time any of us have, but. I mean. We’re here, aren’t we?” Ivon mumbles softly. Their brown eyes return to the plate in front of them, laden to the brim with a heavy slab of hardened, gruel-colored _stuff._ Edible stuff, but _stuff_ nonetheless.

“The specimens.” Garcia does not shy from the subject. She remains standing while Jo grumbles in her seat left of Ivon. “I understand we are in a situation forcing our hand and thrusting reliance of basic needs upon their backs—But I do not think the two of you understand the severity of our… companions.”

“No, trust me, I understand _more_ than enough,” Ivon pushes the plate of gruel-colored stuff across the bar counter, no longer hungry.

Jo snorts. “I think we all saw Flower Power at the facility. She got tackled by that asshole. X-12?”

“The xenomorph,” Garcia elaborates.

“The _xenomorph,_ doctor.” Jo props herself up on her elbow and eyes Garcia, shifting her body and chair to face the doctor. “I saw it happen. She also made a shit ton electricity fry me _and_ that thing. Was a fucking _blast.”_

Ivon does not miss the sarcasm. Neither does Garcia, if the black-haired woman’s leer is anything to go off.

“Please, just,” They do not like the tension growing in the room. Ivon clears their throat. “Please—Just. Let’s hear her out, Jo. Doctor Garcia—Please go on and… Talk. Yeah.”

“As you two know, I am Louanne Garcia. During my time at our former employer’s workplace, I was responsible for overseeing one of six hostile specimens housed at the Stargazer Tucson Research Center,” the woman does not hesitate to begin, her voice neat and orderly as she looks to the side. Her gray eyes are a dark, tempered mess. “…Prior to my position as the Synthetic’s main medical personnel, I was one of the personnel assigned to a nonhostile specimen. I did not have access to the extent of the Predator specimen’s file.”

“No shit. None of us did.” Jo grunts under her breath, looking annoyed when Garcia snaps her head at her. _“What?_ I know how these places run. I’ve worked security for two years, doctor. There’s a chain of command you go through for each one. Stargazer kept _that_ under lock and key—”

Garcia finally takes a seat, opting for the seat adjacent Ivon’s right side. “Do you always interrupt your peers, Jo?”

“Only when they piss me off.”

“What have _I_ done to piss you off?” The woman snaps, voice ice-cold in a second. “You are frustrated with the state of things— _We all are._ I have already intervened to keep the Predator specimen from slaughtering all three of us. What have I done to ruin your day more than Stargazer or these specimens already have?”

Jo does not answer. Ivon bites their lip.

An uneasy silence falls across the three, with Garcia being the first to break it up and continue. “—I am… My name is Louanne Garcia. I am a doctor. I work to keep people _alive_ and I am trying to keep the three of us _humans_ alive.”

“Fine.” The other woman huffs. She shoves her chair back and throws her legs and feet up on the bar counter. Ivon sees dark liquid droplets fall off, likely from the medical pod.

 _Can’t believe you actually… That would horrify me._ They keep the thought to themself.

“I do not know _much_ about the Predator specimen—But I am willing to share what I know. It is imperative the three of us remain on the same page when dealing with these aliens,” Garcia drums her fingers on the bar counter, gloved hand dwarfed by the contrasting obsidian-black material. “The Predator specimen is regarded as one of humanity’s greatest threats. There is evidence pointing to the specimen’s species contacting humanity as far back as three-thousand B-C, if not farther.”

Jo whistles softly from the side. Her previous frustration appears to have dissipated in favor of surreal fascination, perhaps the same twisted curiosity that has Ivon’s attention staying on the doctor to their right.

“They are… Strong. Stronger than the three of us, easily. Even if the three of us possessed firearms and the Predator specimen was unarmed—We cannot overpower that creature. It is impossible. We have to outplay it—”

“He,” Ivon frowns. They feel their face flush at two sets of eyes landing on them. The person swallows their nerves and repeats. _“He._ That’s how—Sundew refers to him. He. If she can understand him—I think she’s correct.”

“He. My apology.” Garcia states.

“Apologize to Tall Alien, why don’t you?” Jo huffs.

“If that would make the three of us cooperate…”

“It was a—Nevermind. Nevermind.” Jo looks away. “Sorry for interrupting you, doctor.”

“As I said—We cannot overpower that particular specimen. We can… manipulate him. I already have, if you recall his initial attempts at murdering you, electrician,” Garcia meets Ivon’s eyes with a stormy gray look. “Predators are from an ‘honorable culture.’ Certain cultural customs must be abided at threat of death. I do not know all of them, but I understand there is one regarding the matter of debts. Predators must repay debts to keep their honor. As long as this Predator owes each of us a debt—He shouldn’t harm us.”

“You really believe that?” Jo blurts out the words, eyes wide at the thought. “How the _hell_ do we keep him indebted to us?”

“Independence, I presume. The nature of a debt entails paying one back with what is equal or greater in worth to the debt itself, determined by the one whom the debt is owed. I am obliged to believe he views each of us as… prey. But,” Garcia shuts her eyes. “He believes us… _prey…_ have kept him alive. The debt is worth his life. We must maintain that status quo; do not take any actions that require his aid and can be interpreted as him fulfilling the debt’s requirements.”

“Play it smart. Shit.” Jo curses softly. The woman moves her feet off the counter and sits upright.

“Precisely,” Garcia nods.

“Do you think we could,” Ivon hesitates to ask. They feel their face flush in embarrassment when the two women look at them, Garcia with expectation. They run a hand through their hair. “I mean—Since she knows how to communicate with him—Can we just ask Sundew about this? About debts in Yautja society? She should know, right?”

Garcia slams a fist on the counter, snapping and snarling at the person. “Absolutely _not._ You do not engage with the Synthetic specimen! Don’t approach her! Don’t talk to her! Pretend she doesn’t _exist_ —”

The reaction takes Ivon aback. They know Garcia holds strong disgust for the aliens, but to see it personify right before them is disturbing. They see the tension in Garcia’s fist, curled up and clenched tight as it shakes against the counter. To their left, they spot Jo raising both brows and eying Garcia warily. The repulsion Garcia displays feels visceral.

It scares them.

* * *

The two don’t understand! None of them, _neither_ , when they are supposed to be her allies! Fellow _humans!_ They are naïve, clueless fools, bumbling about with two predators higher on the food chain! Pretending everything is _fine!_ Garcia wants to rip her hair out; she doesn’t understand why either of the two are eager to dissuade her from taking _precautions._

She cannot help but seethe in her chair, seeing nothing but red a long moment before her vision clears. The doctor inhales deeply and forces her emotions to taper off and subside; she must be calm. She will be calm. She will not let the Synthetic affect her. She will _not_ become another James Heinrich.

Louanne Garcia leans back in her seat, composed once more. She looks over at her two human companions, yearning desperately for some sort of magical switch that would show the two the truth of the other inhabitants of the ship.

“Earlier,” she relents in divulging her recent discovery, speaking with a sincerity uncommon to her. “I conducted an experiment with… _Sundew._ Using a strand of my hair—I had her palm facing away from it. When the hair was in proximity with her hand it…” The woman grits her teeth. She does not want to acknowledge the spike of fear that climbs her spine, plucking at her nerves like guitars of a string. She is not meant to be _afraid;_ she is meant to be the composed face of logic for a trio of insignificant humans surrounded by predators.

But she is afraid. She is so, so afraid. She has struggled to sleep in the corner of her quarters, too fearful of the Predator specimen charging through the door or the Synthetic engulfing her like it had the personnel of Incident S-1, or the poor woman who found the Synthetic’s crash site following her initial entry into the atmosphere. Her disgust at the Synthetic can only be challenged by her disgust at herself, the hate every bit justified and deserving.

 _I did not put myself through years of shit to die to extraterrestrial abominations._ The doctor seethes at the thought. _Get ahold of yourself, Louanne. You must live. You promised to make something of yourself! You promised!_

“The hair moved. Slightly—But I observed it shift,” the doctor’s shoulders slump. She exhales sharply and shakes her head. “There is a reason she is _sundew._ She exhibits traits of carnivorous plants—Of organisms that lure prey in under the guise of something else. It happened with three personnel at the research center. The most prominent case involved James Heinrich, the original doctor overseeing her medical personnel—”

“Didn’t he resign? Get moved? He stopped showing up one day. I heard he went off on the Synthetic—" Jo frowns and ceases speaking when Doctor Garcia holds up her hand.

The woman hisses softly. “He was terminated over contamination concerns following the Incident S-1. The Synthetic specimen consumed his blood and gained knowledge privy to his level of clearance. According to other personnel interviewed, Doctor Heinrich displayed an increasing obsession toward the specimen after Incident S-1. A possessiveness he was not known for.”

“…You think Sundew had something to do with it.” Jo purses her lips. Her brows furrow.

Garcia nods. “I believe I know how. You said it yourself, Jo. You felt electricity when the xenomorph… _tackled_ her into you?”

“I did,” the other woman frowns.

“She is producing electrical charges when others are in her proximity. Not significant ones—They are subtle. Invisible. Unseen. I am of the opinion she has been doing this since she was first placed within the Stargazer Corporation’s custody.” The doctor exhales and leans back against her chair. “You two have felt it, haven’t you? You’ve been… drawn. It is the Synthetic’s pull. She’s a carnivorous lifeform. I would go so far to say it is the nature of all her kind—They want to attract prey. They want us to be drawn in so they can…” Garcia makes a point of snapping up and slamming on the counter. Ivon jumps.

“I have yet to see her eat anything,” The electrician says softly. “I don’t think she… needs food. Like us.”

The doctor agrees with a nod, a surprisingly thoughtful look coming over her face. “No, she does not. It is not _food_ in the sense humans understand it. She feeds on something else.”

Jo and Ivon look at the other.

“Memories. She feeds on the experiences and perspectives of others. And right now—I believe that is exactly what she is doing to the Predator specimen onboard this ship. Luring that creature in so she can…” The doctor trails off, point made. Her gray eyes dim. “If the Predator specimen mirrors the obsessive tendencies and violence that befell Doctor Heinrich—I doubt any of us will survive the encounter.”


	10. i am not worthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw there is mention of suicide  
> not super graphic but it takes place during the conversation in the medical bay

The initial crash-landing into what he now knows as the former Stargazer Tucson Research Center has not left his beloved _Kukulkan_ unscathed. During the initial seven days following regaining consciousness, the Elite hunter is quick to begin assessing damage and determining what can realistically be repaired.

He does not have access to the proper materials for the most extensive damage. His poor, divine ship has suffered major damage across the hull of the fuselage segments, damaging not only his communication relays but also the tracking systems used to aid Hunters. Due to the length of time passed since his initial capture and his recent escape, H’chak knows repairing the tracking systems is essential to complete his Hunt. Unfortunately, he cannot access the materials required for repairing the machinery without going into orbit and accessing a nearby star system’s raw resources. _Terra_ lacks in the required elements.

 _That_ is where the severity of the problem falls together like one _cjit_ puzzle. He needs to contact a clan ship for assistance repairing the _Kukulkan._ Getting the communication relays back online is essential to the tracking system, and the tracking system is a requirement if he has any hope of hunting his prey down—should they remain alive. H’chak knows there is the possibility someone else has since completed his initial assignment; he doubts his clan believes he lives after the time passed, not in what has been not _quite_ a full human cycle but slowly climbing up there.

He _wants_ his prey to be alive, if only to retain his honor and complete his hunt. He does not have anything else to strive toward. Ever since the _Challenging,_ his clan has made a point to scorn him regardless his rank. The _h’chak_ shown by his fellow _kv’var-de_ is far from what he knows Gahn’tha-cte-Guan intended for him. He was given life, but at what cost? The price of his reputation? The trophies in his clan rooms— _Worthless_ when the women of his clan—the men of his clan, too, the entire lot—care little because of his failures. He could not defeat Guan, and Guan knew precisely where to make the deepest cut, spill the most blood, soil the most honor without taking his head. His original Hunt was to regain a fraction of that honor, pride, _reputation_ , and begin his climb back to the good graces his position informally held.

He was once respected. He was once looked up to. He knows he can attain those heights again if his prey lives, if the head is his for the taking, if, if, _if_ …

 _There’s nothing left for me. Nothing but that._ The Yautja growls at the cockpit window, seething in frustration at himself.

He hates Guan. Ikthya-De, too, though he would show her the respect scum of her kind do not deserve. The two are the perfect pair in that way: cruel, manipulative, yet equally matched in the composure they exhibit and the influence they hold over the rest of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. _He_ is the fool for thinking Yautja of their rank and prowess could view him differently. _He_ is the naïve, stumbling bloke who lost to a rusty _kv’var-de._

Part of him still aches over it. The humiliation simmers in his stomach, rising and washing over him in a surging tidal wave. If he did not owe a debt—The others on his ship would already be dead, tossed to the elements while he debates his next steps forward. His patience was once far more tolerable, but that was back when he was given the prestige and acknowledgement an _Elite_ deserves. That was another time. He is not a man of fear, but for a moment—the briefest of one, the tiniest sliver of a second—he feels he is one, that he cannot reclaim his former glory.

He does not understand why Guan did it. Why the man he called _mei’hswei,_ brother, stabbed the metaphorical knife through his back. There were many ways Guan could have approached the situation, settled the matter, gone through existing channels in a way that did not make such a grand and public spectacle—But he did not choose the paths available.

H’chak growls and cusses the world away, flopped in the pilot seat of his beloved ship, a cycle-old bottle of _c’ntlip_ in one hand. He has not opened it, not started down that cruel and forsaken path, but it tempts him. It calls for him. It beckons him to do as he once has and wash away the shame and humiliation in burning liquid fire. He contemplates it for a time, toying with the bottle in his hand while his mind racks the coals of deprecation and defeat.

He needs to finish his Hunt. It is all he has now, that and the expanse of blue sky across _Terra_ ’s atmosphere—

And the familiar smell of weak, _unworthy_ prey.

There are four of them. He does not want to address any of them. He has not, aside from ensuring they know where the food and water is located, rest of the ship be damned to their curiosity. He does not want to see their petrified faces or disgust. It reminds him too much of himself, his life, his shortcomings, and it makes him want to drink all over again. H’chak does not know which of the humans he finds most annoying, because each of the three are equally despondent and intrusive in their own way.

The brave-foolish one, Jo, is prone to loud conversations and arguments. She has a voice and she makes it known.

The cold-observant one, Louanne Garcia, is prone to schemes, to tricks, and to underhanded tactics to make her point or get her way.

The crying-fearful one, Ivon, cries and shrieks and blubbers too much. At least they show fear—One of the few attributes he does not mind, if only for the knowledge some species across the galaxies still fear him.

It does not escape his notice how often he overlooks the Im-Gen onboard his ship. There is and isn’t a purpose; his thoughts tend to take one of two extremes: zone her out or hyper fixate in the worst way possible. If he ignores her, he ignores her, and he can sustain the act long enough to finish whatever business he has outside the cockpit before locking himself back inside. If he notices her, his mind shuts off and things become increasingly more difficult until frustration kicks in and drags him back to reality. She both is, and is not, a terrible inconvenience for the Yautja to handle.

Part of him wants to kick her off the ship and leave her stranded across _Terra_ ’s lands, but H’chak knows he cannot. He will not. He owes a debt, and he intends to see it repaid. To do anything less would bring his own weapons upon his head.

But he can admit she is not annoying. Not _actively_ annoying.

Most of the days till now, the Im-Gen has done nothing more than sit in the corridor of the living quarters and stare at the ceiling. He never goes out of his way to speak to her, but the occasions he _does_ answer her inquiries points to a bizarre fascination with the ceiling. She possesses a curiosity to the light fixtures and the ceiling panels. She does not ask many questions, but she does not rag him for answers either. She merely sits, and she stares, and the shamefully inviting smell continues to waft through the door of the cockpit into the head of the ship.

If his mind would tear itself free from the accursed draw to the aroma, H’chak knows he could forget her and move on. She does not have anything of note to her name beside the soothing aroma and involvement in freeing him from humanity’s clutches. His body is all too reactive to the scent, in a way that brings him the uncanny sense of peace he longs for. No matter his frustrations, or anger, or self-deprecation, the proximity to the scent, to _her_ , relaxes his head enough to process his emotions with grace and composure.

He growls and clicks at himself. The Yautja stands and walks to the back-right wall, tapping a panel and shoving the bottle of alcohol in his hands back into a case before closing the drawer. He takes time to lock it; H’chak refuses to let his mind waste away on a drunken high. He is not going to think about the Im-Gen or the trio of annoying humans. He will focus on his hunt. _His_ Hunt. The Hunt that will fix everything and right his screw-ups.

H’chak intends to make the short walk to a lift, grab rations from the kitchen unit, and return to the cockpit where he has built a respite, but no sooner than the living room quarter’s door opens does he find himself staring at the face of a trophy. The soothing aroma greets the olfactory sensors in the roof of his mouth immediately, bringing with it the sweet sensation of _relief._ Had he not been himself, H’chak knows a lesser-trained Yautja would have easily been lulled into a state of stupor. But he is himself; his training affords him great control. He does not let the aroma ensnare him as it did a week ago. He will not repeat the asinine train of thought from that day.

His eyes drop and the first thing he notes is that the Im-Gen’s hand is raised in a fist. The hunter’s eyes narrow behind his mask; he watches her lower her hand to her side and peer at him curiously. “—Hello, H’chak.”

 _She was going to knock._ He holds his tongue. H’chak’s mandibles click quietly behind his mask. _She isn’t looking at the ceiling anymore._

“Am I in your way?” The question reflects the entity’s perplexed state. When he does not respond, the Image’s lips tug at a frown. She steps aside to let him through, but he hesitates.

Curiosity is a deadly pull. The Yautja does not pass her or step into the next segment of his ship. He feels the itch grow stronger inside him, until he cannot shy from the question on his mind, _“Why?”_

“Why?” The Image tilts her head and stares at him.

H’chak is not used to it. He may never be used to having a living entity with the face of a trophy around. The hunter forces his gaze elsewhere and points up with a free hand. He relaxes when she picks up on the inquiry.

“The ceiling?” Sundew—a flower easily crushed underfoot, he reminds himself—lifts a hand and taps her chin. She straightens upright. “I have looked at the ceiling thoroughly. It does not change in shape, size, or color. The light sources occasionally dim to indicate your ship has crossed into a part of Earth’s atmosphere spun opposite this star system’s yellow dwarf.”

Though H’chak wears a mask, the stare he gives must be obvious through it, as only a few seconds pass before the sound of mimicked laughter fills the corridor. The Image shakes her head. She looks amused, even pleased at her strange sense of humor, but none of it is genuine. None of it _seems_ genuine. And, even if it did, he has no interest in hearing it again; none. If he tells himself that—It will eventually be true.

“I am not sure how to describe this feeling,” she looks hesitant. She is not usually hesitant; her lack of initiative makes the hunter pause. “It was… heavy. Not mournful. Threatening to linger until resolved. Determined? Persistent? No, no…” Sundew trails off, gaze averting to the side. Her hands move and she begins to wring her wrists in front of her, the gesture reminiscent of worry.

 _“Worry.”_ The universal translator voices the thought in a monotonous voice.

The Image pauses. She slowly nods and returns to look at him. “Yes. Worry. I felt worry. _Worried._ I was worried.”

 _“Worried about me?”_ He wants to grab the translating software and rip it from the helmet. H’chak does not intend to voice every thought in his head, but he realizes too late it has reconnected the neural sensor responsible for automatically translating thought to speech. His fists tense; he clicks a hundred expletives under breath, jabbing at the top of the helmet to retract the sensor from his flesh before it can finish voicing every instance of _fuck, shit,_ and _fucking shit_.

“Yes and no,” Sundew tilts her head and watches him. Her hands drop back to her side. “I questioned if I missed something in our last conversation.”

It is far from the answer he expects. The hunter crosses his arms. This time the translator only voices what he wants it to say. “What did you miss?”

“I do not know. That is my _worry_ ,” She confesses, her voice dropping in volume but remaining far above a whisper.

H’chak clicks at her to continue. The universal translator voices it as a single word, monotonous and void of inflection.

“And?”

“That is all,” Sundew answers. She looks back up at him, eyes narrowing. “I understand we are not _friends,_ H’chak. But—I am not satisfied with our current circumstances. If I have overlooked something—Tell me. I value your perspective with ongoing affairs. I do not want to miss anything you say or mean. Whether it is about a ceiling, or…” The Image trails off, lips pursing in the unspoken meaning.

“You value my insight.”

“I would risk life for it again.” The answer comes _immediately,_ as if considered and contemplated dozens of times before, all leading up to one definite conclusion. Sundew does not shy away when he steps forward and leans down to her eye level. She remains unmoving and concrete.

He knows better than to stare, but up close H’chak makes out so many tiny details about the cells and nerves within her eye sockets. He cannot deny his fascination, eyes scouring even the shadowed areas to gobble up anything new. She _does_ have the face of a trophy, and he can begrudgingly admit it is not the worst thing in the world to look at.

The hunter knows better than to remain like that, but for an agonizing minute—against every moral code in his body, every cycle spent training, all the scoldings he received as an Unblooded—he relents in enjoying the view. He enjoys the smell. H’chak lets his mind fall into peace, the calmness a welcome break from the aggravated frustrations of reality. He does not move, he only breathes. In the back of his mind, the Yautja’s thoughts scramble to piece together just what he knows of the Images.

He witnessed her engulf and consume a fresh cadaver in less than a minute. The Image’s head had _exploded,_ a wound that would kill most life, but she took it in stride and seized matter for a new body faster than anything he thought possible. Likewise, her method of communicating—tiny, paltry electrical charges—was enough to transmit the signal needed to call his beloved _Kukulkan_ to land. Granted, the tiny, loud, sobbing human assisted to some end, but it was enough for it to work. They all escaped because of the two’s efforts. He begrudgingly acknowledges the fact. H’chak knows his perceptions of her are not accurate, but he does not know the extent.

It opens an exciting possibility. He does not show his enthusiasm for it—the Elite has standards he upholds himself to—But in his head, H’chak cannot help but deliberate: the Im-Gen may be worthy prey after all.

He knows the nature of what makes a prey _worthy_ differs on a case-by-case basis, if the _oomans_ are anything to go off, but the lack of information coupled with what he continues discovering about the Im-Gen nearby means it is a possibility. She _could_ be worthy prey. Her kind _could_ be an exciting new source of Hunts. His clan has not documented or classified new _worthy prey_ in at least a hundred cycles; bringing back a trove of knowledge and a specimen to prove his findings would skyrocket his reputation. It may not be for the reasons he possessed before, but it would give him the respect necessary to rebuild his life.

All of it means he must keep her around _beyond_ the debt he owes. It is not enough to have her there _now,_ he seeks her cooperation in sharing the details of her kind, as well as her willingness to forego her hive planet and travel back to Clan Gahn’tha-cte.

“Your kind seeks new information?” The universal translator voices each carefully picked word. H’chak takes time to think through what he wants to say.

“We do,” Sundew affirms. She looks to the side, the light of the ship filtering wonderfully through the clear cells of her eyes. “But I—” She cuts herself off, frowning widely. It isn’t like her; the change in mood in obvious and it takes him by surprise. He waits for her to go on, perhaps to laugh like she does with her strange sense of humor he fails to understand, but the Im-Gen does not. She stands still as stone, a silver statue on the side of the corridor. 

The translating software voices his observation. “You finish your sentences.”

“Not always,” Sundew shakes her head. “I am not confident in all my responses.”

“Be confident in this one.”

She looks at him. He does not know if her gaze is capable of softening, but the hunter swears, for a moment, he sees it in the clear cells.

The Im-Gen imitates the act of taking a deep breath. “I did not assist you in escaping containment out of expectation. I understand you come from a culture vastly different to my own. I am not upholding unspoken contracts. If you do not wish to share—I cannot make you.”

“I am not offering blood.” The helmet intones for him.

The laugh comes again. It is faux, a clear copycat of what the humans produce in response, but it is hers. H’chak does not dismiss it on that basis. He clicks his mandibles in awareness of the fact, waiting until the Im-Gen ceases.

He is surprised to see the amusement worn on her face in a well-mannered smile. Sundew shakes her head as she speaks, “I do not anticipate circumstances requiring those measures, H’chak. I would not ask unless it was critical to achieve a goal. Even if it is pleasing.”

 _Pleasing. Pleasing? Pleasing._ The word reverberates in the hunter’s mind. His helmet voices the chosen words, “—I am pleasing to you?”

The Yautja knows better than to make assumptions, but he does not dissuade the tickle to his ego. It feels good to receive flattery, even if unintentional. He scolds himself internally for it all; it is another reflection of how the time spent imprisoned neglected his own needs.

“Your taste,” Sundew does not seem aware of the implications in her words, speaking calmly and without pause. “Each individual is privy to their own. James Heinrich was… appealing. Bitter. The medical personnel I fed upon… Fearful. Stressed. Unappetizing, but palatable. Miranda Escrow… Bland. Bland. I did not care for her memories. But yours…” Her lips quirk up at the edges, polite and pleasant. “It was a struggle not to suck you dry, drain your life, and leave you a desiccated husk on the ground. My hive would wage war if they knew the potency brewing in your veins. You would never find rest.”

Her words have a way of touching something deep inside him. It cultivates what is already there, tenderly watering and raising the plume of heat from his abdomen up his torso and to his face. The hiss that follows is not constrained. He can see in the way she reacts that it is obvious; Sundew tilts her head to one side, lips parted in a frown, and watches him. She does not move, but he cannot smell fear coming off her body. What he smells is alluring, a scent permeating and overwhelming his senses until all he can focus on is her. The debauchery that flicks through his mind, a myriad of all the things he aches to indulge in, is incredibly shameful. Part of his mind roars inside his head, snarling sense against pride, ego, and the deep, dark lust licking his sides.

“You are,” his helmet is methodical in voicing the maelstrom of conflicting desires in his head. “Strange.”

“Am I strange?” Sundew blinks. “I do not know what to do with that information.”

“Strange. Strange. Not… Expected.” The helmet begins to strain from the influx of thoughts threatening to overload it. H’chak narrowly keeps himself in check, pulling away from the Image before his thoughts can provoke any more shame. He stumbles backward against the now-shut door to the cockpit. The waning proximity helps, but his eyes are locked on the face of a trophy.

The sound of the lift activating at the side of the hall gives him the sense to open the cockpit door and duck inside. He has it shut and locked again in seconds, the barrage of curses falling from his mandibles and helmet alike as he clicks and howls at himself, never once ceasing until he has chided himself to Yautja Prime and back. He is the asinine one, becoming easily wrapped up in the silver figure and the smell that follows. _He_ is the failure, incapable of adhering to his training and responsibilities, so easily wooed by a creature that, up until earlier, he firmly believed was not worthy prey.

 _Guan is right. I am not worthy of this rank. Of Ikthya-De. Of honor._ He crumples back in the pilot seat.

For all his accomplishments and trophies, none of it can redeem M-di-H’chak in his own eyes.

* * *

A piece of scrap, thin and closer to plastic in texture, catches Sundew’s attention when she backs down from staring at the door. She hears Ivon say something when they walk to her side, but her mind is occupied. She does not understand the Yautja’s reaction, especially after the conversation reflected a positive change in trend between the two.

 _Did I say too much?_ The Synthetic finds she automatically mimics a human biting their lip. Her physical composition has begun taking initiative to react on its own, with less and less prompting on her end. It would baffle her if she was not preoccupied with worry.

She kneels long enough to pick up the scrap, plastic-like _thing._ She does not recognize the substance it is made of; the Synthetic straightens upright and unrolls it, her eyes narrowing. She cannot identify the script other than a written form of the dominating Yautja language. Nearby, Ivon peers over her shoulder at the _thing._ The electrician does not look as nervous as they did before, but it is clear in their expression they are not at ease.

“Greetings, Ivon.” She offers her typical courtesy. Sundew’s attention returns to the _thing_ in her hands. She turns it over and finds more symbols of the Yautja language on the other side. Her eyes flicker to the door separating the living quarters’ fuselage segment and the cockpit. “…I need his assistance translating—”

“Palladium,” the electrician swipes the scrap from her hands and peers at it. “We use it to coat electrodes. That’s—Do aliens use it for their… things?”

Sundew lifts a finger and gently taps the electrician’s chest. They wear their dirty jumpsuit; she does not understand why the humans refuse to put on one of the thermal bodysuits. She ignores the thought and returns to what she just observed. “—You understand their language?”

“The what?” Ivon frowns.

* * *

They do not consider, when they first take the object from Sundew and gave it a passing glance, that the symbols inscribed on the surface could be anything but the metal's name. They automatically read it in their head as such. The thought does not occur to them it could be written in anything but English until Sundew points it out.

Their brown eyes flutter back to the scrap of… strange, almost plastic-like material. There, clear as day, they reread the word— _“Palladium.”_

It is written in a series of adjacent dashes, all uniform but geometrically arranged to be coherent. It is a list of metals, with _Palladium_ at the top-left but running in consecutive order. No space is spared to squeeze the alien words together, causing them to stop and begin at the beginning to ensure they don’t miss anything. In their head, everything rings crystal-clear, from the clicking syllables to the places they know growls or chirps follow. They understand the written words, the _dialect_ presented. It scares them; their hands begin to shake at the unspoken thought shared across lifeforms.

“Palladium, Ruthenium, Silver, Cobalt… Cobalt…” Their can feel alien eyes on them. A pleasantly cool hand touches their shoulder. Ivon looks up to see the spectacularly clear gaze of the Synthetic—a predator, according to Garcia—resting on their features.

“Your eyes are wet,” the alien observes. “That is a human response to many sensations. Is your physical composition intact, Ivon?”

“I need—I need my meds, my medicine, I need—I have _prescriptions_ at home—I need them—” They begin to rattle off the words, unable to process anything in light the spike of panic that seizes their body. The world slows down around their head. They feel nauseous and dizzy, varying between sheer horror and disbelief. They are unaware their breathing has hastened until they drop the scrap of alien language and clutch at their throat, wheezing and choking.

If this is a horrible nightmare, they pray to every cosmic deity in the Milky Way they wake up soon.

* * *

Having all five individuals in one place might be less awkward if Ivon wasn’t passed out in the weird medical pod. Jo grimaces as she looks across the metal-finished room. Nearby, her brown eyes pick up on _Doctor Garcia_ shifting her weight side-to-side; it looks like a tell of the woman’s nervousness, but Jo isn’t sure of anything concerning the woman anymore. It is strange to see her look remotely concerned—or the closest thing the bitch shows to it—for another life, even if the life in question is a human.

Jo does not trust Garcia, but she finds her body inches toward the woman when she hears the clicks of Tall Alien from the side. For a large, hulking, seven-foot-tall lifeform, he is surprisingly laid-back and quiet, having not spoken until now. His helmet does not translate his words, making Jo pip one brow at the alien until his helmet shifts to face her. She clams up and looks away.

“What is their status, Doctor Garcia?” The voice of the Synthetic specimen— _Sundew_ , drosera, the carnivorous flower—remains calm.

 _Neutral. Is it bait? Trying to lure us in?_ Jo cannot help but reflect on the conversation the three humans had earlier that day.

“Panic attack.” Garcia makes a clicking noise with her tongue and teeth. She peers at the medical pod’s hatch and sighs. “They mentioned earlier today—They have… _prescriptions._ Medication required to keep the chemicals in their brain at the appropriate levels for functioning. They have not had access to this medicine since boarding the ship. The withdrawal symptoms must be psychologically impeding them.”

“They’ve been crying more. Emotional, I guess, fuck,” Jo pinches the bridge of her nose. She wants to jump behind something and hide when the attention of the room lands on her. She does not. She sucks in a deep breath and glances around. _“What?_ They—You saw how they were at the research center. Well, most of you did—They were _way_ more composed than they are now.”

“As I recall—That was prior to the detonation claiming the lives of one-hundred-thirty-thousand people.” Garcia offers the remark with a frown. “The effects of trauma may not manifest until days, weeks, or sometimes even _years_ after an event. Whether the lack of medication—Or—The result of events of eight days ago—Action should be taken to remedy their state. I suggest we begin with the medication. When they are calm, I will get a list of their prescriptions and respective dosages. It will be a place to start—"

“This will save the soft meat’s life?” The helmet of the Yautja specimen voices the words in monotone.

Jo snaps her head up. She and Garcia glance at the other. _This counts as debt repayment. Fuck. What do we… Fuck! We need them! They’re light years better than the doctor in personality. They know how to do… techie things._

“It will prevent the _human_ from taking their own. I hope.” Garcia’s gray eyes dim.

Maintaining mental health onboard an alien ship is not something Jo anticipates coming easy. Her fists tense. She knows it may compromise the debt _she_ holds over the Yautja, but if he takes a step toward the pod with hostile intent, she knows in a heartbeat she will throw herself between the pod and him. Jo does not want to see the only tolerable human on the ship die. She does not want to see anyone else die.

 _No more,_ her mind pleads silently. _Please._

“Bring me the list. I will find a human settlement to dock at.” The helmet voices the words, echoing across the otherwise quiet room. Only the hum of distant machinery sounds beyond the metal of the pod and the walls.

The Yautja does not look at any of them on the way out. Jo’s eyes narrow as she watches him retreat behind the door to the living quarters. When the door shuts—she listens to make _sure_ it does—the woman runs to Garcia and takes her to the side, snapping quickly, “How the _hell_ is this not gonna be perceived as… you know… Debt repayment? Consolidation? _That?”_

“I don’t know.” The doctor replies curtly, shrugging off Jo’s grasp. “I did not anticipate this. It was… Unexpected.”

“You’re a _doctor_ —How the hell is a mental health crisis on an alien ship unexpected?! For me, yeah! Ivon? No shit! But _you?”_ Jo growls the words. She feels frustrated, and though she knows it is not Garcia’s fault, she empties the turbulent feelings on her. “You’re the one with years of fucking training! Did those courses at med school mean shit to you?”

Garcia growls just as loud in return. The woman shoves her away and seethes where she stands, gray eyes blazing in anger. “I’m not a _psychiatrist_ —”

“No shit.” Jo snaps. “I bet you got your degree in philosophy—”

“… owes you a debt?” The Synthetic’s voice is too close for comfort. Jo and Garcia alike recoil back, bumping into each other in the process. Jo hisses and Garcia snarls before the two look over and see Sundew next to the medical pod, a silver hand on the glassy surface of the hatch. 

Jo fidgets where she stands. She tries to inch behind Garcia, but the doctor is steadfast in making sure _neither_ move a muscle from where they stand. Neither human says a word.

“I do not understand.” Sundew frowns when she looks over. She makes a rough, raspy click, followed by a short, strangled growl before she talks. “… is a Yautja from an honorable culture. He will not hurt you.”

“Not while he owes us _debts_.” Garcia corrects the alien. The doctor jabs a finger at the medical pod, “Which Ivon doesn’t possess. If this is viewed as repayment, Synthetic—No, I should not bother,” she curses under her breath and shakes her head. “I do not expect you to understand. You are not what the Predator specimen views as _soft meat._ ”

“He has addressed me as unworthy prey before, Doctor Garcia.” The Synthetic is brisk replying. She tilts her head to one side.

“That is _different,_ ” the doctor spews, storming forward and grabbing the Synthetic by the collar of the latter’s mesh suit. Garcia seethes where she stands, utterly _furious_ if Jo were to go off the red in her face. The woman hisses at the alien and pushes her backward, away from the medical pod and the human within. “You are not _human!_ You are not _us!_ You are a _specimen_ , Synthetic—You cannot and will never understand the sanctity of _human_ life! Never! No matter how convincing you make yourself to be—You are always going to be _that._ Synthetic. _Fake._ You have no place in our world or our problems.”

* * *

Two-hours, fifteen minutes, forty-three seconds—That is the exact time he spends chastising himself. By the time the hunter finishes, the sky of _Terra_ and its clouds have shifted from blue to red with gorgeous orange swatches reflecting the light of a yellow dwarf sun. Despite not being technology on-par with the species across the universe, the residents of _Terra_ are lucky in the way they possess a beautiful, ecologically diverse planet to inhabit. H’chak can admit it freely.

He finds meager relief in the knowledge he may be rid of one human soon. The loud, crying one is not well, and the circumstances point to a chance to satisfy his debt. All he needs is the debt gone and the Yautja anticipates finding an acceptable location to leave the loud crying one at. No blood will be spilled—It is an outcome acceptable for all parties involved.

 _Terra_ ’s sunset has transitioned into early evening by the time soft knocks come at the cockpit door. When he does not rise to see to them, the volume increases. It becomes a series of bangs against the metal, hinting at a desperation that he smells—Along with the aroma of something delicate and enticing. The hunter curses under his breath as he rises to his feet. He does not anticipate dealing with further company tonight. He wants to watch the stars shine, a reminder of where his real home lays in wait.

H’chak swipes his hand over the door. He knows who is behind it; he clicks twice in greetings. His helmet translates it as two words versus one, “Sun-Dew.”

The greeting takes the Image aback. She pauses and tilts her head to one side. “Hello, H’chak.”

Her clicks and growls have improved. The enunciation of his name is no longer an amusing spectacle to hear, but a pleasant flow of vocals. The Yautja crosses his arms and chirps at her.

“The debts,” Sundew begins. “The human named… Ivon. You owe them a debt?”

“They have one to their name. A debt worth my life. I anticipate it repaid in the coming weeks. _”_ He clicks and nods, allowing his helmet to translate the words.

The Im-Gen’s demeanor is off-putting; she has a certain hesitation to her that is not… _normal._ The sign of nerves rattling her grows when H’chak watches her lift her hands and begin to wring her wrists. Whatever dwells on her mind must be of great importance to affect her this way.

 _No longer unworthy prey. Does that mean I should care?_ The hunter questions as he looks on, patience slowly waning. _No._

“Remind me,” she speaks softly. “Do you owe me the same?”

“One.”

“H’chak,” the way she says his name appeals to him. “Would you… The human. Ivon. Their state is poor. I understand in helping them it would… It would constitute the debt’s requisite. You would no longer owe a debt to them. They, and the others, fear the loss of—Of the owing of a debt—Would lead to their demise. Would it?” She lowers her hands to her side. Sundew’s voice is faint.

She is owed honesty; he clicks to affirm. “It is the likely outcome.”

“H’chak,” the Image’s gaze narrows at him. The nervousness, unease, all of it melts away in face of new resolve. Her shoulders relax and her expression shifts back to a calm, courteous, smiling façade. “Consider my debt repaid in place of their own. If it will keep them alive—I do not have a desire to see any of the three dead. Even if—Even if Doctor Garcia brought me great strife. Pain. Her memories tempt me, but—But…"

He can see the hunger in her eyes. The thought electrifies him—Her _gaze_ electrifies him; he feels the tingle run up his chest and spread across his scales.

The Image inhales deeply. “But—I—I have other concerns—Concerns taking precedence over my indulgences. The information I obtained before—It is enough. It must be enough.” She repeats the words and looks away.

“A debt of this magnitude—” H’chak’s helmet translates the words slowly. “You would relinquish it for the soft meat?”

“Yes.” She shuts her eyes and nods.

 _“Why?”_ He clicks it in unison with the helmet’s translation.

Sundew replicates a human chuckle; it sounds surprisingly somber. Initially, the Yautja questions if it is her ‘strange sense of humor’ shining through again, but to his surprise she looks at his helmet, at the sleek visor-like pieces covering where his eyes hide behind. She lifts a hand and gently taps one finger to his upper-right torso, just shy of where a plate of veritanium armor begins. Beneath it, among the mottle of his brown, white, and green-hued skin, is the scar of a gunshot wound. It is still visible; his rate of healing has not caused the scar to fully fade, leaving an off-green mottle of flesh in its place.

“Why did I do any of this, H’chak?” She asks. Her hand skirts to his right shoulder, trailing down the contour of returning muscle mass. Along the way, she stops and lingers at each bullet wound scar. “I did not help you out of expectation. I did not…”

She sighs and draws away. The Image shakes her head. Something is off; the hunter does not know if she is upset or angry, but the Image’s typical persona of calm is fractured. The Yautja keeps his hands to himself; there is an urge nagging at his backside: his hands want to go to the Image’s shoulders and let her know he’s there, a seven-foot wall of hunting experience and strength. He is reliable, and he is consistent, and he is… His thoughts fade away with the knowledge he can’t. He will not pursue depraved wants with prey. Worthy prey—But _prey._

“I am sorry,” the Image states. Her hands have begun to wring her wrists again. “I forgot you do not desire physical contact. I… I forgot. I am sorry.”

“Did you come here to apologize?” His helmet does not convey the guttural, visceral need to know clawing up his back.

“No.” She shakes her head. Her hands tentatively lower to her sides. Sundew peers up at the mask. “I wanted to thank you for assistance in moving the electrician from this corridor to the medical bay.”

 _“You did not drag them there yourself. Why?”_ the hunter clicks and chirps in unison with the helmet.

“I replicate the physical composition of homosapiens. I am not an expert on their natural bodily processes and rates of expiration—"

“You have the memories of a doctor. James… Heinrich. Soft meat.”

“I possess copies of his memories,” Sundew affirms. “Just as I possess copies of yours. I could replicate the actions of your training, but I do not possess the _cycles_ of training or fortitude you do to make accurate deductions on predicting your opponent, hunting quarry, or engaging in appropriate social rites and customs with your clan. Knowing how to block an attack is not the same as knowing when to block, H’chak.”

The Yautja’s body tenses. In time, her ability to replicate his name will be the same level of other Yautja. He enjoys it; it is good to hear his tongue spoken properly. Perhaps the other words she knows will follow suit. Perhaps he could teach her; an offering of language to keep her satisfied and on his ship.

“Palladium,” is the next thing to come from the Image. It pipes his interest, but his mask obscures his features. Sundew pauses. “Is it one of the metals required to repair your ship?”

 _“Kukulkan.”_ The Yautja gestures at the ship. “The ship.”

“Ku… Kull…. Kon…” She is slow to repeat the name, sounding each part out. Even after she repeats it correctly, H’chak watches her repeat the name over and over, slowly coming to terms with the way it flows.

 _Good._ He feels satisfied with the development. _Treat it with respect._

“Kukulkan. Does the Kukulkan need palladium?” Sundew returns to the initial question.

 _“It is an acceptable substitute,”_ H’chak’s chirps precede the helmet’s dull translation. “Deposits of it are found across the soft meat’s region, Brazil. We will dock for medicine. Palladium. Other minerals. Metals—"

“Ivon reads your tongue.” Sundew cuts him off. Her voice becomes blunt, closer to the neutral tone she often carries but not close enough. She tilts her head to one side. “Their panic attack transpired over awareness of this fact. When they are well—"

“Soft meat cannot understand written _Yautja._ ” The helmet intones.

“They do.” The Image repeats the sentiment. “Do I lie to you, H’chak? Have I broken my word?”

 _No._ The word burns on his tongue. The hunter hesitates, but it is enough for Sundew to notice. She replicates a human sigh, long and drawn-out, almost agitated. It is not like her. He despises the fact.

“You do not trust me. They do not trust me. That is,” she shakes her head. “No. _No._ It is—That is a logical deduction. A natural conclusion of the events we survive. They do not trust me, and you do not trust me. I am not trustworthy. I _know_ that. I know—” The Image hisses softly and turns away. “Why does it hurt now?”

“You’re in pain.” His helmet voices the words.

The Image straightens upright. She inhales deeply, but the Yautja cannot tell if it is artificial or not. Part of him questions if he has been wrong up till then, if the mimicry has not always been _faux_ but genuine, if he is the one with inaccurate assumptions.

“Sometimes these things come easily to me, H’chak. I know what to say. Do. Express. Copy. But other times,” She curses softly and shakes her head. “I worry I am not mimicking humanity. I worry it is becoming part of me."


	11. walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two yautja TWO YAUTJA TWO YAUTJA  
> TWO YAUTJA!!!!!!!!!!

The helmet’s breathing apparatus is broken, a last _fuck you_ from her former clan.

Vayuh’ta curses in a grandiose range of Yautja dialects, ranging from the merciless and rough chirps and growls of Clan Gahn’tha-cte to the softer, dissonant clicks and screeches of Clan Ka’Torag-na. She makes a point of enunciating everything, holding no sound or syllable back in her frustration at the bio-mask.

Having a broken mask on _Terra Firma_ is a major problem for any hunter without a ship. The planet’s atmosphere is close enough in composition to let the species breathe without assistance—For a week. If her helmet is not fixed, her body will begin to suffocate itself, unable to transition to the atmospheric conditions. She needs to find adequate substitutes for her mask’s components, and the tools to fix it. The latter is easy—She knows any factory is bound to have metalworkers or safety equipment; _Terra_ ’s residents understand the basics of handling liquid metal.

The option of removing the material from her wrist-computer and using it for repairs presents itself—But there is no point, not _yet._ She needs the computer to keep her cloaking intact, and she needs the cloaking technology to ensure humanity does not pick up on her trail. She knows there are powerful forces on _Terra_ , and though she doubts any of them could individually overpower her—She has heard the tales that make her cautious. She must not underestimate the soft meats; _some_ of them are worthy prey. And if humanity wasn’t a problem—Vayuh’ta, _maelstrom_ in her clan’s original dialect, knows the cloaking technology is essential to getting a jump on other hunters.

She needs to stay a step ahead of Clan Ka’Torag-na. When the Arbitrator sent does not return, she knows the clan will send more. They will continue to hunt her until she gets her point across or slaughters each one.

The huntress makes a mental note; _seven-day cycles._ If she cannot find the necessary components to repair the helmet before then—She will scrap her computer. After that, if it breaks again, her plasmacatcher is the next on the list. It is a shame—She only just repaired the device, courtesy of the dead Ka’Torag-na Arbitrator—but she prefers breathing. She prefers _life._ Until she proves her innocence and reclaims her Honor—She must live, if only to spite the very Yautja who took everything from her.

 _Palladium._ The huntress makes a note on a human sheet of parchment, using a fragile graphite stick with rubber on the end to make the appropriate dashes. _Brazil is closest. Five day run. Two days if I catch an ooman flight...  
_

Vayuh’ta’s eyes narrow at the thought of trying to find deposits untouched by humanity. She needs to find a mine and start there; the huntress grimaces and reaches for her broken mask. She slips it on; it offers some protection from human weaponry even if the breathing apparatus is _bust._ The huntress hisses at the feeling of hair-thin sensors piercing her scalp and digging through her flesh.

 _Optic system remains intact. Good._ The huntress enjoys seeing the world in colors beyond orange and purple hues. An occasional magenta soothes her, but the spectrum of hues found across _Terra_ ’s natural flora and fauna is exceptional for a hunting grounds planet.

Under a sky of clouds, Vayuh’ta grabs her equipment and begins the trek to the _Amazon_. 

* * *

The _Kukulkan_ ’s engines propel the ship in a rainbow of iridescent colors, each shooting out like long fish fins triumphantly from multiple sides as it sails the sky’s seas. He sits back in the pilot’s chair, grips the throttle, and slowly eases it forward until the ship is eased off the boosters and shifts to the lesser-visible, ultramarine energy expulsions. The _Kukulkan_ complies with his order; the head of the ship raises and looks on as he nudges the yoke up and prompts the _Kukulkan_ into a controlled ascent. The hunter’s goals are not to reach orbit—But he finds the cusp of the _Kukulkan_ ’s limits around thirty-thousand feet, a suitable height to avoid humanity’s gaze while the ship embarks for _Brazil._

It feels good to know he can still pilot his own ship. H’chak’s exhale is closer to a growl, but it is of relief versus aggression. The hunter leans to a dash of indentations and switches. He presses one, observes long enough to ensure it turns on the autopilot, then stands and exits the cockpit. The door to the living room quarters opens to reveal no sign of human or alien; the other inhabitants of the _Kukulkan_ are elsewhere, with three in their quarters and a fourth in the _kehrite._

_The kehrite?_ It perplexes the hunter enough to consider dropping by the training room and investigating, but when the familiar, enticing aroma of _worthy prey_ rises to meet the olfactory receptors in his mouth—He stops. H’chak curses in his head; his helmet does not voice the thought.

He knows things are not right with the Im-Gen; just as _Terra_ ’s sky is often blue and he is a hunter, the other alien’s state of mind is a somber, detached mess of thoughts he cannot help with.

The hunter does not know how to comfort a different alien species. In his clan, comfort is only given at the loss of pups, of honorable warriors, and of high-ranked Yautja. Not even Sucklings receive the rites Elders read to the clan in collective mourning. When the readings complete, clan members can choose to enter a period of loud weeping for one-fourth cycle. Other clan members are barred from challenging the grievers, and disputes normally settled in death matches must wait until the period completes. When the grievers finish their circuit of wails, the individuals mourned must be considered _past_ and _done._ Life moves forward, and the clan does not dwell on the lives lost.

Privately, H’chak knows comfort can also pass between life partners or groups of lovers in more intimate ways. He has never been privy to the experience. Open to it, but never subject to it himself. It falls in line with the tender sides of his clan’s culture, and he is not a tender man. He is not soft or gentle. He remembers one potential mating partner describing him as authoritative in the moment, vying for complete control and a partner’s subordination into carnal pleasures and primal need.

 _Ikthya-De told me that._ His fists clench. He shuts the thought from his mind. His mind settles on the subject; he does not know how to _comfort,_ and he does not intend to experiment with the other alien on the ship. She is not a guinea pig; she is his lifeline in bringing himself glory once he completes his original Hunt.

H’chak makes a point of using the medical bay’s lift to access the kitchen unit directly below it. He ignores the smell coming from the next room over and focuses on getting himself food.

The dry, hard tack does little to distract him.

* * *

_I worry it is becoming part of me._

She draws her knees to her chest, back against the corner of the training room. The lights of the room are dimmer than the rest of the ship due to the room’s lack of use. Sometimes the entity wonders if her presence will spur the bulbs to increased luminosity, but she finds nothing changes. Nothing changes the first day, nor the second—The training room becomes a dim sanctuary for her to reside in when the rest of the ship’s lights become too much.

All the while—The conversation replays in her head, repeating on loop and causing her to replicate human sighs or grimaces. 

_What do you want me to do?_

“I do not know the answer to that question.” Sundew tells no one, though she keeps her voice calm and neutral all the same.

She regrets saying anything. Keeping to herself, avoiding the hunter, and letting the thoughts float away like the white swatches of clouds outside—That would have been the correct action. She did not _need_ to knock on the cockpit door two nights past. No one held a yellow dwarf to her head. No one forced ultraviolet light against her figure. She does not have an excuse for her actions or behavior.

 _What do you want me to do?_ He had clicked the words ahead of his helmet’s translation. It sounded sincere.

“I do not know. I should not entertain those thoughts. I should… I am not meant to be like this. This is not what my hive does—Wants. What my kind wants. These… complications. Humanity brings complications.” She holds her head in her hands, feeling the cool touch of her skin underneath each finger. Her teeth clench. It is like a great mental winch, slowly increasing tension until her head feels like it might snap. _I worry it is becoming part of me._

Her kind does not become human. Her kind may imitate it, may copy the ways humans talk, breathe, think, feel, fuck, but they do not become human. The Vekin absorb mass to alter physical compositions of solid states—Not to become something. She is synthetic, as Doctor Garcia said. _Synthetic. Faux. Fake. Fake. Fake. I am imitating these things. I am… I am copying humanity. Human tendencies. Human worries. Human fears. Human. Human. Human._ But she is not human—She is not.

 _Not._ She reminds herself.

The Synthetic knows she should have waited for the hunter and herself to cross paths naturally. She did not need to inform him of Ivon’s knowledge of one of the written Yautja languages. She did not need to tell him thanks. She did not need to show gratitude, to him, or to anyone else. She does not need to think about things outside the acquisition of knowledge—But acknowledging the fact means acknowledging how long the problem has brewed and fermented in the liquid state tucked away deep within her solid, physical composition. The problem goes back _months_ , to the very moment she crashed on Earth’s shores, to the very second…

Her eyes clench shut. She cannot remember. She cannot remember what she did when she crashed. She cannot remember why she went to Earth in the first place, save the return of _Cassini-Hyugens._ She knows that is not the only reason, but the truth escapes her. Her mind buckles under the weight of trying to process the past; she finds she returns to the corner and tucks herself away in the most daunting shadow.

“I do not know what you want me to do—What I want— _you_ to do. What I want to do. Want done. I do not… I do not understand my own problems,” she barks at the wall, voice dipping from her calm masquerade to a cacophony of fear-laced agitation.

 _Was I looking for a solution? Placing my problem in his arms. No. No. I do not… I understand the two of us are not… I cannot look to him for help. Insight. Retrospection. He is not… He is not… Not. Not. Not._ The thought loops.

The ship lacks in appropriate nourishment. Her body does not need _food_ like the humans or Yautja hunter. Her physical composition is maintained by the structures and processes her internal liquid state goes through and produces. She needs fuel in the form of elemental substances, with gas and liquid being the preferred physical state. She requires nitrogen or helium. Helium is better for long-term sustenance, but nitrogen is easier for her system to convert into energy. The _Kukulkan_ has meager amounts of both. She needs _more._ She wants more.

The memories of human and alien inhabitants on the ship tempt her. She has no sense of smell, but she can tell where they are. A vague part of her mind recalls it having something to do with electrical charges. She is hungry. Her hive needs new information. Her hive _demands_ it. Anything less is dishonorable for a… Her kind. For her kind. She needs new information. She needs it. But she will not engulf the others. She must not. She _will not._ She is not humanity. _Human. Not… I am not humanity. Human. None. Neither. I am not. I am not. Not._

 _What do you want me to do?_ The voice of H’chak repeats in her head.

She does not have an answer to the question. She does not know if she ever did. She does not know a lot of things, but at that moment Sundew knows she does not know _especially that._ Especially H’chak. She does not know the hunter, or his clan, or the moments he has shared over his _two-hundred-fifteen_ cycles of life. She does not know the name of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, of Ruthless-Night and Umbra Skull, of the Blooded rite ending in the execution of _Chirp._

Except she does. She cannot block it out. She needs to; she _wants_ to. She knows the hunter would not appreciate of her possessing such intimate knowledge.

She needs to not _something._ Not. _Not._

She is so hungry. He tastes so good. She can be quick; a dip in gluttony and his husk will make a nice souvenir to take to the Hive. The Vekin will accept it into the Hive banks with the others. She needs to eat. She needs nourishment. She cannot sustain her physical composition on will alone. The electrical charges wear on her energy stores; she has been kept from appropriate sustenance for so long. She wants to indulge. She wants—She _needs_ something to satisfy the craving in her gut.

 _I am becoming part of it. Of it. It. Humanity. Humans. I am… It is conflicting. With. Me. Vekin. I am… I need help. I need nourishment. I am hungry._ The sound she repeats is a strenuous, long growl, the kind to fall from the black serpent’s mouth. _I worry it is becoming part of me. I worry. I worry. I need… I do not know what I need. What to do. I want… I thought… You might know. You are capable. You are strong. Strong. Delicious. Strong. Elite. Elite. Powerful._

The bottom of the ship— _Kukulkan,_ but she wonders if she already knew that, a memory locked under the respect she yearns to uphold with the hunter—rumbles. She feels the ship touch down with surprising gentleness. It is cue for the shaking, silver figure to climb to her feet; she needs off the _Kukulkan_ before she does something she regrets.

* * *

The trip through Central America has been nonstop stealth in the form of stalking vehicles, sneaking onboard ships, and nighttime movement. The weather has been favorable, and human contact none. She has only taken the lives of non-sentient life, usually the bugs attempting to make sense of her impenetrable hide. On one occasion, the six-foot-five huntress peels a spider off her limbs and crushes it in her grasp, unamused. Her stomach begins to ache for real food, but she keeps her mind off it and occupies her free time with counting the stars, learning the calls of local fauna, and feeding on small, easily caught insects and reptiles.

She is three miles north of Manaus when the wrist computer pings: soft, quick, easily missed if not for her honed senses.

Vayuh’ta freezes where she stands, hand instinctively going to the handle of her Elder blade. She silently unsheathes it, entire form cloaked and invisible against the riverbank around her. The huntress holds her breath and listens. She thanks the Black Hunter she is not on a vehicle; having humans become involved in the mess between herself and her former clan would be… _unfortunate;_ she knows better than to leave a witness alive, but that does not mean she enjoys squashing the soft meat under her grasp.

She continues listening for another ping or the rumble of ship engines. Overhead, amidst the night sky, she sees nothing. Not through the optical lenses built into her helmet, or through her natural sense. Vayuh’ta knows better than to make ill assumptions; she continues to wait, and wait, until-to the far right, the slightest shimmery outline and the waters rippling when something touches down upon it-she sees the cloaked outline of a monstrously large ship. Her eyes narrow behind her mask; no doubt it is another Arbitrator sent for her head. She can smell at least two creatures in the ship; her olfactory sensors pick up on the tell-tale scent of a _kv’var-de,_ as well as the sickly pleasant aroma of… something else. She cannot identify it.

She can smell humans onboard. Three, though one has a putrid scent to them. She assumes prisoners; if the ship comes from Ka’Torag-na then the prisoners must be food for the way back. Unlucky ones will be used to simulate real Hunts for Sucklings in their practice; an adult human provides worthy entertainment for the callous and cruel. She views them as any other prey, but she does not seek to toy with their lives versus cut them down quickly and mercifully. Cetanu be praised—Her blade only toys with and mutilates the ones chasing after her.

The Black River is one of the few sources of noise when the Yautja finally steps out from the veil of cloaking technology. Initially, his silhouette is little more than a shimmery figure of which light refracts around; the Yautja is joined a moment later by a human in a bulky suit and low pigtail. Vayuh’ta stares from the muddy banks of the Black River. She sinks a little lower in the mud when she sees one human face her direction. Her free hand creeps to her wrist computer; she taps an input and grimaces internally at the sensation of warmth fading from her thermal mesh. She cannot risk being caught by another’s thermal vision, especially when she still lacks crucial information on the rank of the warrior, the fighting style, and numbers he may or may not have.

 _Cetanu, aid my battles. Give me the strength to claim honor._ Vayuh’ta prays silently. She keeps her mandibles’ clicking to a minimum, blending each click, chirp, and growl to the tune of natural wildlife around her.

The prayer is repeated tenfold when the cloak drops, and moonlight reflects a soft glow across the _Elite_ hunter’s armor.

She wants to cuss; she almost does, but the huntress holds her profanities. Having an Elite _kv’var-de_ to face up against poses a problem. Her victories thus far have capitalized on her knowledge of multiple fighting styles, embracing both forms taught by the men of Ka’Torag-na as well as the women. Her ability to out-maneuver and predict the actions of opposing Arbitrators falls on the cycles she spent hunting as a man, before she proved her right to become a _lou-dte kale_. She knows her own prestigious training, meditating, and hunting does not come close to the requisites to achieve the rank of _Elite._

She also knows the Elites of Ka’Torag-na are required to master the forms taught by men and women, regardless of the Elite’s gender. If the Yautja is an Arbitrator from Ka’Torag-na—She cannot rely on her usual tactics to get the upper hand. She needs to gather intelligence, review risks, and plot a tactical but _honorable_ attack on the hunter.

Her thoughts come to a pause when she watches the Elite’s helmet flash blue on the side. The human with him does not protest to his words. Vayuh’ta briefly contemplates if the human might be worthwhile catching. She knows she must put the human down after she takes care of the Elite Arbitrator, but until then—She suspects one of the humans in the ship might know a thing or two about her new foe. She sucks in a breath and tastes the scents of two humans and the enticing, floral aroma of a third entity on the roof of her mouth. Her gaze narrows behind her mask; she observes the Elite _kv’var-de_ pluck the human at his side from the banks, throw the person over one shoulder, and leap away.

 _He’s heading for Manuas?_ Vayuh’ta watches him go. She does not move a muscle until then, cautious in event of the Yautja attempting to circle around and flank her. It is not until the smells inside the ship move, and a figure steps out of the cloaked vehicle, she becomes convinced the hunter is gone. Her attention becomes transfixed on the faint pink outline standing next to the ship. Vayuh’ta stills and turns her helmet’s optical system on; the helmet quickly reverts to the full-spectrum lens. Her mandibles tense beneath her helmet, a single word standing out in her head: _Image?_

* * *

“Doctor. Come with me.” The helmet voices each word in monotone, emphasized by the Yautja’s gesture for Garcia to follow. “Leaving to get medicine.”

It is all the hunter offers before the two disembark. Sundew’s clear eyes watch them step out of the cloaked ship. She can scarcely hold herself together, a mess of hunger and need to replenish her energy. She waits until H’chak throws Doctor Garcia over one shoulder in a manner not unlike how he has carried _her_ in the past, and take off before Sundew begins to climb out the open cockpit into the cool night air. She does not make it out before a warm hand lands on her arm, gripping her tightly. The Synthetic purses her lips; she can feel the deep-seeded _want_ for new memories crawl up her throat.

“You a’ight?” The one speaking is Jo. The human is insightful; Sundew does not believe her physical composition reflects the duress she is currently under.

She needs nitrogen. Helium. _Something._ She can taste it in the open air—But it is not enough. She needs to expose herself to the atmosphere, she needs time to _soak_ in the gases and clear her head. She needs a moment to herself to get herself under control. She knows she will be okay; she knows everything will turn out fine if she can just get a _moment_ to herself—

“A walk. I am going on a walk,” Each word is forced through her teeth, a mess of increasing desperation and desire. Jo would have many memories, she thinks. Jo would have so many experiences to absorb, she imagines. Jo, and Ivon too, they remain on the ship, both two humans would be acceptable drinks, and none would be the wiser. She could drain both to husks by the time H’chak or Doctor Garcia return.

 _No. No. No._ The thought loops in her head. She is so close to being _okay._ She just needs a minute! A moment! The moon looks _beautiful._ Her head throbs.

“Careful out there,” Jo releases her. Her brown eyes miss _nothing_ , but she does not press the Synthetic for answers, “I mean—Don’t take this to mean I _trust_ you, okay? But. Fuck. You ain't what Garcia makes you out to be. So. Don’t go far. Knock twice on this thing if you want it open. I saw how Tall Alien did it, so. I should be good. Opening it. I mean..."

 _What does she make me out to be?_ It is all Sundew can focus on, oblivious to the rest of Jo’s words. Her head tilts to the side out of habit before she climbs out the open cockpit and drops into the muddy banks of the Black River. Behind her comes the soft hiss of the cockpit slowly closing. When she looks back, she sees nothing but the moving river waters and reflection of the stars. Sundew stills and watches the moonlight reflect off the water’s surface for a time, entranced in the sight. It looks peaceful. It _feels_ peaceful.

The longer she spends in the mud, an utter mess up to her ankles, the more her mind clears. Things slowly make sense again. She brings her thoughts under control, rallies the emotions running rampant, and _calms._ Sundew imitates a human inhaling the night air. She climbs out of the mud, up the riverbank, and unto dry land. The natural fauna provides a peaceful ambience as she wipes her shoes off and stretches. She does not intend to go far but she needs time to _breathe._

She makes a note to talk to H’chak when he and Doctor Garcia return from Manuas; the experience has revealed a major problem in the _Kukulkan:_ The _Kukulkan_ cannot recycle the necessary gases _she_ requires to sustain herself. More breaks will be required if she is to travel onboard the ship, unless the Yautja intends for her mental processes to deteriorate under his watch. She does not believe he desires it, or he would have already gotten rid of her versus letting her mind come unwound.

Sundew frowns at the thought. She stands and looks at the sky. _Does he want me around? The others… do not. I am not human. I heard their words. I understand their perspectives. H’chak…_

Her gaze dims. She knows the Yautja tolerates her because of her debt. Even that may soon be gone, expunged in favor of keeping Ivon’s debt intact and the electrician alive. Sundew begins a walk up the riverbank, counting the infinite stars and scarce clouds in favor of returning to the heavy thoughts threatening to weigh her down.

The night is peaceful. She counts constellations she does not know, only possessing knowledge of from the memories of humans she fed upon. The air is humid, but her mind relaxes with each new intake of unseen elements. The gases found in Earth’s atmosphere are nowhere near abundant as her hive planet, but they are enough. It must be enough. She continues to walk, to breathe, and to stargaze, though the Synthetic takes care never to wander too far from the _Kukulkan._ The great snake remains cloaked under the night sky; when she looks over her shoulder, she observes the illusion of water passing _through_ it. It is masterful.

She recalls from one of H’chak’s memories—He is a _hunter._ An Elite, but still a hunter: a civilian of his clan. The technology available to him for hunts is far below anything the _military_ rank Yautja use in warfare. Sundew finds it ironic; humanity’s vie to study extraterrestrial life means nothing. Humans have a gargantuan climb ahead of them to catch up with the technological prowess of the Yautja clans and until then, humanity cannot hope to defend against an attack. Existing as unworthy prey is the safer route.

 _But they continue to try. They had twenty-six specimens total in that facility._ The Synthetic stops in stride and taps her chin. She wonders if defiance is an admirable trait.

The night has grown quiet beyond the river’s currents. Sundew frowns and lowers her hands to her sides. She does not recall the fauna of Earth becoming quiet unless there is a disturbance, whether it be a naturally occurring disaster or the presence of a predator. She does not think a large cat or caiman would find her tasty. She would not let one eat her, but she doubts one would target her in the first place. 

The thought of a human or humans being out in the trees occurs to Sundew. She does not know why a human would travel the wilds so late at night. _Perhaps Doctor Garcia and H’chak are back? I need to speak with H’chak._

She decides to call out the trees. If it is an animal, she can scare it off. If one of her companions—Perhaps the three can enjoy a leisurely stroll back to the ship together.

“—H’chak?” The Synthetic repeats the click and growl.

She imitates a human exhaling softly when she sees the faint, nigh-invisible outline of a cloaked Yautja rise from the nearby thickets and step unto the riverbank. Any relief, fake or genuine, dissipates as H’chak walks toward her. Her head tilts to one side curiously, perplexed by the action. The Yautja does not say a word. It is not unusual, but it is also not like him to refrain from voicing his disgruntlement or displeasure in soft chirps or clicks. She half-expects him to begin cursing behind his mask at her being away from the ship.

Then H’chak begins to run, the cloaking drops, and the hiss that follows is not the Yautja she’s come to care about. Sundew’s eyes widen in realization that the figure is grossly different than the Yautja: shorter by inches, longer dreadlocks, a different mask to the one H’chak dons—Even the _armor_ is different, thinner and smoother in places versus the rugged, blocky veritanium plating she’s seen on the Elite before. The Synthetic does not know what to do. She does not know what other Yautja do. She does not know, and not knowing brings back every bit of fear she once felt toward the predatory species.

She knows she became comfortable with H’chak. This individual, this Yautja, is not him, and that makes the individual a dangerous threat. Her mind processes the information too late; a large hand rips her wrist and hauls her off the ground, dangling her above it like she is little more than prey.

She _is_ prey. Unworthy prey.

A million different variables shoot through her head. The ship, Ivon, Jo, all of it comes crashing down on her shoulders as she hangs, locked in conflicting thoughts. She knows she could fight, but she fears bringing Jo into the thick of it. She _knows_ the human will charge a Yautja like she did a xenomorph, and she _knows_ the Yautja warrior will not hesitate forcing Jo’s expiration on her. Even if the humans do not trust her, there is a tiny part of herself who wants them to live.

Sundew decides not to resist. She bites the inside of her cheek until it burns in pain and she feels ‘blood’ flow into her mouth. The Synthetic spits it at the ground. Her eyes rise to the warrior’s sleek mask; she draws on a memory of James Heinrich refusing to cooperate with his peers. The defiance of the man emulates in her body as she narrows her gaze and repeats a human curse with all the anger she remembers Miranda Escrow felt toward her. The Yautja is not amused, nor does Sundew know if the _kv’var-de_ believes she is truly angry. She hopes the ruse is convincing enough; she needs to maintain it and leave a blood trail behind.

She is dropped to the ground. The moonlight reflects off a long, shining blade in the other alien's hand. The Yautja keeps it pointed at her. Sundew rises to her feet, staying still when the blade bumps the fake flesh of her throat. She is not dead yet; the Yautja wants something from her.

Sundew watches the Yautja point to the shadows of the trees with her free hand. The helmet voices a single monotonous command.

“Walk.”

* * *

The streets of Manaus are not busy tonight. A stretch of dark clouds in the horizon hints at coming rain, and most _oomans_ hide away in their frugal homes. Tourism is not at its peak; most restaurants and shops are closed at this hour. The hunter does not know what to make of the few humans who patrol the streets, sleep in the alleys, or have hushed conversation outside dim-lit buildings. They lack thermal vision; they are so _vulnerable_ to the creatures who hide in the darkness and out of sight. Creatures like _him_ , who could quash them with one punch. It is either bravery or foolishness; the behavior the humans exhibit reminds him of the brave, foolish human back at his ship.

He is confident two humans and Image onboard his ship will not _touch anything_ that pre-emptively causes the _Kukulkan_ to take off. Ivon is a nervous wreck of paranoia and anxiety, Jo has common sense not to tangle with alien technology, and Sundew… She is strange, but she is not against him. She is worthy prey, and worthy prey is smart enough to not steal a ship she barely knows how to pilot.

He pauses where he stands, a perch atop one rooftop overlooking the streets below. His cloaking technology remains active; it feels liberating to don his equipment. The weight of his _ki’cti-pa_ strapped to his left hip, the feel of _dah’kte_ gauntlets on his hands, the small computer hooked unto his left arm’s thermal mesh at the bicep—It feels _good._ He feels powerful. He is not fully recovered, but he is close; his muscles have begun to fill out the thermal mesh smoothly. He can make the leaps and strides necessary for a hunter chasing down prey.

He is an Elite, and for the first time in many cycles—He _feels_ like he is an Elite.

The human doctor is taking her time in the pharmacy. H’chak’s eyes constantly wander away. His thoughts follow suit; he does not enjoy standing idly by when he has so much left to do. The communications relays need palladium, and the palladium is elsewhere in the human country, and _then_ he needs to determine the most diplomatic, civil way of not screaming _fuck you_ to Guan when he sends a transmission to his clan for assistance repairing the tracking system.

H’chak inhales deeply; his olfactory receptors inside his mouth catch the aroma of fish, fruit, and grime. In the background, somewhere blocks away, he hears soft notes of music playing. It is upbeat and energetic. Catchy, too, but he refuses to call it endearing or memorable.

 _Would Sundew like it?_ The hunter’s mind drifts with the soft breeze and humid air. He tenses and clears his head immediately before the train of thought goes off the rails. It has been two nights since the two last held a direct conversation, and those two nights have provoked a lingering unease in his stomach. It is a heavy one, churning and bubbling in nausea. He remembers the two’s last conversation, and its abrupt end, too well.

_I worry it is becoming part of me._

He knows there was no reason for her to seek him out and talk that evening. She is prey to him—valuable prey, but prey, nonetheless. She now serves a purpose on his ship, but it does not make the two friends, or companions, or anything _else_ his mind occasionally drifts to. To come and thank him for dumping the crying human into a medical pod is baffling, almost asinine to the hunter.

Maybe _asinine_ is the best word to describe Sundew. He remembers her insistence on declaring her debt repaid in favor of the crying human’s remaining intact. He cannot follow the line of logic. The _why_ remains unanswered. That, and _thanking_ him, as if it were something to thank him for and not the basic actions required to keep fragile, squishy soft meat alive. It almost bothers him. It _does_ bother him. It wears on him steadily, gnawing like a hound with a bone. Like the two’s conversation, H'chak continues to reflect on everything that occurred two evenings ago. He reflects even when it begins to rain over Manaus, his cloaking shutting down automatically to avoid shorting out. The hunter crouches in the shadows of the rooftop; his body is in Manuas, Amazonas, Brazil, but his mind is elsewhere.

_What do you want me to do?_

His answer at the time was a genuine question. Even now, the warrior knows he does not know _what_ to do about her statements. He does not know comfort or how to soothe, unless collectively wailing and weeping for one-fourth a cycle helps. He does not think it will. He continues to lack the knowledge necessary to do _something_ , and it aggravates him inside because—The hunter growls softly at where the thought leads. _Perhaps_ he wants to assist her, but he has his reasons. Convincing her to forego her hive planet and return with him to his clan ship will be a significant request. If she does not trust him, if she does not _want_ to be with him, the hunter doubts he will get anywhere with her and force will be required to transport her to the clan ship.

H’chak does not feel convinced by his own reasons. He can feel it in his blood whenever his pulse quickens, and he hears it when his hearts beat in his ears. He feels the stubborn heat attack his face, an irritating distraction from the task at hand, but one refusing to leave. In the back of his head, he knows why his excuses fall short.

She is in pain. He does not understand why, but he wants the pain to stop; H’chak cannot tolerate the thought of it continuing.

 _How do I make it end?_ He asks himself as the night continues. _What do you want me to do?_

It frustrates him no easy answer jumps out. His eyes sweep the streets surrounding the pharmacy again while he thinks. There are many shops, all of them since closed for the evening. He sees a baked goods store with leftover bread in the windows. He spots a shop that sells small novelties and knick-knacks; it is incredibly old compared to the other buildings adjacent itself. As his orange eyes look out through his mask, as he observes the contents of each store’s front windows, his eyes fall upon a clothing store. Mannequins don intricate garb and vivid fashions as they pose for the world to see. One of them has a wide-brimmed hat, a neutral beige to go with the fancy, bright jacket on its shoulders.

 _A hat._ The hunter curses under his breath. It is obvious; H’chak does not know how he could have thought anything else when the answer is right in front of him. He will get the Image a hat, she will not be in pain, and the hunt for _palladium_ and a Bad Blood can continue unfettered.


	12. be happy

Jo feels tired.

The ship is eerily quiet with only her and Ivon around. The latter offers nothing in terms of noise, having since become a shut in in one of the medical bay’s pods. She is too tired to question how the older person can stand staying in there; she shudders at the thought of climbing into a pod again. One time is one too many, as they say.

 _Somewhere. Probably. They say that somewhere. Yeah._ The woman lets out a big yawn. She rubs her eyes. Exhaustion is a fickle foe: some nights it comes to her in droves, drowning any willpower and dousing her into a hopefully dreamless slumber. Other nights, she is not so lucky: the agonizing atrocities of the world whisper in the back of her head and remind her of everything she has lost. Tonight is a strange night, a meld of the two, with her ready to pass out but simultaneously too insomniac to do so.

She does not let herself sleep. She must stay awake. She must, until Flower Power returns. _Then_ she can let Flower Power handle heckling Ivon or watching for Tall Alien and the doctor to return. She does not anticipate Flower Power being gone long; the alien said she needed a walk. Jo wonders for what purpose an alien takes a hike. _Fresh air? Time for herself? Do aliens have moments where they relive every one of their fuck-ups years later? That be a universal thing?_

If not—It should be. Jo knows the feeling of late-night retrospection all too well. She finds the thoughts irritating to contemplate, and even more irritating when they do not flit away like the rest of life.

“What a mess,” she sits upright, several feet from Ivon’s pod. Jo grimaces. _I’m callin’ it Ivon’s pod, now? Fuck. Fine. They can have the pod._

She does not know how long she sits near the pod, mind drifting lazily through the maelstrom of thoughts. Jo thinks of herself as a slug sometimes; she feels like she is inching toward something, but the distance is far greater than she realizes and there is the alien equivalent of salt _everywhere._ Vaguely, she recalls a time in her youth a girl shoved a slug into her lunch and left her hungry for the day. The thought brings anger first—Then amusement, as she recalls how her siblings worked to ensure her bully did not repeat the action. How Devon got all the slugs into the girl’s backpack is beyond her, a feat of sheer _brilliance_ illustrated in an overly-complicated twelve-step plan in his English notebook.

Tonya’s idea of retribution was less poetic. She had taken scissors to the girl’s hair and cut the long French braid off. Her older sister was suspended for the incident. No punishment ever came over the girl forcing slugs into Jo’s food.

Jo’s eyes dim. What was an agitating memory, then a humorous memory, becomes a bitter memory when she considers her own helplessness in the situation, and her bully getting off scotch-free. Money talks, and the bully in her memory came from a line of wealthy, no-good, exploitative _thieves._ Jo makes a note to give her a free knuckle sandwich if the two cross paths again.

She wonders how Tonya and Devon are doing. Her eyes begin to water. _Do they miss me? Do they think I’m alive? Dead? One of the… One of the…_ She cannot finish the thought, but the number of suspected casualties’ flashes in her head anyways.

One-hundred-thirty-thousand corpses. 

Her brown eyes rise to the pod. She bites her lip. The tears are threatening to fall, but she _must_ hang on, she must keep her cool, she must be strong, she must, she must, she _must_. She must. Jo draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around herself. _I’m tired of being strong. Tired of it. I’m tired, Tonya. I’m tired, Devon. I thought we got life worked out. The three of us, us against the world. I got a good job going on two years. Devon finished his Associates. You worked to support both of us, Tonya, and we were finally gonna get to pay you back. Three of us against the world. Mom and dad would be proud. And then…_

She begins to sob. Trying to bottle everything up, to keep it in, to pretend she has the barest hint of things under control when she does not—It overwhelms her. Her exhaustion helps force the floodgates open. She envies the person in the pod nearby, Ivon, for being able to tolerate the liquid inside and rest there. She wants a place of rest, of refuge, but all she has is herself and the weight on her shoulders. She does not have Tonya or Devon. She does not have her family. She does not even have _Mark_ , whose life was brutally ripped apart in front of her. He was nice enough for her to call him a friend, and then he was dead, and she was not, and she left his body to run.

She sobs for a long time.

* * *

The trip back is not pleasant, but it was _expected,_ as the tall specimen outlined the method of travel before Garcia left earlier that night. The sky is beginning to lighten when the specimen places her down in front of the cloaked ship. The doctor grits her teeth from the physical contact; she holds the bag of pills under one arm while the other swats away small, buzzing insects. She flinches backward when the invisible ship emits a great hiss, then a groan, before the cockpit opens up for the two to climb onboard. She does not heed the alien any attention as she marches past the cockpit, through the corridor of the living quarters, and jabs at the large circle door of the medical bay to open.

Her gray eyes narrow at the sight of Jo hunched over, back against a wall, snoring softly. Garcia strides past the dozing woman and ignores her when she begins to stir. She drums on the glass hatch of the electrician’s pod and huffs when they push it open at her. The doctor holds up the bag of medication and gives it a shake; the sound indicates its contents. Ivon’s eyes widen and Garcia steps back for them to clamber out of their pod.

“How did you… How?” The person struggles to speak, shaking worse than a leaf in a maelstrom.

“Morning,” Jo’s comment is taciturn. Judging by the bloodshot eyes and bags beneath them, Garcia imagines she has had a long night.

“I am still a doctor, Ivon. I write prescriptions. Brazil’s national language is Portuguese, but the pharmacist spoke enough Spanish for us to get along,” Garcia hands off the medicine. Her arms drop to her sides. She narrows her gaze when Jo gives her an incredulous look. The doctor stares until Jo averts her line of sight. _“What?”_

“You’re an American doctor. Not Brazilian. Like fuck you waltzed into a pharmacy, wrote a note, and got dished drugs on a silver platter. What the fuck did you do?” The twenty-six-year-old struggles to sit upright. She curses under her breath and stretches her arms.

Garcia feels indignation boil over under the two’s scrutiny. She hisses at Jo first, then at Ivon. “ _What_ I do to help you both is irrelevant. You have the appropriate prescriptions. Am I correct? I am, aren’t I?”

“They’re here. Technically.” Ivon affirms softly. “But…”

The doctor seethes. Her knuckles clench white. “I was _lugged_ by the Yautja specimen across a _river_ and back—Why does it matter? Why are you fixated on my actions? Not the two alien specimens in the ship? Each other? Why _me?_ ”

“You come off as a pretentious bitch. No offense. But you do.” Jo snaps.

“Forgive me for being _concerned_ with my fellow human beings—”

“And the way you, um, you talk about them,” Ivon looks to the side. “About the aliens. It. Um.”

“They’re sentient life. That oughta count for something, doctor. Life deserves respect.” Jo huffs. She does not shy away when Garcia takes a step toward her. It brings her a sense of pleasure to know the doctor is at least three inches shorter in height. The woman squares her shoulders and stares at Garcia, daring her to say something.

It irks the doctor. She is through trying to help humans who show her no appreciation. The alien life around the humans is dangerous, the Yautja specimen has begun exhibiting more obsessive tendencies, and the two humans onboard the ship would rather chew her out than give a damn. She snarls at both humans. “If you two cannot see the _reasons_ behind my behavior—I will not sit here and _tolerate_ this. Someone here needs to have their head on straight before—”

All three humans freeze and flinch at the sound of a loud roar from the head of the ship. The footsteps that follow, nothing less than a _march_ , are heavy and loud enough for all three humans to step away from the door. No sooner than the three humans do does the door slide into the wall and the tall, muscular figure stride into the medical bay. Garcia’s face drains of color, Ivon begins to tremble, and Jo takes another step back. The latter swallows nervously as the Yautja warrior walks _at_ her and stops in front of her, lowering himself to eye level.

The alien’s mask flashes blue while a monotone voice emits at a volume _nowhere_ near the growls it translates, “Where is Sun-Dew?”

* * *

The hat is beige colored. It has a wide brimmed top, suitable for blocking the yellow dwarf’s light. H’chak feels satisfied in the hat’s function and purpose; according to the doctor he lugs back, the hat should be considered _lovely_ by the Image’s standards.

The thought of giving it to her makes him more nervous than he cares to admit. He does not give things away, not without purpose. The purpose makes sense, he has good reasons, but he still feels the nerves wring his back when he and the doctor return to _Kukulkan._ The ship opens on command; the doctor scurries off to the medical bay while he holds the hat in his hands and stares at it. His mind blanks on where to find the Im-Gen. She does not use the kitchen, and she is— _clearly_ —not in the cockpit. H’chak cannot remember if she uses one of the cabins in the living quarters; he curses himself for not paying more attention.

When he inhales, he catches faint traces of her scent. It is strongest on the lower level of his ship, in the _kehrite._ He uses the lift to drop into the chamber. The hunter clicks his mandibles softly as he sweeps the room; it is empty and untouched. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow behind his mask. He calls out in chirps for the Im-Gen, repeating the sounds until he has checked every room on the lower level of the fuselage segments. The _kehrite,_ the kitchen, and the cargo hold are empty beyond basic equipment and housewares. The hunter’s pace quickens as he double-checks empty crates and containers in the cargo hold; there is no scent permeating any of it, but a sickening feeling in his gut screams at him to make sure.

 _The top floor._ He must have missed her, too hasty in dropping to the _kehrite_ and making rounds across the floor. When he inhales in the cockpit—He gets her scent, faint but hanging on the air. He repeats the action in the corridor of the living quarters. The smell is fainter there, only clustered around the door. H’chak returns to the cockpit, inputs a command to open it, and sticks his head out of the ship. He wills his nerves to calm; his hearts thump wildly against his skull, beating away to a rising worry he does not want to acknowledge. Outside, on the banks of the Black River, he inhales deeply and finds the answer.

The aroma trails into the rainforest. H’chak begins to click a thousand curses. He runs back to the _Kukulkan,_ climbs aboard, and hurries from the cockpit all the way down the corridor to the medical bay. He narrowly resists the urge to rip the door from the wall when it takes a moment to slide open. The hunter strides into the room, mandibles clicking angrily in unison with his growls. His helmet translates, but the sounds he makes are _louder_.

 _“Where is Sun-Dew?”_ The Yautja hisses, approaching the brave-foolish human first. _Jo._

The human is terrified of him, rightly so. All three of them are; he can smell the fear rising from their forms in _droves._ It does not bring him satisfaction. It only increases his worry; the fact the three do not say anything makes him snap his head from one to the other, snarling loudly to voice his rising urge to rip out spines. He will not, but it tempts him.

“She went on a walk,” the brave-foolish human answers for the trio. She flinches backward when he steps closer and lowers himself to her eye level. She has begun to sweat in terror, but her courage is notable; she does not look away from him.

“You let this happen? Let her _walk?_ ” Cetanu help him! He wants to screech! Im-Gen are not combat-efficient! Or—If they are—He doesn’t _know_ enough about them to confirm it!

A dozen different scenarios flies through his head. He begins to click expletives his helmet instinctively translates, going through a list of different Yautja dialects and clan-specific profanities as he paces back-and-forth. He wants to retch in disgust and worry. It claws at his insides; he feels the nausea toss and turn in his stomachs. The idea of his worthy prey, of _his lifeline_ , being injured or harmed by a soft meat or the local fauna—He would rather stab himself. He needs her alive and intact.

“Honestly,” the human called Jo now has her hands up. She grits her teeth. “I thought she came back with you two—If—I had known—”

 _“When did she leave?”_ The hunter snaps, helmet translating the growls a second later.

“I don’t know—When it was night? What time is it now?” The woman frowns.

He does not realize he is holding the hat—Sundew’s hat, the hat for Sundew, it all seems pointless now—tightly in one fist until that moment. The Yautja curses and leaves before his nerves get the better of him. He thanks Cetanu he still dons his hunting equipment; his weapons are already at his side, and he can head out _immediately._ H’chak dumps the hat—her hat, _her_ hat—in the cockpit before he inputs the command to open it. It pops open and he leaps out, stopping only to ensure it closes and _locks_ behind him before he sucks in a breath, catches the tell-tale aroma, and takes off in a run.

His experience as a hunter tells him she did not leave by herself. Not for the time allotted. Unless she got lost in the natural terrain, someone—something, the world, universe, he doesn’t care about the specifics—took her. One situation is marginally better than the second, but both _require_ his attention. He needs to find her, take her back to the ship, sit her in a chair, and give her the damn hat he half-crumpled earlier. She will be happy, he will be happy, and the two can go back to the strained conversations they had before. Everything will be okay; he just needs to find her.

* * *

Her captor is a Yautja. A tall Yautja, with plenty of muscle to back up her captor’s commands. Sundew keeps her clear eyes on the other alien while her captor retrieves a length of rope—woven from fibrous plant strands—and walks to her, intent clear.

“Sit.” The helmet and Yautja voice in unison. Sundew complies. When the Yauta orders her to place her hands behind her back, Sundew does not fight back.

The camp is no camp, but rather a small, cleared area tucked just beyond a hilltop. A fire burns in a small hole dug out of the damp earth; how the Yautja got it going is beyond Sundew, but she admires the outcome. She sits on a large stone jutting from the ground. The Yautja takes great care looping the rope around her wrists and binding them behind her. Sundew cannot help but grimace when her captor pulls the rope taut over her fake flesh; the texture irritates her. Her captor moves back and sits on a mossy log. Thanks to the fire, Sundew gets an excellent glimpse of her.

The Yautja does not wear the armor she has seen on H’chak. It is less _sharp_ , with curving plates of a similar alloy embracing one-half the Yautja’s pectoral muscles, the Yautja’s hips, and the back. The Yautja’s body is mainly obscured by the mesh matrix, but it is a darker, more-opaque material. Like H’chak, this other Yautja also has a sturdy loincloth protecting the groin. That is where the similarities end, because everything else about the Yautja seems different.

She recalls H’chak’s scales being a mesh of dominating green mixed with specks of softer browns and whites. He has many dreadlock-like tendrils falling from the back and sides of his head, some shorter than others. Small quills adorn his body, spaced erratically with no real pattern.

In comparison, Sundew would describe the Yautja holding her captive as more shaven. There are no extra quills jutting from the scaly skin. The dreadlocks are longer, of considerable length—And she does not see scars where dreadlocks have been gouged off, unlike with a patch along the back of H’chak’s head. This other Yautja has deadlocks adorned with metal ringlets and beads. The latter is a decadent match for the deep, coal-gray scales tinted with what she wants to describe as _abyssal_ blue. Sundew cannot make out the eyes behind the mask.

The bio-mask is a whole other story. It is broken, not in the _exact_ way as H’chak’s original mask, but similar. She sees inner components splurging out, with tiny sensors and tubing jutting out one-side and knotting in others. Sundew tilts her head to one side as she stares at the Yautja.

 _This Yautja has… a sivk’va-tai. Dah’kte._ She recalls the names for both the plasmacatcher and the wrist-blade gauntlets in her head. Sundew does not know the word for shortsword, but she notes it is sheathed at the warrior’s hip.

 _“…an Elite hunter… I need to prepare…”_ Sundew understands the clicks. The hunter looks up and catches her stare. The Yautja’s helmet rumbles, “Image. What is your sequence?”

* * *

Im-Gen, Images, are not common creatures to see across the cosmos. Most claim Saturn as their hive planet but pockets of their kind can be found across similar gas giants. Most clans do not consider them _worthy prey._ Some clans do not even think of them as more than soft meat, ranking the lifeforms the same as squishy, fragile _oomans._ Vayuh’ta exhales sharply as she tends to the small fire at the center of the camp; the smoke rises in soft plumes, as quick to dissipate in the damp air as she is to recant old memories, forgotten until then. 

Clan Ka’Torag-na has secrets— _whispers_ —of the past. They are the tales muttered behind closed doors of Elders, the fables spun into the metalwork of their weapons and armor, and the fears pressed upon Sucklings to make them behave. These stories are passed orally from old to young to old again, a loop of warnings and cautionary parables imploring the world against the mistakes of their fallen allies. One of these _whispers_ is no longer repeated, deemed improbable by the current Matriarch. It is in that whisper Vayuh’ta’s mind returns, tracing back cycles upon cycles as she watches the Image nearby.

The Yautja of the present refer to them as Images, a name given in reference to their abilities to transmit images to an organic creature’s neurons. It is not the species’ forerunner name.

 _Vekin._ The word makes her tense. Vayuh’ta feels a maelstrom of emotions spiral in her head, stomach, and throat. Everything from uncertainty to the briefest hint of fear passes through her. She takes a long minute to calm her nerves, remind herself the _whispers_ are simply words passed under a planet's sky, and breathe. The Images are simple, easy, weak prey. They are inefficient shifters, incapable of doing more than producing weak electrical charges and absorbing mass to copy another lifeform’s cellular mass. _But the Vekin…_

“Image.” Vayuh’ta’s helmet voices the words. “What is your sequence?”

It is one of the few snippets of information her clan possesses that most Yautja clans do not. The _sequence_ is a series of triangular shapes composing the _name_ of an Image, describing the arrangement and connecting it to a word in the receiver’s language. To her irritation, the Yautja observes her prisoner tilt her head and stare at her. Vayuh’ta growls lowly; the Image does not understand the predicament she is in. Alternatively—She knows, and she refuses to cooperate. The latter is likelier. Vayuh’ta curses softly, the clicking of her mandibles a faint sound against the wildlife around the two.

She rises to her feet. Her hand goes to her Elder Blade. She knows she must be careful—An Image can react based on injuries to their body. She has bound the physical body, but she knows Images have a liquid state. Cut too deep and the liquid state becomes exposed, capable of engulfing and absorbing organic matter into itself—Over a matter of _time._ The Yautja makes a point to unsheathe her sword as she strides to her bound prisoner. She kneels next to the Image, briefly distracted by the fascinating reflection of the fire’s light against the Image’s silver skin.

“If you don’t cooperate—I will start with phalanges. Then—Teeth. Ears. Eyes will be last. You will watch me carve you.” Vayuh’ta’s helmet does not need to carry tone to carry the bloody implication behind it.

She smells fear seep through the air, pungent and sweet. She takes her sword and twists it to caress the Image’s face, bringing the tip in and slitting a faint line down the Image’s cheek. The shudder of pain that comes from her prisoner is indicative that she feels pain. _Good._

“Sundew.”

“A plant from _Terra?_ ” The helmet intones.

The next cut is a little deeper, dipping down the Image’s face to her neck. Vayuh’ta takes care to avoid major blood vessels. She lets her blade rest where the thermal mesh begins; the presence of the blade is a threat in of itself. Vayuh’ta hopes the Image ceases her stubbornness; she does not want to make things too messy.

“You,” the Image bows her head, exhaling sharply when the Elder Blade begins to press into the soft, silver flesh. “—Are not _H’chak._ I do not know you.”

 _I am not Mercy? Is that the name of the Yautja? That Elite?_ Vayuh’ta draws the sword back and sheathes it. She sits on the ground in front of _Sundew_ and looks up at her, examining the curious contours of the lifeform’s face. Her eyes admire the way shadows are cast and visible through the lifeform’s clear eyes; it truly looks like she has the face of a trophy.

“Sun-Dew.” Vayuh’ta carries on with the questioning. “Why are you traveling with a Yautja Arbitrator? With Mercy?”

“His full name is not H’chak.” The Image responds immediately. There is no tone to her words, but Vayuh’ta cannot help but get the impression the lifeform is mildly offended.

“What is his full name?” The huntress asks. “Why call him _Mercy?”_

“I cannot pronounce the first part of his name efficiently. I do not want to use it until I can replicate the appropriate sounds. Are you asking to know his name?”

“I am.” Vayuh’ta clicks softly ahead of her helmet’s translation.

“No Mercy.”

 _A strange name. M-di-H’chak. Or is it meant to be interpreted as ‘Merciless’?_ The huntress finds herself at a lack of words, perplexed and intrigued all in one. The name is familiar to her, but she cannot place it in all her cycles of life.

“What is your name?” The Image looks at her, head tilt to one side.

Vayuh’ta growls behind her mask. The monotonous voice translates a second later, “What right do you have to that information?”

“You are not going to kill me.” Sundew’s response is calm. When Vayuh’ta begins to unsheathe her sword once again, the Image adds on, “Torturing is not killing.”

“It comes close.”

“Most Yautja clans uphold a Code of Honor. You have no reason to break it.”

Vayuh’ta’s mandibles click together with irritation. She stands, grabs the Image by the collar of the mesh bodysuit, and drags the Image to the flames. The reaction is instant: the lifeform’s eyes grow wide and she stills immediately in Vayuh’ta’s grasp. Vayuh’ta begins to press the Image’s face closer to the fire, growling and snarling all the while. The anger and bitterness in her voice does not carry over to her helmet’s translation, “I am a Bad Blood. My clan dishonored me. I do not need to follow the code.”

“You are a Bad Blood—" The Image begins to squirm in her grasp, trying to shift away from the fire.

* * *

On Vayuh’ta’s computer—The machine emits two small, soft _pings._

The Yautja is too busy with the Image to notice.

* * *

_“… Bad Blood. My clan … I do not need to follow the code.”_ The Synthetic understands enough of the clicks to catch the meaning of the Yautja’s words, well before the alien’s helmet begins its monotonous translation.

“I am a Bad Blood. My clan dishonored me. I do not need to follow the code.”

A Bad Blood. She does not know if the Yautja is _the_ Bad Blood H’chak initially came to Earth to hunt. She begins to squirm in the Yautja’s large, muscular grasp, struggling to get away from the flames and de-escalate the situation. “You are a Bad Blood—What clan?”

 _“Clan…”_ The clicks that follow are dissonant and eerie to listen to. Sundew knows she is incapable of replicating the clicks, but she tries to correlate the sounds with the memories of H’chak she picked up over the feedings at the Research Center. It is impossible to concentrate on when the heat of the small fire licks her face. She writhes against the Yautja’s iron-clad grip, beginning to hiss in pain. The Yautja does not appear fazed by her struggles.

“The Lurking Clan. I am surprised you were not told this by the Arbitrator. Has my former clan fallen so low?” The helmet voices.

Sundew begins to curse. The heat of the flames is agonizing, and she cannot focus with the searing pain scaling her form. She breaks her calm, neutral tone just long enough to cuss and snap at the Yautja, “I am trying to help you!”

Her patience runs out when the Yautja pulls her back and begins to laugh at her, dangling her off the ground. The warrior does not take her seriously, does not view her as anything more than _unworthy prey._ She knows what she is, but she does not have a wish for expiration. She does not want to leave H’chak to face this individual alone. She does not even want to let the three humans on the ship die, which she knows is guaranteed if H’chak and her are forcibly expired by the Yautja. She promised to come back to him no matter the circumstances; the Synthetic does not break her word easily.

The charge of electricity surges forward and ensnares the Yautja like a boa constricting prey: traveling the length of the warrior, shorting out equipment, and coursing through her veins. The howl of pain that comes from the warrior is only the start; Sundew’s gaze narrows as she forces the electrical currents of tens, hundreds, _thousands_ of memories to transmit to the Yautja’s mind. Some of them are random, an assortment of flashing triangles and oscillating colors, but others are copies of memories taken from the individuals she has fed upon, such as James Heinrich, Miranda Escrow, and H’chak. The heat generated by the transfer of information is _unbearable,_ but the Synthetic’s own cries are hushed by the howling, cursing Yautja nearby.

It is over in seconds. The Yautja drops Sundew and falls backward, stumbling and grabbing hold of rocks to keep from toppling off her feet. Sundew’s mind spins as her body begins to cool. She pants, in part hoping the humid air will help, but everything is too hot. She drops to her knees, hands remaining bound behind her. Her vision distorts between clear, blurry, and clear again.

She can hear the memories playing through her head, the distinct clicks and growls of different Yautja coming and going with the wind. She envisions the life of James Heinrich, his trials and tribulations, and the extravagantly wealthy lifestyle of Miranda Escrow. She sees faint memories of the unnamed medical personnel she drank to a husk at the research center. She sees memories of someone else, too, a human woman in her twenties, with horrified gray eyes backing away from her. The woman’s voice is no more than a whisper in her head. _I do not understand. I want to help you. I was just trying to help you._

 _I must find GHOST._ A command, a directive, and a sequenced name.

She remembers dozens of triangles coming together to form the shape of a skull. It is not human. It is GHOST. She does not know the context of the sequence, beyond existing as a label for humanity to understand one of her kind.

“What the fuck did you do to me? Image.” The helmet voices the words eloquently, with no hint of the aggression falling off the Yautja in _droves._ The huntress is back on her feet and grabbing her sword, pulling it from the sheathe as she marches over and takes Sundew by the throat. She does not plunge the weapon in, but the indecisiveness over whether she _should_ remains obvious to the Image.

“Images,” the Synthetic blinks, oddly calm after the rush of electricity and relived memories. “They are of the past. Some belong to humans. Some belong to H’chak. I believe the latter remains of relevance to you.”

 _“Cjit!”_ The clicks come as the huntress drops her, rips off her helmet, and begins to curse incessantly in her tongue. She snaps her head back to look at Sundew.

The huntress has bright orange eyes, big and bold and reminding her of—

“Jupiter.” Sundew says softly. Her head tilts to one side. She can see confusion arrive on the Yautja’s face. The Image resists imitating a human laugh; she doubts the Yautja would appreciate her sense of humor.

She does not expect the huntress to pull her sword back and slam it into her gut. The pain comes immediately; the Image’s face pales. Her cry of pain rings out against the early-morning sky overhead. Clear liquid begins to ooze as the Yautja holding the blade pushes it through the fake flesh and mesh bodysuit. Sundew cannot keep herself from screaming when the sword impales her physical composition and the blade pokes out the other side.

The Yautja holding her leans forward and hisses into the Image’s ears. _“I am not playing games, Image. You are here to answer my questions. I will take the head of your Arbitrator as a trophy, just as I have done the previous.”_

When the huntress begins to pull the sword back, Sundew hisses and thrashes her head side-to-side. “No—"

 _“Then answer my questions.”_ The huntress snaps. _“Why are you traveling with M-di-H’chak?_ ”

“We are,” it hurts to speak, but she doesn’t have the strength to send out electrical charges. Not right now. The Synthetic cusses under breath and tries to concentrate long enough to say, “We were— _Specimens—_ Stargazer—”

* * *

Vayuh’ta does not miss the fact her captive understands her dialect of the Yautja language. She takes her sword by the handle and draws it out in one smooth motion, invoking another choir of agonized noises from the Image. She lets the Image’s body drop. The Image bleeds clear fluid but judging by the twitching—She is still alive. Vayuh’ta’s gaze narrows. The damn lifeform _decimated_ her helmet; she will need to keep the Arbitrator’s intact if she is to have any hope of not suffocating in the coming days.

Begrudgingly, she walks to the side of the camp, pulls a bundle of pouches from the shadows, and begins to sift through them. She procures a small vial of liquid and a syringe. It is equipment stolen from the last Arbitrator her former clan sent, but she never thought she would waste the drug on an _Image_ of all lifeforms. Vayuh’ta uncaps the vial, draws it into the syringe, then walks to the Image’s side. She ignores the soft, pained moans that arise from her handling the stabbed flesh; Vayuh’ta shoves the needle into the wound and slowly injects the liquid.

She is grateful to have bound the Image’s hands behind her back, because the convulsions kick in _immediately._ The Image’s silver body begins to thrash and fight against her, incoherent wails and begging in multiple languages coming from the alien’s lips. Vayuh’ta keeps her pinned to the ground; she ignores the Image’s struggles and draws back only once the syringe is empty. The Image sobs into the ground; the mess is nowhere near the calm, neutral composure displayed mere minutes ago.

 _“I know what your kind is capable of. Replicating… Mimicry. I remember the whispers.”_ Vayuh’ta remarks. _“You lie, Image. Your kind is full of liars.”_

“I am _not_ —” The Image continues to speak even through the tears. “I have not—Been—Pretending—”

 _“Perhaps that was your first mistake. Not playing to your strengths,”_ She says.

“I am not a liar,” Sundew whispers. “Not to you—To the—Ivon—Jo—H’chak—I have not—”

 _“Your Arbitrator keeps a lot of humans_.” Vayuh’ta wipes off her sword and sheathes it. She looks at her fried computer and growls in frustration.

“Gahn…” The Image struggles to say something, a deeper set of clicks and growls. “Gahn… Gahn’tha-cte. Clan. His clan. Not—Yours.”

The words come just as Vayuh’ta catches sight of three red dots glowing at her feet. Her eyes widen; she hears the plasmacaster charge up a shot just as she finishes processing the Image’s words. The Yautja dives to the ground, throwing her body over the Image’s to shield the injured lifeform from the ensuing explosion. She ignores the other alien’s pained inquiry and scoops the Image up in her arms just in time to hear the start of a second plasmacaster charging for a shot. The huntress abandons her pouches to the camp and takes a leap as heat razes her backside, the plasma shot ringing loudly in the early-morning air.

 _“Pauk!”_ Vayuh’ta curses. _“What honor is there in sending two of them?!"_


	13. friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of arc 2!

_“Breaching troposphere. Dropping in ten.”_

The words are sent directly to the two hunter’s helmets, each in sync with the other despite the two ships independently dropping through _Terra_ ’s atmosphere. The lights in her cabin dim. She grips the handholds of the drop pod and leans her head back, feeling the curl of her dreadlocks around her neck and the mesh suit adorning her form. She feels heavy; the emotion hangs over her body despite the logical side of her brain reminding her of her duties and responsibility to the clan.

 _“Hey! Spacehead. Get ahold of yourself, we’re prepping to drop.”_ The communicator voices her fellow _kv’var-de_ ’s words.

The huntress growls instinctively. Her helmet’s sensors picks up everything she says, automatically transmitting it to the Brawler in the other pod. _“Kwei-Luar-Ke does not translate to ‘spacehead.’ Know your place.”_

 _“Apologies for the concern, your highness. Never again will I, a low kv’var-de, insult such a famed and powerful sain’ja. Cetanu forgive me!”_ The man on the other end reeks of sarcasm. The trill of humor that follows makes Kwei hiss.

She knows why T’Gou was selected for this Hunt. It is the same reason _she_ was approached for the hunt by the clan Matriarch. If it was any other Hunt, if the prey was not the huntress she once trained, if the prey was not the woman responsible for the death of Kiande-Dekna and her pups, Sly Moon knows no _lou-dte kale_ would be selected much less approached. There is no reason for the women of Ka’Torag-Na to endanger themselves over a Bad Blood.

 _“Hey. Hey. Hey. Spacehead. Spacehead! We’re dropping—”_ T’Gou’s voice falls through the communicator, a hint of sincere concern behind the man’s usual snark and sass.

Kwei bows her head and shuts her eyes. She holds the contents of her stomach in as she feels the ship lurch forward. She hears the mechanisms of the spacecraft move her pod from the cargo hold walls to its end. A great hiss of metal comes beyond the pod walls; she recognizes it as the door to the cargo hold opening. Instinctively, she braces herself, though she knows she will be dead from shock long before impact if her pod fails to catch its descent. As the feeling of weightlessness comes, the pod tips forward and Kwei holds in a breath. The ship groans as the pod falls free—Down, down, down unto the humid morning rainforest below.

* * *

The small, portable computer strapped to his left bicep pings twice to alert the hunter to the presence of two new spacecraft. H’chak stops in his leaps, panting as he dismisses the notifications. His orange eyes darken behind his mask; he does not know why two Yautja hunters have arrived on _Terra._ The planet is neutral hunting grounds, but two hunters at the same location is far from coincidental. His stomach twists at the thought it has something to do with the Image he intends to give a hat. H’chak quickly calms himself and returns his thoughts to the search; there is no reason for either hunter to care about Sundew.

 _Maybe they want what took her._ The thought makes him click his mandibles with worry. He takes off in a run, foliage and flora passing by in a haze of green and brown.

* * *

 _“Is this an equal Hunt, T’Gou?”_ She clicks the words softly, already in position across the forest floor. Her plasma rifle rests on two tripod stands, humming softly as it waits for her to pull the trigger.

She does not usually hunt with the caliber of weaponry. Bow and arrows, yes, but not plasma rifles. It reminds her too much of her time on-duty as a member of the Ka’Torag-Na Military force. There is no doubt the weapon in her grip is _powerful,_ but she wonders if it is too much; Hunts are meant to be after equal prey, and between a former Class A _p’kya’uha_ and a Brawler, the Hunt seems favored considerably in their odds. One-on-one, Kwei figures her former student is capable of an equally matched fight full of blood, adrenaline, and glory. _But here we are. It is not one-on-one, is it?_

 _“What’ya mean, Spacehead?”_ The nickname irks her. When the two return to the pods and are retrieved by the orbit crew—She intends to show the bastard a thing or two in a fistfight. She may be a former Stalker, but her fists hit as hard as the next. Kwei holds her breath as T’Gou’s voice carries on, full of his on-brand snark and _riveting_ personality. _“This is what the Matriarch asked of us. You want to tell her no? N’Ritja-Zabin will have your head! Maybe more than that. A liver, kidney, something.”_

_“I’ll be sure to ask when we see her next. After I tell her your exploits with the cabin crew en route to Terra.”_

_“Hey, I’m a looker. Why? You jealous?”_ It is a tease, but Kwei makes a note to rip out the man’s mandibles later. She can have a _cabin crew_ member fix them.

_“You don’t think it’s strange we’re hunting a kv’var-de with weapons that could pass for military-grade? She isn’t a Queen; this isn’t an outbreak. Any hunters could be sent as Arbitrators—”_

_“Ah, so the Spacehead fails to keep tabs on the rest of us! I can’t blame you, I understand how distracting it is to have me around all cycle,”_ T’Gou’s goofery suddenly falls flat and his voice dips into a serious tone, every click, growl, and soft screech enunciated. _“Word is—She dispatched the last two Arbitrators sent. Hunted the hunters.”_

 _“That’s expected. Neither of them should have gone alone; she’s trained in both forms. I don’t know what Zabin was thinking.”_ Kwei inhales slowly, tasting the sweet aroma coming through her mask’s respiratory features. The scent throws her off; she shudders and re-centers herself. 

When T’Gou does not respond fast enough—She begins to grow nervous. The nerves of the Hunt set in and she clicks her mandibles over the communication line. She hears his soft exhale. _“…You won’t believe what I’m seeing.”_

_“If it’s another joke, T’Gou—”_

_“There’s an Image with her.”_

_“Well.”_ Kwei wants to snort. _“You almost made me worried. I thought you were about to go off about her having a pet r’ka.”_

_“That would be too easy. I tore one’s carapace off in my Blooding. Could do it again.”_

The huntress’s mandibles click softly, amused by the thought. _“Bet you can do all sorts of cjit with your hands.”_

_“Well, I wouldn’t mind showing you after this.”_

Only T’Gou could find time to flirt in the middle of a Hunt. Typical brawler; she cannot help snort into the communication line before clicking her response. _“Prey first. I see them both—Image confirmed, this’ll be quick. Don’t take a shot unless I miss.”_

 _“I don’t even get a shot? Rude, Kwei. Rude.”_ T’Gou clicks twice, sharp but joking. _“I’ll count on seeing you when we debrief after this’s over.”_

 _“Prepping my shot now.”_ Her dark, dusky gray-blue eyes narrow behind her mask. Her hands cradle her plasma rifle against her, using both her body’s natural weight and the two miniature tripods to keep it level and _still._ The former sniper reaches backward and gently runs a gloved hand down the side. It is cloaked, as is she, but she knows her way around a gun well enough to feel the safety. The second it flips off the core of the barrel begins to rev and hum with energy. The weapon’s coating, a special alloy made of veritanium and another metal she doesn’t recall, heats up considerably. The warmth gives her a sense of peace; she can do this.

Through the scope of her rifle, the huntress shifts the angle two degrees, until the faint red dots line up precisely with the Yautja’s head. She finds a moment of melancholy as she looks at her former student, at the huntress who once came to her for advice on becoming a _mei-jadhi_ instead of remaining a _mei-hswei_. Vayuh’ta once trusted her. Kwei utters a prayer as her finger pulls the trigger.

A foot _slams_ into the rifle just as the gun finishes its charge and rockets a ball of blue light forward; the huntress curses as the plasma soars to the sound of deep, lethal growls. She can only sputter and stare as she is hauled to her feet, the end of a combistick jutting out her torso. Bright green blood spills forth as she stares, stunned, into the mask of another _kv’var-de._ Her mind reels but she clicks the order at T’Gou, _“We have a guest—"_

 _“Kwei?”_ But the plasmacaster thunders out anyways. A second ball of energy shoots forward while Kwei turns her attention to the hunter in front of her.

* * *

She hits the forest floor _sprinting._ Each step takes a little more out of her as she leaps over fallen trees, veers around rocks, sidesteps moss, and avoids careening into any one of the dozens of animal life awakening across the Amazon Rainforest. Instinctively, the huntress tries to cloak, only to hear the computer at her wrist crackle once before giving out. The air is humid and heavy, sticking to her scaly skin like grime as the huntress forces her legs to last longer. She can hear the sounds far behind her—the breaking of tree limbs, snapping of dead brush, and the purr of _sivk’va-tai_ charging for their next shot. Her thermal vision is nigh-useless for tracking where the _kv’var-de_ aim—She can only catch glimpses of the red dots when the weapons are prepping to fire.

Vayuh’ta growls into the wind as she runs. She knows the direction takes her deeper into the wilds, where there is no rush of moving water. The potential for human contact remains—there are many uncontacted indigenous groups across the Amazon—but it is significantly lowered compared to running along a main waterway. She finds a measure of comfort in knowing a self-destruct device shouldn’t take extra life—until she remembers the computer attached to her gauntlet is _fried_ , and the self-destruct device rendered useless without manual detonation.

Her injured form cannot hold up the Image forever. When she drops from a clearing one too many feet tall, the huntress falls to one knee and curses in a myriad of dissonant growls and screeches. She drops the Image and holds her sides. Her burns lick through her scales, penetrating the flesh below and leaving her body singing in pain. Next to her, a strained mess in light her rapidly healing wounds, the Image leans against a tree for support and exhales softly. “What is your name?”

_“Now is not—”_

“They are coming to kill you.” The Image remarks bluntly. She pushes herself upright. “I assume they will kill us both. Given your intentions to do the latter, and your explicit refusal to let me walk the Amazon alone, I request knowledge of—”

 _“Cetanu, shush!”_ Vayuh’ta snaps. _“I will stick my sword in your gut a second time!”_

“A poor decision. My screams will alert your _kv’var-de_ to this location.” It aggravates Vayuh’ta to hear the Image say one of _her_ words accurately.

Stabbing is not off the menu yet—Merely postponed until she figures out how to survive the situation. She cannot face two-on-one, not unless the hunters are recently Blooded or of a lower ranking. She questions her odds with Blooded hunters regardless; the power of numbers is not to be overestimated when death is a guest at the table. Vayuh’ta hisses at the Image, wanting to convey every _ounce_ of distaste over the present circumstances. Sundew tilts her head to one side and looks on without a smile or frown.

 _“Vayuh’ta!”_ The huntress howls in pain when she tries to rise to her feet. The burns sting terribly, like pins and needles shoved into each nerve a little deeper than the second prior. _“Maelstrom! I am Maelstrom! Of Clan Ka’Torag-Na! Are you happy, Im-Gen? I am Vayuh’ta! Bad Blood of the Lurking Clan! So-called killer of pups, slayer of Hard Eyes!”_

“I do not know what I am right now, but the sensation is not _happy,_ ” is the silver humanoid’s response. Sundew walks to her side and throws an arm around the— _much taller_ —huntress’ figure. She helps the warrior to her feet, no less than a hundred curses clicking under Vayuh’ta’s breath in the process. The Image is surprisingly assertive when she speaks again. “—Lean against me. We must not stay in one place. Yautja move quickly.”

 _“We do,”_ Vayuh’ta snarls. 

* * *

All he sees is red.

The world is a blend of gentle greens, welcoming browns, and every hue of the color families, but spite of the natural beauty of _Terra_ around him—All he sees is _red._

The huntress has military-grade weaponry, aimed directly at the camp a hundred yards out. His thermal vision confirms his worries; he can see another Yautja _and_ the pink outline of the Im-Gen present at the camp clearing. The huntress is on a Hunt, and regardless of _who_ the prey is, the huntress shows dishonor in using such powerful weapons against a Yautja and an Image, against _Sundew._ That fact alone has his blood brewing violently in his body, aghast at the lack of honor displayed and the huntress’ _nerve_ to shoot Sundew.

He has his combistick out in a second, the weapon activating with the timing of his jump; he comes crashing down on the huntress to the tune of _her_ weapon preparing to fire. His foot makes contact; the plasma rifle shifts and the heat courses through his body as he feels the barrel shudder and the blast of plasma fly out at the camp. He does not have time to look back as his spear automatically extends to full length and comes plunging on the huntress’ torso, muscle memory guiding it home past the weak points of her mesh bodysuit and into the scaly flesh below. He hears her screech and the roar of pain.

He sees red.

 _How dare they_ repeats in his mind on loop. It is far past being about _honor_ now—All he feels is the outrage they try to harm the Image, his _lifeline_ , the one shot he has renewing his Honor—All he sees is _red_ upon _red_ upon great globs of crimson, his thermal sights locked on the bright-red heat signature in front of him as he drags the huntress to her feet with one hand clutched around her throat. He _bellows_ in anger at her, bloodlust permeating his bones. His free hand grips his combistick and in one smooth motion he rips it out and _throws_ her against the trees. She roars in pain and falls, struggling to get to her feet—But he is an Elite.

He is an Elite _kv’var-de._

He is _furious_ and all he sees is red.

She brings her hands up, gauntlets on her wrist activating and freeing the serrated blades within. The huntress hisses a warning at him. Something about— _Back off. This is a Hunt._ It goes over his head; he cannot stop trembling as he strides forward. The huntress dives to the side at the first swipe of his combistick. Her injuries do not hold her back as much as they should; she twirls on the balls of her feet and brings her hands up in a plunging strike aimed at his chest. There is no way to dodge, so he leans into the blow and lets his veritanium plates take the hit; the _dah’kte_ grind in anguish and shoot tiny sparks as they deflect off his armor.

He sees red.

She has enough experience to fall back at the realization of _what_ he wears. Her mask cannot hide the hint of fear that rises and seeps through the air. It is sweet, perhaps as sweet as Sundew, but it is not enough to bring him to good graces. He leaps forward and slams his combistick over his head and into one gauntlet. The huntress parries, but her attempts to bring her other hand up is met by _his_ hand grabbing hers mid-air and forcing her back. The other Yautja curses aloud as she steps away. Blood falls freely from her side; the bright green registers as an off-orange in his thermal vision.

 _“Who are you?”_ The huntress spits. _“I am—Kwei—Luar-Ke—From Clan Ka’Torag-Na! We have authority to Hunt on this planet—”_

He cannot form words. He sees red, and he sees red, and he sees _red_ as he screeches and snarls in response.

He comes at her again, cutting her off mid-sentence. Words are mind games; hunters who use them are _losing._ The Elite feints a blow and drops his combistick mid-strike, letting it bump against her gauntlets when she brings them up to block. His own gauntlets activate and the serrated blades plunge into the woman’s torso; he drags them up and at an angle as they are pulled out. The heaps of flesh and off-orange signatures of blood tell him the serrated edges have paid their dues. The woman sputters and falls backward, crashing against the base of a tree trunk.

He knows the symptoms of shock. He does not care about taking prisoners. He watches the fear emanate from the huntress’ body, a mess of a Yautja warrior about to be sent off to the final rest.

 _“Who are you?”_ The huntress pleads a final request.

The Elite _kv’var-de_ growls and pulls his combistick from the ground. He raises it up over her head and snaps his goodbye, _“M-dhi-H’chak.”_

_“Merciless.”_

Then the bladed ends of his combistick crashes down and slices through the woman’s mask and skull like paper. H’chak catches his breath and exhales sharply as the adrenaline wears off. His eyes fall upon blood on his hands and spear; it takes a long second for him to realize it is not his own. The hunter deactivates his combistick and falls to his knee to begin the defusal process of the dead Yautja’s wrist-computer. It comes instinctively, _as it should,_ and the device disarms after ten strenuous seconds of careful fiddling.

 _“Cetanu forgive you for your dishonor, Kwei-Luar-Ke.”_ The hunter feels anger brew inside him once more. He looks over his shoulder and spots the plasma rifle, barrel bent awkwardly. The Yautja walks over to it and smashes it under one foot, stomping it into pieces and ensuring the military-grade weaponry cannot be used with dishonor again. He takes a piece of the barrel as a reminder of the brief fight, a trophy for his clan ship’s rooms.

The sound of a plasmacatcher firing in the distance alerts him to the reason he ran into the rainforest to begin with. His orange eyes narrow behind his mask and he takes off leaping and running toward the noise.

There is only one name on his mind, _Sundew._

* * *

_“Take my sword. Drive it through me. Kill me with honor. Spare me the pain.”_ The clicks come in pleads, each as fervent as the rest.

The Synthetic does not care about the huntress’ begging. She ignores the words when they repeat, continuing to haul the larger figure forward. Her clear eyes remain ahead, and she notes the natural geography as the two slowly drag forward. Trees are good for ducking around, streams to be avoided, and she knows the huntress complaining at her side can no longer handle heights beyond a foot, if that. It is all a mess quashed together in her head; she tries not to think about how quickly the _kv’var-de_ will catch up.

“Do you know about the genus _drosera?_ ” is what the Synthetic starts into when the Yautja at her side begins to snarl and growl in unfettered pain. Sundew ignores the complaints and goes on. “Almost two-hundred-cycles past today, a human by the name of Charles Darwin discovered certain flora of this planet obtain nutrition through acts of carnivory.”

Yahuy’ta begins to howl in pain at her side. _“The death they give me... it will be worse than anything... Anything you can do—”_

“There are other plants on this planet capable of carnivory. I do not remember the names of their families, as they are long and irrelevant to my interests at this present time. I do recall one of them possessing a name far less appealing in comparison to my current one—”

 _“Are you listening?”_ The pain weeps in her clicks, her growls, and her screeches.

Sundew pauses and looks at the side. She can feel the cold, clammy sweats perspire and dampen the mesh matrix adorning the injured Yautja’s body. Her clear gaze narrows. “Certain humans across Earth experience delirium daily. The chemistry of their brain leaves much to be understood—”

There is no time for future words as a blast of plasma arcs across the air and engulfs the tree ten feet from the duo. Sundew throws up her hands while Vayuh’ta falls backward in a mess of pained howls and profanities. A shimmering outline uncloaks to reveal a tall, beefy Yautja warrior. If not for the pale brown scales and intricate beads adorning the dreadlocks, Sundew knows she might mistake the figure for H’chak. She freezes in place, unable to tear her gaze away. On the ground, the Yautja who was once her captor, groans and struggles to rise. Sundew steps between the huntress and the approaching hunter.

 _“Look who it is_!” The voice is oddly cheery, as if the hunter behind the mask is out on a pleasant stroll versus in the middle of a Hunt. _“Vayuh’ta! Mei-jadhi! It has been cycles! Where you been hiding out?”_

 _“Cetanu,”_ the word is spoken as an expletive. Vayuh’ta does not accept Sundew’s help staggering upright. _“T’Gou—Why are you here? What are you…? No, why did they send you?”_

The gauntlets on the Yautja’s hands clink and activate, causing long, serrated blades to pop out. The warrior gestures amicably to the terrain around the trio. _“Forgive me, forgive me! I didn’t mean to startle you, mei-jadhi! But I’ve had a knack for seeing Terra firsthand and the offer arose—”_

 _“You accepted this assignment? You chose this Hunt, mei’hswei?”_ There is a vile hate in the words, far stronger than anything even Doctor Garcia could hurl.

 _“Did you expect me to say no? M-di?”_ T’Gou halts a foot away, stretching his arms as if the three are no more than old friends catching up.

 _“Ell-osde’ pauk would have been a better answer, T’Gou. Where is your honor?”_ The huntress at her side seethes in anger.

The laugh that comes reverberates through the trees. T’Gou puffs up his chest. _“My honor is right here, mei-jadhi! Right where I left it. Now the question is—Where is yours? Last I checked—You left it when you abandoned Clan Ka’Torag-Na. When you slaughtered Kiande-Dekna and her pups! You speak of honor but you have none!”_

_“I did not kill them, s’yuit-de kv’var-de! I am innocent!”_

_“Dishonorable to the end. Cetanu judge you accordingly,”_ T’Gou rips the Yautja from Sundew’s side, but not before she grabs hold of the huntress and pulls back. The hunter growls behind his mask, the direction of it indicating he looks at her. _“Wait your turn, Im-Gen!”_

A sleek, shining spear, spotted with bright green and gleaming under the sunlight, flies and passes right where the hunter once stood. T’Gou hisses from where he lands feet away, already raising his gauntlets and scanning the trees for the attacker. A clump of _mud_ falls from the tree canopies above; Sundew looks up but all she sees is the grimy outline of a cloaked hunter before the figure _leaps_ and lands between her, Vayuh’ta, and the opposing hunter. 

She does not remember him being so beautiful, or so thoroughly covered in mud.

The hunter’s body is caked in mud. H’chak’s armor peeks out between the swatches of wet earth, reflecting dents, scratches, and the shining veritanium alloy. Green blood mixes into dark patches of the mud, but there is no visible sign of injury. The hunter breathes heavily, as if having run a marathon just to get there, but he remains upright and strong, every muscle rippling and active in his mesh. His gauntlets are already active; the serrated blades differ slightly in design compared to T’Gou’s, with the curve sharper and serrated edges less in number.

The sight of the armor must be off-putting to the opposing hunter, as Sundew looks over and sees him recoil and step back. _“Hey—Hey! This is the middle of a Hunt! You’re interrupting—”_

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ He does not acknowledge the other hunter further, looking back over his shoulder at her. H’chak sounds strained when he asks, clicking away softly. _“Did they hurt you?”_

“This one wants to,” the Image states, pointing to T’Gou. She frowns. “Did they hurt _you,_ H’chak?”

His amused cackle is her answer. The Synthetic relaxes considerably at the sound. She kneels next to Vayuh’ta and ignores the individual’s stare. The injured huntress hisses in pain when Sundew pulls her to her feet. Beyond the two, past H’chak, the other hunter growls at the group. T’Gou clangs the blades of his gauntlets together and roars, _“The cjit is this? Hidin’ an Elite up your sleeve, Vayuh’ta?”_

 _“I do not know who Vayuh’ta is. Nor do I care. Your ally is dead. You show dishonor using military-grade weapons on a Hunt.”_ H’Chak clicks each word calmly. _“Consider your last words before I extend the final rest.”_

 _“You killed Kwei?”_ T’Gou growls. _“Bastard!”_

Then T’Gou charges.

Sundew does not remember seeing H’chak fight before. The time at the Research Center was hindered by such strong ultraviolet lights. Granted, the sun shines from above, but the mesh bodysuit she wears appears to help regulate her body temperature at more comfortable levels, and she finds some shade in hefting Vayuh’ta’s larger body up and leaning her against her smaller frame. Her eyes widen in awe as she watches H’chak leap forward, no hint of fear, and slam into the ground just _before_ T’Gou’s body.

A wave of dust jumps into the air. H’Chak’s muddy figure ducks two punches and sidesteps a third before he falls back to the trees. The _kv’var-de_ grabs hold of a thin trunk and uses his momentum to swing around it, crashing into T’Gou’s back when the other hunter tries to follow suit. It throws the latter off balance and makes the brawler careen into a thicket; H’Chak steps backward and growls at his foe impatiently. The hum of a _sivk’va-tai_ fills the air as the opposing hunter’s plasmacaster begins to charge. H’Chak ducks to the side and swipes his combistick back up, deactivating the weapon while T’Gou takes aim.

The latter’s howls are hideous. It takes a second to register the howls as _laughter,_ but it isn’t until the plasmacaster prepares to fire Sundew sees why. T’Gou shifts the aim of it to point the gun at Vayuh’ta and herself, unafraid of death in favor of completing his Hunt. Sundew tries to shift her body in front of the Yautja, to repay her for the shot she took earlier, but a gleam of metal _flies_ threw the air and knocks the gun off-center. The barrel shoots a blast of plasma into the air while the deactivated combistick drops to the gorund. T’Gou snaps his head at H’chak, but the other is already advancing, blades popping out of his gauntlets once more as he stalks forward in a _rage._

First is the feint—Then the killing blow. H’chak’s roars of triumph are the only evidence there was ever a fight in the first place. He tears the Yautja’s skull clean from the warrior’s body, then kneels next to the corpse and fiddles with a square-shaped device strapped to the corpse’s wrist. The device beeps initially, but it settles under H’chak’s touch. He retrieves his combistick and straps the weapon to his hip before running to her and Vayuh’ta.

“You are a skilled fighter—” Is all she gets out before large, muddy arms are around her and Vayuh’ta, holding her tightly to the Elite’s chest. She stills and feels warmth worm into her stomach, crawling up her body to her face and leaving her perplexed and quiet. She can hear Vayuh’ta’s pained growls, but beyond that—The hastened thumps of multiple hearts within H’chak’s chest. His mesh thermal suit covers most of his body, but the contour of his muscles’ presses against her body through it. His scales are bumpy beneath the mesh, stretched thin and taut over his returning muscles. The heat his body gives off is unbearably pleasant, not hot enough to burn but still a wonderful warmth.

The two—three, counting Vayuh’ta—stay like that a moment, the humid air the only audience to the brief embrace. The length of time does not bother Sundew. She finds herself returning to the old question of whether Yautja clans typically embrace in such fashions. She does not know if she wants to find out—Only that she enjoys this moment, this proximity, this closeness with H’chak, and she wants to repeat it over and over.

Sundew finds her physical composition has begun to smile on its own. The small, slight tug of her lips seems to please H’chak, as he emits a soft trill. It is nothing like the brutal ferocity she just witnessed; it is sweet and melodic and reminds her of an Earth bird of some sort.

She would not mind the universe staying like that a time longer, where the only thing she has to worry about is being caked in in mud in H’chak’s strong, secure arms. She would not mind the wonderful chirps, practically harmonic and full of warmth. She would not mind staying with him, H’chak, for as long as either’s time permits. The universe does not agree; noises of fauna around all three—she feels bad for Vayuh’ta, if only because she knows the huntress remains in pain—begin to pick up again and wash away the moment. H’chak releases her, steps back, and turns his mask to face Vayuh’ta.

 _“Who is she?”_ Is all the hunter says.

Vayuhta growls in pain, mandibles flaring angrily. Her orange eyes are uncanny in resemblance to Jupiter’s colors. _“—I should ask the same of you.”_

“I owe her a debt,” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “She shielded me with her body earlier. I owe her my life. Can you carry her?”

 _“No.”_ The answer comes immediately.

The Synthetic pauses. She knows better than to touch the hunter’s chest or face or _body_ , but she is desperate. She knows the Yautja huntress requires assistance beyond her capabilities. Her voice becomes soft as she puts a hand on H’chak’s side, grabbing the mess of mesh in one hand. “I do not want her to die. I will carry her back myself if necessary.”

A strange pip of delight floods her physical composition when she hears the hunter growl softly, _“She may use Kukulkan's medical bay to heal. Then she goes on her way.”_

“Thank you,” Sundew releases him. She helps Vayuh’ta maneuver into a position adequate for H’chak to pick up. When the latter kneels near her and grunts, she tilts her head to one side and watches him curiously. “I do not know what that means.”

“It will be faster. If you climb on my back.” He uses his helmet to translate the words versus saying them aloud.

“But you do not like to be touched.” Sundew states. “I do not want to cross boundaries unless the circumstances deem it necessary.”

“The circumstances deem it necessary.” The helmet voices. “You have permission to touch me.”

“If you are sure,” she slowly nods.

Climbing on his back reminds her of the elevator shaft at the research center. She finds he is much more muscular than back then with each step he takes causing the muscles to move underneath his scales. She rests her head against his shoulder and shuts her eyes, holding on gently while the hunter leaps through the trees. The air is cool against her body. Only Vayuh’ta makes a sound to disturb the peace; the huntress is in great pain which makes her groan or yowl terribly whenever her body shifts in H’chak’s arms.

It is afternoon by the time H’chak reaches the riverbank. Sundew climbs off him and follows him closely while he activates his cloak and carries Vayuh’ta to the _Kukulkan._ The ship is right where she remembers it; H’chak taps an input on the device strapped to his arm. The cockpit of the _Kukulkan_ opens with a monstrous hiss. H’chak leaps into it, but he waits while Sundew climbs up and onboard. His mask hides his face, but for a moment Sundew is positive she hears soft, warm chirps come from behind it. She stays in the cockpit while H’chak sees to Vayuh’ta’s body being dropped into a medical pod.

The Yautja looks preposterous when he returns to the cockpit, caked head-to-toe in mud. He unclasps his mask and hisses when the sensors in the back retract from his flesh. Tiny beads of green blood form across his skull while his orange eyes watch her.

_Jupiter._

_“You are,”_ the clicks are soft and uncertain. _“Still here.”_

She watches him freeze when she walks up to him. He is much taller, easily a foot on her in height, but he does not feel like he is a thousand light years away. She tilts her head to one side and peers at him with intense curiosity. “Does this mean I owe you a debt, H’chak?”

 _“No.”_ The answer makes her pause. She sees the hunter’s mandibles pull together, taut and unwavering.

“Why not?” Sundew presses for an answer.

She receives one not in words, but in actions, when the Yautja pulls her against him and leans down to inhale the air around her neck. Heat floods her body. She finds herself at a loss of what to say or do or _think_ besides him. The soft chirps of before, the harmonic trills, begin to start again, lulling her into a wholly relaxed state. Her head rests against his chest as she listens to his heartbeats and feels his chest and throat rumble in satisfaction.

 _“Friends do not hold each other in debt,”_ H’chak clicks away between his chirrups.

The Synthetic’s eyes widen. She looks up, but the angle of his head blocks her view of his face. Her eyes begin to water, and she buries her face in his chest, too elated to care about the mess of mud getting everywhere. Everything about the present feels perfect; she could not be happier.


	14. hand bones intact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to arc 3 everyone  
> also known as the "using every excuse i can to squeeze more romance and bonding between characters" arc  
> today is a day for ships  
> tomorrow is also a day for ships  
> this entire arc is for ships  
> this is the shipping arc

Ivon has a _particular_ way to how they pick up different pieces of scrap and look at them. The electrician has an entire pile of equipment stripped from the bodies of the two fallen Arbitrators, with all but the remains of a plasma rifle in front of them. The human is in good spirits about being face-to-face with alien technology; the side effects of restarting their prescriptions have tapered off and they have slowly transitioned back to the composed but tense individual Sundew saw at the Stargazer Tucson Research Facility.

She finds slight relief in being able to sit at their side and watch the adult turn over pieces of Yautja technology in gloved hands. Ivon has not made them feel _unwelcome,_ or not in the way Doctor Garcia has. Jo, likewise, remains a positive presence around her. With her and H’chak formally being _friends,_ she cannot help but feel more at ease around the ship. No matter how much pain she is in—and she remains in pain for days after, as whatever medicine Vayuh’ta injected into her does not block the pain receptors despite her flesh forcibly mending—Sundew feels a little happier knowing she has allies on the _Kukulkan._ She has friends.

 _Is humanity becoming part of me? Am I becoming part of it?_ The thoughts feel very far away at that moment, six days since the adventure across the rainforest. Sundew prefers it that way. She would rather contemplate Ivon’s innate understanding of the written Yautja tongues than deliberate on her worries.

“What is the name of this, again? –Sundew.” The electrician frowns and meets her gaze.

Ivon has bright brown eyes. The human looks tired, but far less weary. Sundew tilts her head to one side, not breaking eye contact as she repeats her answer from earlier. “I do not know how to say the word for them. H’chak would have to teach me, then I could repeat it for you. They are called Gauntlet Knives; H’chak has a set. According to one memory, most Yautja do not wear the full set.”

“Remind me what Tall Alien’s name translates to?” The electrician picks at the individual gauntlet. They tap long slots along the side. “—He doesn’t trust me with the _blades._ But with technology itself? Okay. I _understand.”_ Their lips part but no more words comes out. They begin to fumble with words, fidgeting where they sit next to the Synthetic. “That—It was a joke, I’m sorry—”

“What was a joke?” Sundew blinks.

“Nevermind. Tell me Tall Alien’s name? The—The not-Yautja version.” Ivon bows their head. The adult’s cheeks dust rosy a moment before returning to their normal hue.

“No Mercy.” The edge of her lips tugs up when she says it. There is something beautiful in the name, almost entrancing, but it still lacks the sturdiness of the name in H’chak’s original tongue.

“So, these are… I guess these would just be Gauntlets, then. One entire Gauntlet. Since we lack the _Knives_ part. I don’t know what he wants me to do with them.” Ivon rubs the back of their head, blond hair a tussled mess across their scalp.

“Have you asked him?” Sundew’s head remains tilted at an angle. “H’chak is an honorable man—”

“He scares me,” The electrician sets the Gauntlet aside. They gingerly pick up and cradle a square device in their hands. It is identical to the portable computer Sundew sees strapped to one of H’chak’s biceps all the time. When Ivon turns it over, Sundew sees the array of Yautja letters stretching the surface in the form of geometrically arranged dashes. Ivon squints, holds the broken computer closer to their face, and exhales sharply. “I guess math is universal across the galaxies. This is a sequence of numbers. No rhyme or reason, though…”

_Image. What is your sequence?_

The voice screeches in her head, dissonant and faint. She begins to zone out of Ivon’s description of the portable computer, thoughts lulled into a stupor and returning to the events of almost a week ago. When she shuts her eyes, she can hear—directly overhead, in the medical bay—the Yautja prisoner curse a new storm at Doctor Garcia. Debridement of burn wounds is considered excruciating even by Yautja standards; the howls, yells, and snarls continue intermittently throughout the days. At the presence, Sundew identifies the feeling known as _pity_ in her chest. Vayuh’ta is in agony, and it is agony experienced because the Yautja protected her.

 _After she stabbed me._ Sundew meets Ivon’s perplexed gaze. The human has fallen silent, staring inquisitively with their big, brown eyes. She blinks at them. “Has Doctor Garcia said anything about _Vayuh’ta’s_ condition?”

“Who’s condition?” Ivon winces at the raspy clicks of the name.

 _“Vayuh’ta.”_ Another wince.

“The new Tall Alien—Tall Mercy? The new Tall. I might call them Tall.” Ivon frowns and sets the portable computer down.

“Her name means… It has two meanings. It differs according to the clan dialect used.” Sundew raises a hand and taps her chin. She shrugs. “H’chak’s clan… The dialect translates the name to _air._ Vayuh’ta’s clan—She said her name meant _maelstrom._ ”

“Maelstrom.” The electrician looks positively awed. They exhale after a long moment and fidget in their spot. “So—She’s _‘she’_ then. Okay. I got that. Maelstrom. _Maelstrom._ That’s… intense. I wonder if she will be staying here with the rest of us. Does she have her own ship? Can she go to… Uh. Whatever’s considered _home_ for a Yautja?”

“I do not know the answer to most of those questions, Ivon. H’chak extended hospitality to her until she recovers.” Sundew recants the knowledge with ease. She does not mention the fact she was the one who asked him to accommodate Vayuh’ta. A sprig of warmth grows in her abdomen when she recalls him permitting it because _she_ asked.

She likes having H’chak as a friend.

“You’re smiling,” Ivon observes, glancing from the side at her. “Is my company that good?”

The Synthetic frowns. “Is this another joke?”

“…No.” The electrician lets out a dejected sigh. “I—Nevermind. No. Pretend it was a joke, actually. Make it less awkward for me.”

 _“Techie. The doc needs you up here.”_ Jo’s voice sounds across an internal speaker system within the walls of the ship. The sudden noise makes Ivon wince and cover their ears. Sundew watches, curiously, as the electrician peels off their gloves, shoves the pile of scrapped equipment to the side, and rises to their feet.

“You want to come with me? Sundew.” Ivon frowns and offers a hand. She shakes her head. The electrician bites their lip and shoves their hands into two pockets. “I hope this isn’t… I mean… Given we’re all stuck on a Yautja ship now—I hope you don’t mind me asking. Questions. About your kind. You. You with… everyone else.”

“The collection of knowledge is a just pursuit.” The Synthetic stiffly nods.

“What Doctor Garcia says,” hearing the name makes a heavy sensation crawl up Sundew’s back. She does not falter in meeting Ivon’s gaze. The electrician gulps. “Does it—Does it bother you? I mean. It would bother _me._ It would. It does. I don’t… I’ve had experience being called derogatory _shit_ before. Not the same as being an extraterrestrial lifeform—But—She’s rancid. Jo called her a pretentious bitch the other day for going off about you again.”

“She does not care for me.” The Synthetic confirms.

“Does it bother you?” Ivon watches her rise to her feet. The brown eyes are extraordinarily soft and vulnerable; Sundew wonders how many experiences and memories lurk beneath the surface.

“I do not know the reason for her distaste of my kind. She has… made me think strange things before. Things about not being welcome here. About leaving,” Sundew confesses quietly. She begins to imitate a human wringing their wrists. The action prompts Ivon to frown deeply while they watch her. Sundew shakes her head. “I question if she possesses knowledge I am not privy to regarding my species. I noticed she uses a separate term in reference to my kind, Synthetic, opposed to H’chak and Vayuh’ta—The two Yautja refer to me as _Im-Gen_ or Image. The words are drastically different in meaning.”

Ivon tenses. Their fists curl tightly at their sides. “…There’s… There’s something you should know. About the doctor. Something she did. Said. Both.”

The words take the Synthetic by surprise. She stares, unblinking, at Ivon until the latter resumes fidgeting.

“She thinks you’re a… not a predator as in a _Yautja,_ but a—She thinks you are a predatory species. Of a predatory species. That you’re acting or doing things in certain ways that… Lure others in. Make them want to be with you. To—Eat them, I guess.”

“I am not aware of myself taking these actions recently.” Sundew frowns at the accusation. She does not like the way it repeats in her head. She understands she has _engulfed_ others before, and she knows she can consume the mass of others, but thus far the incidents have not been because she _wanted_ to. Circumstances point to the _engulfing_ being an emergency defense measure, a last-ditch effort to survive when on the brink of expiration or grievous harm.

“She thinks you’re doing it to Mercy.” Ivon bites their lip. Their voice is soft and uncertain, hinting at slivers of fear showing through. To bring up this information to her face is a courageous act.

It provokes the most horrible sense of nausea the Synthetic has ever felt in her life. She does not know her physical composition is _capable_ of such a retched, terrible feeling, until she has recoiled backward and begun to breathe heavily. She cannot hiss or snarl; she wants to let human tears overtake her and run down her cheeks in a faux display of sorrow. She knows she can manipulate the strings of others, she knows she can present herself one way to build trust or gain empathy, but she wouldn’t—she _won’t_ —do the same now. Not to H’chak. Not to her _friend._ She wants to be with him and she wants him to be with her _willingly._

“How?” She says at last, an uncharacteristic whisper emulating the horror running through her physical composition.

“Electrical charges.” Ivon winces.

“I do not… I have not been _trying_ to—To do anything. To him. I would not—I have not, Ivon! Not to him—Not to _you_ —Jo—Not to Doctor Garcia!” She feels her hands tremble against her will, the involuntary action making her clear eyes water. It feels almost alien to experience, like a guise of humanity descending on her shoulders and wrapping her up in its tearful embrace. She does not know what to believe, to think, or to feel. She is mortified at herself. The thought of _what if what if what if_ does not feel natural, but she doesn’t know what _is_ natural anymore.

* * *

They are not sure how to help the alien, not until they spy their set of rubber gloves. Ivon kneels to grab the pair and hold it up to their extraterrestrial companion. Their brown eyes soften when Sundew takes the gloves.

“These should help if—If you _were_ , hypothetically, giving off electrical charges. Wear ‘em all you like, I just need them back after. So.” The electrician nods slowly and manages a tiny smile.

Sundew looks down. “You are a good human, Ivon.”

“I am?” The electrician tries to joke, but when they see the alien peer at them, baffled, they clear their throat. “—I mean, yeah. Yeah. I am. Lots of us on Earth! So. Yeah. I’m going to go help Jo and the doctor, if you don’t need me—”

“I will be fine. Thank you, Ivon.” Sundew states softly, slipping the gloves on over the gloves of the thermal mesh bodysuit.

* * *

The medical bay is a _mess_ of glowing green blood and non-stop roaring. The volume of the screeching, hissing Yautja on the metal table is matched only by the number of curses Jo drops in her attempts to hold the huntress down. Ivon uses the Rubber Room’s lift—they make a note to ask Sundew about its proper name later—and scurries down the corridor of the living quarters. The medical bay’s door opens automatically at their approach, at which point they catch sight of luminescent green goop _everywhere_.

“Um.” The electrician freezes in place, unsure of where to go or what to do. They see the unfamiliar Yautja at the table writhing in agony. The huntress has an electronic choker attached to her neck, but otherwise misses all equipment and clothes. She is sprawled out across her stomach on the table. Ivon takes care not to stare as they walk over during one of the lull times of the roars. They meet Jo’s brown eyes and stare at the younger human, “What is this?”

“Debridement.” Doctor Garcia answers for the woman. She does not wear the protective suit they are used to seeing her in. She is in one of the thermal mesh bodysuits Ivon recalls Sundew and Mercy romping around in, though the suit looks very out of place and starkly contrasting against Garcia’s pale skin.

The alien at the table is a mess of hisses and clicks. Ivon bites their lip. Jo pulls them to the side of the table and puts their hands on the huntress’ muscular, beefy arms. The other human huffs loudly, “When the doc starts up again—She’s gonna try and fight you. For real. Nasty shit. We had Tall Alien in here help for a while, but—But I don’t know _what the fuck_ he went off to do. So—You hold this arm, I got her other one, and—Well. You’ll catch on quick. Shit’s obvious.”

“Really doing this while conscious. Wow. Um. Miss—Maelstrom?” Ivon bites their lip. They note the pair of orange eyes snapping to look at them, the alien leering over her shoulder. Strangely enough, she looks less angry opposed to _surprised._ The electrician frowns. “Sundew—She told me your name means Maelstrom. I can’t say your actual name. Or—I can’t _yet_ —But I’m Ivon.”

“I don’t think names are necessary,” Doctor Garcia cuts into the conversation, picking through a rolling table at her side. A mess of sleek, shiny tools rests across it. “She is only here to heal. Not to know us by name.”

“She deserves to know who is operating on her. That’s—It’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Ivon wants to jump when they hear the Yautja huntress hiss. They do not know what the hiss means, but they gesture at Garcia and Jo, addressing each according, “—That is Doctor Louanne Garcia, and that is—Jo. Jo. Yeah.”

Maelstrom’s orange eyes remain on them a moment longer before the Yautja lowers her head and snarls something. Ivon relaxes; it doesn’t sound directed at them. From the side, Doctor Garcia makes a _tsk_ noise and shakes her black bangs out of her face. “Well, now _Maelstrom_ knows our names. Are you ready to continue?”

“Can’t we give her something for the pain?” Ivon pauses.

“Tall Alien said it goes against her clan’s culture. Not even in—The equivalent of their childbirth. Even the medicine they use is incredibly painful,” Jo bites her lip. “I asked, trust me.”

“Fuck.” Ivon curses softly under their breath. They grab hold of the huntress’ hand and manage not to flinch when she returns her gaze to them. The human swallows their nerves and attempts to muster a smile. “You can just—Squeeze my hand—If it hurts too much. Okay? Or I can squeeze yours. I did it for a friend once when she went into labor. No time for an epidural.”

“ _Maelstrom_ ’s grip is likely to crush every bone in your hand, Ivon. I’m not performing amputation for free.” Garcia remarks neutrally.

“Hey, my friend pulled through with her kid and _I_ pulled through with my hand bones intact! I—I’ll be fine. Really. I’m trying to be supportive.” Ivon pauses and looks at the Yautja, careful not to let their eyes wander to the horrifying burns marring her backside. “Is this alright?”

They get a click in response. Maelstrom does not pull her hand away or move it. Her orange eyes remain fixated on their brown ones and, for a moment, Ivon cannot help but think of the great gas giant, Jupiter, in all its glory.

* * *

She expects to find the cockpit occupied by the ship’s Elite, but when the door slides open—There is no one inside. Sundew purses her lips; she knows the Yautja has been busy running in and out of the _Kukulkan_ the past week. The ship has moved positions once, traversing the Amazonas state of human Brazil to another part of the country. It is but one location on the list of required stops to obtain metals like palladium. Though she understands the Yautja is occupied, she feels a heavy sensation drop in her chest at the realization he is not there.

The skies of Earth are her company when she strides forward. The cockpit door slides shut behind her. Sundew’s clear eyes widen as she sweeps the windows and gazes at the heavens beyond.

She usually misses Earth’s skies; the days are often too _bright_ and full of ultraviolet wavelengths for her to handle. The night hours are usually off limits, barred by the fact the ship’s resident Elite occupies the cockpit most evenings. She anticipates a way existing for other segments of the ship to open windows, but she does not possess the knowledge of _how_ to do so. Having the cockpit’s massive windowed hatch in front of her makes the Synthetic fall silent in wonder. Her thoughts still and the world crawls by at a snail’s pace while the stars twinkle overhead outside.

It is beautiful. The myriad of blue hues melding into purple into black, all accentuated by pinpricks of glowing stars and a bright, bold moon. The Milky Way looks incredibly spectacular, nowhere near the same it did on her flight to Earth yet humbling all the while. She takes small steps forward; her hands tense and form small fists reflective of her enamored stupor. She does not stop until she is at the front of the cockpit, standing in front of the dim dashes and panels covered in hundreds of buttons and switches of varying shapes and sizes. Her hands lift and she presses Ivon’s rubber gloves against the cockpit window.

 _Where is Saturn?_ She mouths her own question, eyes desperately tracing the cosmos in hopes her beloved hive planet is out there. She _knows_ it exists, somewhere in the vastness of the universe, but her fake heart drops when she fails to locate it. Part of her knows it is unlikely regardless; the naked eye, as humans put it, can only see so much beauty before requiring assistance. Replicating the cells of a human body puts her in the same boat. Within her synthetic form, Sundew contemplates if she would be able to make out more by freeing herself of the physical composition and letting her liquid state embrace the stars.

It would not go well. She knows the liquid states of her kind are vulnerable things, the one step a Synthetic has before expiration, but it tempts her. She leans forward and rests her forehead against the glass, the thought batted back and forth from one part of her mind to the next. She misses her hive. She feels the pull of it, the _beckoning_ , the need to return to unload every scrap of information she has obtained during her time on Earth. Sundew feels a horrible ache take over as she acknowledges it is not possible, not yet. She knows her Elite friend needs to complete his Hunt; she can wait until after, she can be patient, she can remain _calm._

She misses her hive planet badly. She has not thought about it much until now, too busy attempting to escape or make sense of her companions across the _Kukulkan._ The freedom to think is a dangerous privilege; she finds the heartache agonizing the longer she wallows in the memories of her hive. She does not remember why she left. She does not remember why she _had_ to take the Cassini-Hyugens to Earth. She does not remember, and the fact she does not remember creeps up on her when she has time to think, much like a predator might prey. Sundew shuts her eyes and releases a copied exhale. For all the memories taken, none of the information explains _her_.

None but the sequence _‘GHOST’._

 _Who are you, GHOST? Another Synthetic?_ It must be. The thought grips her physical composition like nails digging into her skin. Her hands tense; she hisses at herself. She knows Miranda Escrow mentioned dealing with a Synthetic before. She must dissect the boring, bland memories again and re-examine everything. It will be tedious, and it will drawl on as all unappetizing experiences do, but it must be done.

“Afterward,” Sundew remarks softly. “After I am done here.”

The door to the cockpit rumbles softly as it unlocks and slides open. The lights in the cockpit come on, but she does not need to look back to recognize the gait of the Yautja walking inside. She opens her eyes and keeps her gaze on the stars while H’chak pauses. Taking a _kv’var-de_ by surprise should be a feat of honor, but Sundew does not understand honor behind it.

She offers a neutral, “Greetings, H’chak. Am I in your way?”

 _“M-di.”_ He clicks the ‘no’ ahead of his helmet’s translator. The hunter walks to her side; in the reflection of the glass she sees he does not have the full set of armor on. It is interesting to see him without the veritanium plates, dressed in simple wrappings, the mesh, and loincloth.

“Ah. I am glad.” She nods stiffly.

The silence that follows is not peaceful. Sundew’s thoughts go back to the discussion she and Ivon had earlier that evening. There is an unusual sting of pain at the thought of it being true. Her hands return to her side and she straightens upright; her hands tense into fists, awkward and lumpy in the two sets of gloves. She is glad Ivon lent her the outer pair; she knows she needs them. If things are true—She will need a pair of her own, to ensure she never manipulates any of the humans or Yautja onboard. There is no need to extend a trap for any of them.

 _Especially not H’chak. Not my friend._ Her entire posture is rigid.

“What are you looking at?” The helmet intones H’chak’s words.

Sundew purses her lips. “I attempted to locate Saturn. I underestimated the difficulty of locating it in this sky.”

The clicking of mandibles informs her the Yautja has begun to laugh. She turns to him and opens her mouth to speak, but the words fail her. She understands he is a hunter, a _kv’var-de,_ considered Elite by his clan and many other Yautja, but when she peers up at him, she finds the reflection of stars across the ridges and grooves of his mask. He is not looking at her; his attention remains on Earth’s skies. The sense of peace that washes over her is a welcome change from the pace of her thoughts that evening. She tilts her head to one side and watches him, staring even after the laughter fades.

He is magnificent in many ways. She sees the way he holds himself, full of strength and pride at who he is and what he is capable of. He has every right to be; she recalls the way he moved in the rainforest, ducking or weaving around the terrain and his foe like it was child’s play. To see him stand still, tall, confident, it makes her body tense. She does not understand why, but she knows it is not a bad thing. The warmth that follows, spreading from the tips of her physical composition’s toes, all the way up to her shiny, bald head, is soothing. _He_ is soothing.

She averts her gaze at the thought. It makes an antsy feeling come over herself without warning, as if small insects buzz in her stomach, or she is about to start retching with nausea. The sensations are not familiar, and the unknown aspect of them makes her nervous. She finds her hands rise to her cheeks; she covers them and turns away, nothing short of bewildered at her own reaction.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The helmet translates the faint click. She looks back in time to catch sight of the Elite unclasping his mask and pulling it off. His orange eyes are bright and beautiful, like a star. His clicks come quietly, with their own hesitation that is not like him. _“You told me you liked hats.”_

* * *

“That is correct. I like hats.” The note of dissonance in her reply does not escape the hunter. His orange eyes dim as he watches the strange silver figure, back turned to him.

She has done this once before, back when the _oomans_ had the two in the research center. She acted the same way in the operating room. All the memory does, when it comes, is make him question if something is wrong. He _knows_ something is off about her, because the Image did not greet him her usual way that evening. The warning bells ringing in his head make him want to twitch or fidget, as if he is a Suckling again hearing the breaking of thunder for the first time. He stands tall and looks at her, waiting with the patience of a _kv’var-de_ in a Hunt.

It nags at him. He needs her cooperation and trust. He needs her _loyalty,_ so that she does not insist on going to her hive planet when the time comes. That is the reason H’chak gives when he considers why he has become so invested in her wellbeing and emotional state, but a part of him just below the surface of the façade whispers the truth.

He saw red during the fight with the Ka’Torag-Na Arbitrators. He saw red because of her. He knows why he reacted with the full force of his namesake, _Merciless,_ and ensured the two Yautjas' deaths. The flicker of it twists in his gut as he watches the Image keep her gaze off him. It is not fear; he does not smell fear rising from her body. The usual aroma she carries, thick and enticing, is strong as usual, but tonight he is not so easily distracted, too plagued by his thoughts and everything within. His hands tense at his sides as he tries to figure out what to say.

H’chak does not know how to comfort.

 _“A hat,”_ he clicks the words softly, throwing all doubts and hesitations to the wind. His movements are stiff as he walks to the wall, pushes an indentation, and pulls a crumpled beige hat from the drawer. He tosses it at her; she shifts her hands to catch it, pausing and looking down at the hat. The motion gives him a chance to catch the brighter pink hue across her face's heat signature. If he did not know any better, he might describe her as flustered.

The thought sets him on edge. He walks back over slowly, cautiously, suddenly hyper-aware of everything either says or does. The night sky becomes a distant backdrop as he watches Sundew de-crumple the hat. Her clear eyes give nothing away, but her lips twitch up at the edges. She straightens out the brim and lifts it to her head. It fits; the Image turns to face the cockpit windows, catching her reflection and staring at it. One hand lifts to touch her reflection, tracing the hat’s edge along the glass.

She does not say anything; both individuals are quiet. The hunter begins to feel more and more tense as he looks on. His cognitive processes momentarily stop when Sundew looks up and meets his gaze. Her expression is different. In fact, her entire body posture has shifted, slowly relaxing as she stands next to him.

“Is it mine?” She asks, voice unusually shy.

 _“If you want it.”_ He feels his gut twist again. The Elite reminds himself there is no cultural connection to the gift, to the hat. Giving a gift to worthy prey does not mean the same as gift-giving does in Clan Gahn’tha-cte.

That is all she is—Worthy prey. Prey with a purpose. An entity he keeps around to use. Her company when he returns to his clan, after he completes his Hunt, will bestow new honor to him. He does not have any other interest in her or her kind.

No justification in the world can excuse the bubbling brook of joy in his throat when he sees her smile and nods. He struggles to stay still and stay _quiet_ when the Image tilts her head to one side. “I love it.”

He has cycles of training, but none prepares him for the soft trill and chirps that erupts. He freezes immediately after, both in disbelief at his own childish display of emotion, and shock at the reaction in the first place. The hunter faces forward and returns his gaze to the sky. He thanks Cetanu the Image at his side does not speak of it, opting to look up at the stars as well. The two stand side-by-side until the awkward silence does not feel so dreadful; it slowly melts back to the peaceful atmosphere it originally had.

“Do,” Sundew bites her lip. Her hands tense. She re-adjusts her hat and goes on. “Do you want to be my friend, H’chak? Did you say those things to make me compliant?”

They are bizarre questions. The hunter’s eyes darken. _Is that why you were upset?_

He reaches for her shoulder, careful not to grip it too tightly. She snaps her head at him and stares up, mouth ajar with dozens of thoughts but none voiced. H’chak leans down to eye level and informs her in as calm clicks he can manage, _“Not at first. Things changed.”_

“Good or bad change?” Her eyes have begun to water.

 _“We’ll see.”_ He clicks softly, trying to order the water to _stop, leave, go away,_ but his soft noises do nothing to stop large tears from welling up in the Image’s eyes. She wipes them, but the hunter has already seen. H’chak knows pain when he sees it. It fills him with a terrible ache, as if he has grievous injuries tearing through his chest. The Yautja hesitates. He contemplates before reaching for her; his touch is very light, claws carefully placed to avoid any possibility of scratching her, when he takes her chin and slowly tilts it up at him.

 _I killed for you._ He wants to tell her. _I would do it again._

He cannot. All the training he has lived through, all the rules imposed by his clan, all of the _Honor_ he has upheld—He cannot throw it away or turn his back on it, not for her. He tells himself it is all a long ruse, that he is using her to help himself, but all he wants at that moment is to ease the pain plaguing her. H’chak finds himself back where he was days on days ago, when the two’s conversation ended with an abrupt, _What do you want me to do?_

He does not know what to do. But he wants to do something. His other hand rises to her face and he cups her cheeks, chirping softly. _“What do you want me to do?”_

“Distract me,” Is her answer, as lost in the world as his head feels at that moment. “Please.”

His mind goes a million places. He knows—he _knows_ —none of what he wants are possible outcomes. His mind scrambles to think of something acceptable to say, do, convey. H’chak drops his hands, picks the Image up in his arms, and moves to sit in the pilot’s seat. He can feel Sundew hiccup in surprise. He holds her close to him, keeping a sharp eye on her face and gauging the reaction as it comes. She does not express fear or disgust; the Yautja begins to trill softly. A deep satisfaction comes over him when he feels her body relax. Her head—and hat—rest against his chest. His throat rumbles gently against her, reverberating through his chest and making her lean into him. Heat crawls across his face; he hisses silently. His grip tightens and his orange eyes scour the figure in his arms. 

He does not understand, nor does he inquire _why_ she wears the crying human’s gloves. H’chak is too preoccupied with how cool she feels, the weight of her body pressing against his, and the tantalizing aroma drawing him in. He does not smell fear when he begins to trill again. The hunter takes it as a good sign; he bumps his forehead against her hat. Her hands rest lightly on his torso, but the fact they are there at all fills him with warmth. Her words repeat in his head. _Distract me. Distract me. Distract me._

She is oblivious to how _deeply_ she effects him. The Elite forces himself to take long breaths and calm his racing heartbeats. He focuses on the contrast of temperatures, of his hot skin against her cool skin, of the drastically different hues between her heat signature and the reflection of his own across the metal cockpit. His thoughts steadily come off the high of the two's proximity. When at last he is certain she is calm, and he is calm, and neither of the two are as much a mess as they pretend not to be, the Elite chirps softly to get her attention. Her clear eyes shift to his orange ones, partially obscured by the crumpled, large brim of her hat. He knows how to distract her. 

_“Can I…”_ He does not know how to lead the question, so the hunter growls softly and starts over. _“—My clan. Gahn’tha-cte. Do you want to ask about it?”_

He feels her pause. H’chak’s chest rumbles again when she shifts against him. Her response comes in the form of a question, “Do you want to share? I do not want you to talk if you are not comfortable with the subject."

It is spoken so _calmly_ his mandibles click together and he begins to chuckle. Even when presented with savory new scraps of information, the Image can restrain herself from jumping him for it. The offering clearly influences her; he feels her synthetic pulse quicken as she watches him, soaking in everything he does. The attention is nice. He _knows_ he could never receive it with Ikthya-De, but Umbra Skull is the last Yautja on his mind as his hands tentatively wrap around the Image in his grasp. The man is far more content with the present than the past.

 _“There are… many ranks in Gahn’tha-cte,”_ the Elite recalls, clicking away quietly not to disturb the mood. _“The Yautja in my clan, the young ones… They are Unblooded. They start as pups. Become Sucklings. Young Bloods. But all of them are Unblooded; they are not considered adult hunters until they complete the Blooding rite.”_

“I only understand half those words,” Sundew purses her lips.

H’chak’s amused trill fills the air. _“Then you'll be here a while."  
_


	15. your new alien friend

They don’t know _why_ the sets of dashes make sense to them. There is no reason behind it; as far back as they remember, Ivon does not recall any strange or unusual circumstances leading to them becoming proficient in a written Yautja tongue. They might not call their upbringing _normal_ , and it certainly ticked the box of ‘shit’ for most years, but it did not have hulking aliens in loincloths. The person sits in the kitchen unit of the ship—they need to ask Sundew for the name again—and picks at bits of hair-thin wires and tubing. Something inside their brain automatically _knows_ where to fit the different pieces, gently thumbing them into place and holding them there while they grab other pieces of scrap to mess with.

Mercy has provided them a strange adhesive that comes in the shape of a ball. It does not activate until run under a strange red lamp, at which the adhesive turns into conglomerate paste resembling concrete. The not-dry texture reminds them a little of toothpaste without mint. Their mind remains fascinated, but their hands stay busy as they set to work using pieces of broken alien equipment to finish fixing Mercy’s original bio-helmet.

 _I wonder if aliens make a living doing this. Things like this._ The electrician frowns as they work, brown eyes narrowing at the prospect. They never believed they would be traveling South America with a bunch of aliens, much less in a spacecraft. New ideas they previously would have scoffed or even laughed at now seem like viable options. If they are bound to spend the rest of their life stuck in intergalactic travels, they might as well make a buck for it.

Not that they have any idea what they would use it for. They don’t have the need to cover rent or pick up groceries. Mercy keeps the bland gruel-colored hard tack stocked. The water stores are kept up to date and fresh. The air circulation system provides enough for the crew members, though Ivon does not miss how different the _inside_ of the ship is to Earth’s atmosphere. There are moments their lungs feel like _fire,_ like they might just burn up inside, crash, and fall, but those moments pass. Occasionally, those moments pass with their body feeling a little different than before; these moments make them nervous, because the next time they breath Earth’s air afterward, their lungs turn to ice for a second and the cold chills them to the core.

“Maybe Tall Alien’s, I dunno, changing us. Making us more like him.” Jo suggests one afternoon, or what feels like afternoon. The lack of windows makes it hard to tell sometimes, and Ivon’s curiosity has yet to have them messing with wall controls.

The electrician looks up from their work and peers at her. They shrug and turn back to the pile of scrap spread across the counter. “His name is Mercy.”

“Mercy. Right.” Jo bops her forehead with the bottom of her palm. The woman looks tired. “Hard to keep track of names with so many of us running in an’ outta here, techie. That’s why you’re _techie_ to me.”

“And you’re Jo. But,” the electrician pauses. “He’s Mercy. He’s—He’s strong, you know? Kind of volatile. I don’t want to piss him off.”

“I think _all_ Tall Aliens are volatile. What’s the other’s name? Mail? Maine? She’s a fighter. Almost cracked my skull throwing a punch when Garcia was mid-debridement.” The woman shakes out her dreadlocks. She shrugs amicably.

“Her name is Maelstrom. The English version of it.” Ivon throws their head back and sighs. They regret not having access to _human_ tools, the oversized alien variants only go so far. The person bites their lip and glances at Jo. “How is—How is she doing, by the way? Maelstrom. I haven’t been up there since—”

“Yeah.” Jo’s smile is painful. “Good news! Doc up there thinks she’ll heal. Bad news! Bitch is stubborn; she won’t stop trying to get outta the pod. Keeps snarling and growling at us. Won’t understand she needs to stay _still_ to heal properly. Can’t imagine how bad it’ll be if she splits the, uh, the grafts.”

“Don’t say it—” Ivon shivers and winces. “Debridement is bad enough to think about!”

“Hey, if you can’t handle it, go talk to Tall Strom and make her _relax—”_ Jo begins, but the woman stiffens and raises both brows when Ivon sets their work down, stands up, and brushes their thermal bodysuit off. There isn’t much on it, but old habits die hard. They meet Jo’s gaze as the latter squints at them. “Techie. _Techie._ That was—It was a joke—”

“No, no, I think—It’s a good idea. I do.” The person nods slowly. The edge of their lip’s quirks upward. “If she doesn’t trust any of us, why would she want to listen? We’re a bunch of… Um. We are a bunch of random individuals. _We_ know we’re good, but she doesn’t. I think—If she grows to trust one of us—She’ll listen. Cooperate. What do you think?”

“I think I need a nap. Go have fun with your new alien friend.” Jo shakes her head and waves the person away.

* * *

Days later, Doctor Louanne Garcia is in the middle of testing out various indentations in her living quarters when the knock at the door comes. She halts in her exploratory endeavors, swipes a hand to make the night table retract into the wall, and rises to her feet. She strides softly to the door and taps it until it activates and slides into the wall. The clear eyes staring at her make her stiffen and tense. Sundew is never a pleasure to have around. Garcia would normally shut the door and keep the Synthetic _out_ of _her_ space, but to her surprise, Sundew ducks around her and steps inside just as the door shuts and locks.

“Greetings, Doctor Garcia.” Sundew calls from nearby, standing next to the sleeping pod while Garcia’s hands tense into fists. The alien has a beige hat on, a new acquisition as of a week ago.

Garcia tucks her black bangs out of her face and turns to face the entity. Her gray eyes are cold as steel as she watches the Synthetic run gloved hands lightly over the pod’s hatch. When Garcia speaks, she cannot hold back the aghast tone in her voice, “What do you need, Synthetic?”

“You never remember my name.” Sundew purses her lips.

“ _Sundew._ S. It doesn’t matter, does it?” The woman snaps. It has not been a minute, but already her patience runs thin. She does not feel comfortable standing near the alien lifeform. The hair on the back of her neck stands on edge. Garcia refuses to say another word, waiting for the Synthetic to make her case, engulf her, or _do something._

Sundew turns around and faces her. The alien’s arms fall to her sides. “You are wearing the bodysuit.”

“I am. My other suit is too far gone to continue wearing.” Garcia replies immediately. She wants the conversation to be over. It is like being stalked by a mountain lion on a hike: she knows the creature is there, she feels the unease, but she is helpless to do anything until the creature strikes. Even then: she is the prey, not the predator. Louanne Garcia knows the being can engulf her in moments and drown out her screams.

Her hands tense into fists. She finds herself seething more and more, a mess of her own making mixed with variables beyond her control. She does not believe in destiny; she believes in life’s circumstances playing out across an unfair court, where certain people are given automatic access to privileges others can never achieve. The bitterness sweeps away her fear; her anger becomes her courage. She steps closer to the Synthetic, gray eyes narrowed on the entity’s neck. It is in reach, and it is tempting—so, _so, so_ tempting.

She knows she will die if she lays a hand on the Synthetic. The behavior exhibited by the Yautja specimen is every bit reminiscent of the hyper-fixation James Heinrich displayed before his unfortunate termination. First is the allure, the _draw,_ an offering of sweet synthetic charm to draw one close. Next is the grasp, the pull, the ensnare of prey into the _drosera’s_ grasp. The third is the strike; digestion. The prey is engulfed and consumed. By the fourth stage, the _drosera_ resets the trap with new bait to bring someone close. It repeats, and it repeats, and more and more people _die_ because of the _drosera._ An alien victim is far from innocent, but it means the _drosera_ ’s influence infects a powerful predatory species. The original Yautja specimen onboard will become violent soon. _She_ is sure of it.

 _You’re a threat to everyone here. All of us!_ Garcia’s growl makes the Synthetic tilt her head to one side. The Doctor walks up and takes Sundew by the hand, an iron-clad grip on the cool skin.

Sundew blinks. “Doctor Garcia—”

“What the _fuck_ do you want from me?” The woman spits at the creature, predator, beast. She could rip her own hair out in how furious she is.

“Release me.” The Synthetic is neither angry nor pleased with the situation, simply neutral in tone. “I need to ask you questions.”

“I am not answering them,” her tone becomes ice-cold as she drags the alien to the door and begins waving a hand in front of it. The door tries to open, but the lock remains in use. Garcia begins to curse under her breath. She can _feel_ the clear eyes of the predator on her. It makes her begin to kick and rage at the door, her grasp on Sundew remaining all while she cusses a thousand profanities and then some. “Why won’t it open?! This— _Asinine—Obsolete—Obtuse—Disgusting—Ship—Door!”_

“It is locked,” the Synthetic remarks simply. “I need to speak to you about a matter only you would know about.”

 _“I don’t care_! I am not—Like the others!” Garcia belts the words, releasing Sundew only to spin on her heels and face the silver figure. Her hands grab the extraterrestrial’s shoulders; she shakes the entity as she snarls. “You think I _don’t know_ what you’re doing with them?! With all of them?! Setting out your lures—Traps— _Abhorrent_ tendencies—Stalking around like you own the place, the world, the stars, all of it! But _I,_ ” she jabs a thumb at her chest. “Am not like _them!_ I see you for what you are! _I know what you’re capable of!”_

“Doctor Garcia,” Sundew frowns widely. “You sound like—Doctor Heinrich. Doctor James Heinrich.”

The woman slams her against the nearest wall. Garcia cannot stand it anymore; she rears back, balls a fist, and throws the first punch.

How _sick_ she is of never being taken seriously!

How _fucking tiring_ things are when she’s trying to look out for everyone!

Protect everyone!

Save everyone!

Save the _goddamn aliens!_

Over and over her fists fly, unable to hold her anger back any longer. Doctor Louanne Garcia becomes a mess of herself, unable to stop as her thoughts spiral into a frenzy of blows. Her knuckles smash into the silver humanoid, every strike slamming into the lustrous flesh. Garcia does not stop until she comes to holding the alien up by the throat, staring into the clear eyes and split lips of the latter's face. The doctor feels cool fluid across her right hand’s knuckles. She drops Sundew and recoils, gray eyes widening in shock at herself as she stares.

“Why didn’t… You didn’t—Fight back?” The doctor whispers.

Sundew touches her face. Clear blood reflects on the silver skin when her hand draws back from her lip. She looks up, and though there is no visible direction to the clear cells, Garcia knows the Synthetic stares at her.

“Are you done?” The Synthetic asks, calm and composed.

Garcia looks at her hands and shudders. She backs away and falls to the ground, back pressed against the wall and eyes staring out in a daze. “I—I think so. I think…”

“I look soft, Doctor Garcia. I do not break easily. But that,” the Synthetic’s gaze narrows. She points a finger directly at the human. _“Hurt.”_

“It did. I did that.” She whispers, voice carrying her disbelief.

“You are,” the alien rises to her feet. She adjusts her hat and mimics an exhale. “—Exhibiting—The same behavioral traits—As James Heinrich. _Doctor James Heinrich._ He is dead now.”

“He is.”

“Should I believe you will follow his path, Doctor Garcia?” The Synthetic walks over to her side and looks down at her.

Garcia shakes her head. “No—No—I’m not—I’m not—I am not the same as _him!”_

Sundew kneels next to the doctor. There is no sympathy on her face, only the skeletal horror of the Synthetic watching her. “Give me your wrist.”

“What?” The woman snaps her head to stare back at her.

Sundew does not repeat herself.

Garcia shakes her head and tries to scoot away, but the corner does not provide any protection when the lifeform snatches her wrist and wrenches her back. Sundew’s gaze is blank and empty, clear as broken, jagged glass. The Synthetic rips the glove of the mesh bodysuit off and wrenches the sleeve backward. Her silver hands are unpleasantly cool to the touch. There is nothing soothing about them.

“If you have a reason for hating my existence,” the alien states. “It will be in your memories.”

“You—Bitch—You aren’t—You aren’t taking my blood—” The doctor begins to protest, but she hiccups and stills when the lifeform tilts her head to one side. Garcia swallows. “You can’t.”

“I need to know if I am effecting others, Doctor Garcia. If I am the _predator_ you see me as. If I am dangerous. You are a selfish woman,” the voice becomes cold and dead, a repeat of any of the since-deceased individuals the Synthetic has fed upon. “You want to live and prosper at any cost. Even if it means working with the lifeforms you call specimens. If you have a reason for defying your innate desire to live—It will be in your memories. If not…”

There is a pause, a lull in the terror creeping across the room. Garcia can see the hesitation in the monstrosity at her side. She sees the uncertainty. She recognizes the emotions flickering across Sundew’s face. The entity is worried about something. It feels almost human.

A spark of anger returns to the doctor. Her hands clench; she _shoves_ the Synthetic away, but Sundew does not let go, dragging Garcia with her. The Synthetic’s eyes narrow and she is on Garcia in a moment; the lifeform exhibits sudden strength in pinning the woman to the metal floor. The clear eyes reveal no emotion, only the impression of empty eye sockets from the way shadows and light falls across and through them. Garcia begins to choke on her own spit as she looks up into the entity’s face. Her moment of strength and will to resist is gone.

“I am not going to kill you. I will not drain you to a husk.” The lifeform tells her.

“You expect me to believe that?” The woman whispers, cold sweat forming across the back of her neck and her brows. Her bangs are a disarray across her face. She is going to die. Garcia cannot remember what is written in her will. She does not remember if she has a will—Only that it won’t matter, as no one will recover the body.

“Louanne Garcia,” the Synthetic speaks calmly now, in a tone that is _disgustingly_ familiar. It makes Garcia want to retch. She hisses at the lifeform to get on with it, to strike her down and take her skull or blood or corpse, but Sundew does not. The lifeform waits for her attention. There is no identifying what emotion is in the clear eyes as they look down at her. “I do not know why you hate me. But I will find out. Whether for your own reasons, or the result of proximity to me—I am here to learn. The pursuit of knowledge is everything to my kind.”

Garcia begins to shriek and scream, thrashing and squirming when the Synthetic wrenches her arm up. She can feel everything from the moment Sundew pulls her wrist close to the second the incisors bite into the flesh. It is agonizing, like hot pokers being jammed through her arm, forced through muscle, and tearing open nerves. Blood begins to spurt and gush; the Synthetic is in no rush to hurry the feeding process. She takes as much as she needs; by the time Sundew has her fill of memories, the doctor is lightheaded. Garcia only has a moment’s respite before her eyes glaze over, her vision goes, and she passes out to the sight of her sister looking over her.

* * *

_The phone rings. It is far too early in the morning for a friendly call, yet the moment the twenty-seven-year-old rolls over and eyes the smartphone, she begrudgingly relents in swiping the screen and answering. Louanne presses the speaker button and lets out the loudest, most annoyed groan she can muster, “It’s three in the morning. You have a minute before I fall back asleep.”_

_“An entire minute? That is sixty seconds.”_

_“Thanks, captain obvious.” Louanne pulls her blanket up to her shoulders and flops on her side. Her black hair is a mess, as is the room around her. Cardboard boxes stack to in hazardous piles of three and four, with some still open and waiting to be sealed. Louanne grimaces and ignores her piss-poor pack job. She growls at the phone. “You know time zones are a thing, Muppet.”_

_“Monet. Mo-Neigh.”_

_“If you call me at fucking three, I reserve the right to call you the frog—”_

_“That is Kermit, Annie. Have you seen the movies?”_

_“Not recently.” Louane makes a point of yawning. She shuts her eyes and grumbles, “Ten seconds.”_

_“The Muppets Take Manhattan, A Muppet’s Christmas Carol—The Muppet Movie? 1979? Kermit went on a road-trip—The movie had a lot of great hits, we used to sing—”_

_“Muppet.” Louanne barks at the phone._

_She can hear her sister bark back. It cracks a smile on her lips; the woman is glad her sister isn’t there to see, or she might try to repeat it all night. Louanne can hear rustling in the background; it sounds like, hundreds of thousands of miles away, her sister is on her own bed in her own world. She certainly sounds more awake than Louanne is now, unsurprisingly. Louanne waits until a moment of silence falls before she groans again with peak exaggeration._

_“I know, I know, three in the morning—”_

_“Why are you up?” The doctor huffs again. “How do you have so much energy?”_

_“I was thinking about you. You said you planned to visit once you finish settling in at the new job. I realized I never said congratulations; I wanted to make sure you knew how proud I was of you! Congratulations, Annie! I think you are doing really great out there. Arizona does not deserve you,” the voice is too peppy, too energetic, too much, but all of it is perfectly Monet. Louanne cannot help but find herself smiling again, lips tugging back down quickly at the bittersweet statement._

_She opens her eyes and stares at her phone, still plugged in on the night table. “You could have waited until morning. You know—You don’t have to do everything right when you think of it.”_

_“I know that,” Monet sounds marginally offended, but her tone calms and her voice continues to drawl out. “But I wanted to. You know me. I am not… You know. Book smart. Good at remembering things like you—"_

_“Monet—”_

_“No, no, I am not trying to make this about me—It is all about you! And how happy I am for you,” her sister is quick to cheer up again. “I am. I mean it. You are just… You are getting up there, Louanne. I always knew you would make your way in the world. This is going to be your big break in the field. No more residencies for Annie!”_

_“Louanne.” Louanne huffs. “Or Doctor Garcia to you.”_

_“You really want me to call you that? It sounds so… Formal. We do not live in one of those medieval fantasy films. What is the name of the one with the wedding ring everyone fights about?”_

_“Lord of the Rings. And it isn’t—It’s not a goddamn wedding ring, my god,” Louanne pinches the bridge of her nose, a wide smile on her features at the thought. “One of these days I’ll help explain the plot of those books to you, okay?”_

_“Maybe when you come visit? You will, yes?”_

_“Hey, if I don’t—”_

_“Oh, what if I come visit you this year? Since you are making the big move—You are going all the way to Tucson! Exciting! I could see your new place! Meet all your new coworkers—"_

_“Only if you promise to show up. No getting lost; follow the GPS directions to a tee. I won’t be able to come find you if you get stuck in the middle of nowhere.” Again, Louanne keeps the last part to herself._

_She is delighted to hear her sister laugh, light and airy into the phone. Monet’s voice comes through after she calms, voice relaxed and serious. “I promise not to get lost, Annie. I will use the GPS directions ‘to a tee.’ I will find you no matter what happens! No matter the circumstances. Okay? Trust me, Annie.”_

_“Louanne—"_

_“Doctor Garcia,” Monet jokes._

_“Good night, Muppet.” Louanne hangs up and cocoons herself in her comforter._

* * *

Sundew drops the woman’s wrist and presses unto the wound. She remains like that, kneeling over the unconscious woman, until the puncture wounds cease gushing bright red. It does not occur to her the knocking on the door has grown more and more intense until she hears a massive _bang_ behind her. Metal flies off hinges and crashes to the ground nearby. Sundew looks over her shoulder; her clear eyes trail up limbs in a mesh suit until she spots the sleek, ridged bio-mask of an Elite _kv’var-de._ Behind him, poking their heads into the room and looking something akin to nervous, are Jo and Ivon. Jo’s brown eyes widen at the bloody sight sprawled across the metal floor. Ivon’s face pales and they cover their mouth with a hand.

“Sun-Dew.” The Synthetic’s gaze shifts to the Yautja crouched next to her. She tilts her head to one side and waits for him to go on. “Did this one hurt you?”

The Synthetic rises to her feet. She offers H’chak a hand but he does not take it, returning upright. She imagines, behind his mask, he is busy trying to decide how the event occurred. Or—Decide Doctor Garcia’s fate. Sundew pauses and lifts a hand to her own face. She can feel the fake flesh already beginning to swell. Her lip split earlier; she can feel the synthetic ‘blood’ drying over her skin. It does not feel warm like Doctor Garcia’s blood, nor does it contain new memories. Sundew looks back at Doctor Garcia. _Death would be a mercy. You have no one left in this world, Doctor Louanne Garcia. No one to call family. No one to call a friend. Surrounded by lifeforms you view as hostile… And humans who conflict with your way of approaching tasks._

She does not feel anger at the person who detests her existence. She does not feel hate. Even as her face continues to throb, bruises beginning to speckle the silver skin and join in swelling, she does not _hate_ Doctor Louanne Garcia.

“She needs to be taken to the medical bay. I did not kill her; she requires nutrients and rest,” Sundew repeats the latter from the memory of Doctor James Heinrich. She looks up at H’chak’s mask and pauses. “Please make sure she recovers.”

“You not going to the med bay?” Jo’s words carry surprise. The dark-skinned woman blinks and stares at her, not flinching even when H’chak growls under his breath. “You got beat up, too—”

“We had an altercation. I think,” Sundew finds her hands move on their own, coming to her front as she begins to wring her wrists. She can still taste Doctor Garcia’s memories on her tongue. She cannot smell the blood, but she remembers the vivid emotions wrapped up in each experience copied in the feeding. “I need to sit. I will go sit. Rest. Sit and rest. I will check on her later…” The words, the voice, it all trails off. She averts her gaze.

The hands on her shoulders are warm. She looks back up at H’chak’s mask. His clicks are soft and slow, but the helmet’s translator voices them with no emotion, “Sun-Dew. Are you okay?”

“I,” the Synthetic tenses. She can feel the weight of memories on her back. There are so many to look through, yet certain ones are _crystal clear_ and call to her, begging for another glance. Her lip quivers and no words come. She shakes her head.

She can hear H’chak curse softly. The helmet does not voice it, but she already knows what _pauk_ means.

“Please take care of her.” Sundew cannot stand to make further small talk. She slowly removes the Yautja’s hands and walks around him. The only stop she makes before she leaves the room is at Ivon’s side, pulling off blood-stained rubber gloves and handing them to them. She turns left, trails the corridor, and stops at the circular lift. The drop to the lower level is uncomfortable, but to be in the _kehrite_ and surrounded by dim lights is the closest thing she knows to home. She collapses in the corner, back squished against the walls, and holds her head in her hands for a long time.

* * *

He takes the doctor’s unconscious body to the medical bay. The metal table rises from the floor and unfolds to full length after a quick input into the indentations on the wall. H’chak dumps the woman there and leaves long enough to make the brisk walk between _his_ living quarters and the medical bay. There is only one collar left. Bending the components enough to make it _ooman_ size takes longer than he likes, but the _akrei-non_ fits and is primed within the minute it takes him to march back to the medical bay. He finds the human surrounded by the other two humans, though neither seems as concerned about their fellow _ooman_ as they could be.

“What is that?” The brave-foolish one backs away when he approaches. H’chak ignores her series of questions as he grabs the unconscious doctor on the table and clasps the bomb-collar on. By then, the point of the device seems to be understood by the two humans. Both shut up and stay quiet, though the electrician—Ivon—follows everything he does with bright brown eyes.

It is a waiting game after that. He does not move from his spot no matter how much _everything_ tests his resolve, patience, and willpower. H’chak ignores the screech in his head to follow the Image’s scent down to the _kehrite._ He focuses on his breathing and calms his hearts’ erratic rate; he needs to take care of the doctor before he can check on Sundew.

The doctor is unconscious an hour before she comes to. It is a scene the two humans find disturbing, watching her suddenly jerk and spasm before her eyes flutter open, but he does not care. He growls immediately to silence the room and grab the doctor’s attention. His helmet senses what he wants to say and voices the translation slowly, clearly, and _loudly_ for everyone in the medical bay to hear.

“Doctor. You hurt the Image.”

Panic floods her eyes. The doctor tries to rise but H’chak steps forward and begins to reach for her. She gets the message and lays back down immediately; her body becomes still as stone as big gray eyes watch him. Fear rises from her form. It is a glorious scent, but he is not there to revel in cruelty and terror. He points at her neck as the translator software of his helmet continues to speak for him.

“She asked me to take care of you.”

He lowers his arms to his side, hold up one arm, and activates the wristblades on it. The long, razor-sharp knife-like protrusions pop out from the gauntlet seamlessly. H’chak stops at the table’s side and looms next to the frozen doctor. He drops the arm with the extended gauntlet to her neck, tenderly caressing the weak flesh above the bomb-laden collar. He needs the point to get across.

“She wants you to live. I do not agree.”

The doctor’s face pales. H’chak begins to growl, clicking between the sounds in harsh and brutal syllables of his clan’s dialect. He does not let his bio-mask translate. He smells the fear rise in the doctor below him; he can see her begin to shake and tremble. H’chak lowers himself to her head and snarls directly in her face. This time, he lets the helmet translate—

“If you hurt her again—”

He lets the tip of the _dah’kte_ pierce the deathly white skin. A small line of red appears. He notes the way the doctor begins to weep. It is a good sign; his words are effective.

“First I will skin you. Then you will die.” The helmet slowly voices the words. H’chak snarls and lets his gauntlet retract the two serrated blades back into itself. The doctor lets out a sob and curls up into a ball on the table while he straightens upright. The usually foolish-brave human has a look of utter shock on her face, while the electrician has already turned away in horror. The Yautja does not care about either the two. He exits the medical bay and strides the length of the corridor beyond. The warrior hesitates at the lift, going back and forth whether to disturb the Image.

Concern overrules common sense. He drops to the lower level and locates her immediately. His chest aches at the sight; she looks terribly dazed and somber in the corner of the training room. H’chak does not bother to mask his steps as he walks to her and sits cross-legged at her side. She looks up a moment before lowering her head back into her hands.

“Greetings, H’chak.” The voice is strained.

“That is not how you usually greet me.” His helmet voices for him.

“I am not how I usually am right now,” She hisses at the air. A moment of silence falls before the Image adds, “I heard you through the floor.”

The statement brings a flicker of heat to his abdomen. He can feel his pulse hasten, but the warrior does not back down from his words. He mentally turns the bio-mask’s translating software off, then clicks and chirps quietly. _“I stand by what I said. If there is a next time—I will kill her. I will not let her harm you.”_

“Is that the best option?” The question is said so softly it could be a mouse’s whisper.

He does not like being taken by surprise, but he finds himself at a loss of how to respond. The Yautja reaches for her shoulder but she bats his hand away. His pride stings too much for him not to acknowledge. The hunter’s eyes narrow behind his mask and he looks the other way. His clicks are, perhaps, the first time he has shown confusion in at least fifty cycles, _“What—Would your option be? Sun-Dew.”_

“I do not know how to explain it. Not yet. I am not sure—Not certain what is going on. I thought—I was certain—I _understood_ —Yet—Yet,” she sounds painfully _ooman_ , a mess of repeating syllables and syntax. The Image shakes her head and hisses again. “I do not know how to explain it. It would not make sense. Or—If it did—”

He does not like it when she cries. It is nothing like the calm, composed Im-Gen he has slowly come to learn more of. His hands tense where he sits. He wants to reach for her. He does not know what he would do if he had her, but he knows he _wants_ to have her close. He can feel _his_ composure begin to falter; he stands up to keep her down _there_ and him up _here_ where his thoughts cannot become so one-dimensional. He scrambles to try and think of something to do, say, speak, _anything,_ but all his mind comes back to are the times he has spoken of his clan.

 _“Gift-giving means something,”_ The Yautja struggles to click the words, both to get them out fast enough and to comprehend just what he is saying. _“In my clan. Gahn’tha-cte. It is not without cause—It is something important. A part of a… Process. An important process…”_

 _Pauk. Pauk. Pauk!_ His own clicks become tongue-tied, though Sundew does not seem to notice them. Or, if she does, she does not comment. She has fallen quiet, looking up at him with clear, wet eyes. The Elite feels his stomach flip in his torso. He tries to breathe in deeply and calm himself, but all he gets is the merciless aroma that draws him back to her side again and again. It is so overwhelming he almost drops to both knees and begs for the opportunity to court her right then. It is a terrible predicament; he knows he is in way over his head. No Elite could prepare for how quickly he became invested in her. No Elite could anticipate the way she wound up holding his heartstrings in her hands and being utterly oblivious to it.

He offers her a hand. She frowns, but takes it. The Elite is not sure what he is doing, but he guides her to the middle of the _kehrite_ and gestures for her to stay there. She watches him, perplexed but no less pained, as he strides to the far side and turns to face her. The Elite chirps to her. _“—Clan Gahn’tha-cte—We go through this—Process—With select individuals. Some of them make us fight for the right to be considered. This is all part of the same process, but the process has its own elements.”_

“What are you doing?” Sundew continues wringing her wrists. She looks confused.

It is so much better than _pained._ The Yautja puffs up his chest, hoping to distract her from her thoughts. _“You wanted to know more about my clan? I am showing you what—What certain things—How they are done.”_

It seems to do the trick. Sundew suddenly nods and drops her hands to her sides. She watches him closely, the acquisition of new information deemed more important than whatever is bothering her. H’chak’s trill of satisfaction at the development is not heard. He inhales deeply, ignores the aroma wafting around his head, and begins to hum in a low, guttural pitch as he circles her clockwise, then reverses the direction. He does not stop at one circle counterclockwise; he steps in closer, waits, watches her, then trills loudly to declare his intent.

It may be the most ludicrous thing he has ever done. H’chak does not care about the heat blazing in his cheeks. He knows his face is obscured by his mask, but even if it weren’t—It is important to him she sees he is not uncomfortable. He wants to do this. It is solely for the sake of distracting her, of keeping her mind off the present. He wants her to interpret the reasons that way, to keep _his_ reasons buried deep inside beneath his cycles of training and rigorous standards he upholds himself to.

The circling and trills carries on for several minutes, each step a tiny bit closer to the Image than before. It carries on until they are both face-to-face, with H’chak suddenly stopping in front of her and looking down at her face. She peers up at him. She is not smiling, but she is not frowning, and she has the hat he gave her on her head. The Yautja slowly lifts a hand, brings a single digit to her face, and pretends to draw the symbol of his clan on her cheek. The second his hand makes contact, his gaze locks on her. He can feel both bodies tense and still.

There is a shift in the air. He cannot make out what it is before the Image speaks. Her voice is strained, “What is all of this for? H’chak.”

 _“I don’t. I can’t show you.”_ His clicks are sputters. He growls softly at himself. _“It… It marks as… Special. Important. Worthy. To the warrior involved. This is not… It is how these things are. It does not mean anything.”_

“Oh.”

His hand reaches for her chin immediately, but his touch is tender and gentle when he slowly guides her to look up at him. He clicks before she can react, _“Do you want it to mean something?”_

“I do not know the answer to that question—”

 _“Pretend you do,”_ He cannot chirp fast enough. His eyes are wide behind his mask. He does not care how he looks now. H’chak knows he could get hit in the head with a combistick and not give a damn. All his attention is focused on the Image in front of him.

She does not answer, but her body is suddenly flush against his chest. Her torso presses against him; he cannot hold in the soft spiel of mumbled syllables from the proximity. It takes a second to register the Image has wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. He cannot stop himself from leaning down and inhaling her scent. It has become even more inviting and warm, practically beaming and pulling him in until he cannot help but pick her up and hold her against him. He sits in the middle of the _kehrite_ like that, with her legs hooked around his arguably larger, toned hips. His arms keep her in place, but she only seems to lean into his chest. The reciprocation makes his chest rumble in a low, long chirrup; he cannot remember ever holding someone like this. Not for this length of time, not to such an extreme degree of vulnerability. If she wanted, he has no doubt she could rip the flesh of his neck free in seconds, making him bleed out.

But she does not. He feels her breath hitch against him when he shifts to adjust her hat. Her head looks up when his looks down. Her lips are slightly ajar, full of unspoken words and thoughts and everything he wants to hear later. _Later._

“We keep… winding up like this.”

The words make his grip tighten.

 _“Yes,”_ H’chak acknowledges in a brisk, short click. _“We do.”_

“I do not understand why. Why… This,” Her breath against the mesh over his torso makes him shudder. The Image shuts her eyes. “I do not want to do this with Vayuh’ta.”

The other Yautja, a topic for a time that is anytime but right now. H’chak chirps softly to get the Image’s attention back on him. He leans down, craning his neck to bump the edge of his mask against her temple. _“—There are many reasons. To do this.”_

“With you?” It is spoken so neutrally, woefully oblivious to every lewd image that comes to his head.

H’chak cannot help but feel his pride rise; she prefers him to the other Yautja onboard. He grunts and shifts to hold her with one arm while the other moves the brim of her hat until he can look into her eyes. He knows they are there, as attentive as any Yautja or _ooman._ He cannot see it, but he knows it exists. It is a simile for how his feelings have rapidly developed and evolved. He cannot see it, but he feels how fast his hearts race in his head. He can feel his pulse jump. He can feel the heat wash over him, a call to find release accompanying it.

 _“If you… want…”_ The chirps trail off into a lack of cognitive understanding. He finds the smaller frame of the Image has shifted, unhooking her legs and drawing them back to stand on her knees and straddle him. She is still drastically shorter than he is, at least a foot’s difference in height, but it doesn't feel awkward. It feels like the two are strange-shaped puzzle pieces, two of a set that shouldn't match but somehow fit perfectly together.

It is stuffy in the _kehrite._ He cannot bring himself to move. All he wants is to shift the two, flip her to the ground, and show her everything he’s wanted to do since she first wormed her way into his head. His hands grab at her sides, feeling the thinness of the mesh and imagining what it would be without it. Hot and cool, a mess of skin and limbs wrapped up in each other. His mind is a mess which closely resembles an Unblooded trying to control excitement for an upcoming _chiva._ The ache inside him is unbearable; it’s been so long. The need for relief is a blistering, clawing, thrashing pain inside him. He needs her. She is nothing but prey, but he _needs_ her.

 _Not just prey. Not just prey._ Acknowledging the thoughts brings just as much joy as it does disgust, a twisted mess of shame plunging into his gut. He cannot allow it. His body screams at him to respond, react, _claim_ the receptive lifeform holding him, but he is not without honor. Not yet—The _kv’var-de_ fights every want and need and lust in his body to reel back, bring a hand to the Image’s chest, and shove her backward. He scrambles to the other side of the _kehrite_ and pants as she sits up. Vaguely, he makes out her calling his name, quiet at first but rising in volume until he looks back at her.

She is confused. Pained. He can see it on her face, as clearly articulated as her eyes are clear. She doesn’t understand. _Why_ would she understand? He has zero knowledge if her species even possesses knowledge of inter-species copulation. _His_ clan barely has information on the hybrids that arise from oomans intermingling with Yautja. H’chak grabs his forehead and curses softly as he struggles to control his breathing, his hearts’ rates, and himself. He fights every instinct buried deep in his bones, a mess of emotions surging and swelling inside him only to trickle away.

“Are you okay?” She does not sound calm. Her face is flushed, her breathing hitched, it is all out there in plain view. She is willing and receptive, but he will not let himself stoop so low.

 _“No. No.”_ The Elite snaps, with more vigor than he means to. He can see how the tone makes the Image still. Sundew’s eyes are big and wide, but he has no explanation for her beyond a strenuous slur of clicks and garbled hisses, _“I am—Not. Not okay. You—Us—Being like this. With you. It… You make me think things—Feel? Things. Not normal. Not—”_

“Oh. Oh. No,” Sundew’s entire demeanor changes in a heartbeat. She holds a hand to her mouth and stands, backing away until she hits one of the _kehrite_ walls. Her voice drops to a whisper, mumbling over and over, "No, no, no..."

H’chak stops in his sputtering and looks at her. The second he smells _fear,_ his thoughts begin to spiral again, this time in a completely different direction. He rises to his feet, ignores the ache still deep across his flesh, and walks to her. She shakes more than a leaf come autumn rain. Even as an Image—Replicating the body language of an ooman in horror points to her feeling the same. His concern for her well-being overtakes any frustration he feels toward himself. He reaches for her, the clicks soft and uncertain, _“Sun-Dew?”_

 _“Do not touch me,”_ It is a mortified shout, all accompanied by the crackle of electricity as the current leaps from the Im-Gen to bat away his hand.

H’chak cannot contain his own bellow of agony as the electricity races through his body, his armor, equipment, _everything_ sparks and heats up to unbearable degrees. He stumbles backward, muscles spasming and locking up against every command his mind gives his body. He cannot keep himself upright as a maelstrom of pain crashes and invades every cell, breath, and thought. For the first time in over a hundred cycles, it is too much for the Elite to handle; he blacks out to a haze of sobs, sparks, and the overwhelming smell of burning flesh. _His_ flesh.


	16. pass a message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: there's talk of sex work and implications of alan and arnold being involved in human trafficking

“Don’t be nervous.” Alan remarks as the car races down the highway. “These meetings are _expected._ Go in, look good, walk out. No big deal, Tuck.”

It does not ease the man’s worries.

On the car ride over, with the sunlight of the afternoon falling through cracks in the tinted windows, all Tucker Mason can do is sit and think. He wears a nice suit, black and fitted to his larger size, with an exquisite velvet-red tie to match the ruby cufflinks of the sleeves. His brother tells him the outfit is a bit over the top, but he _needs_ to be over the top. He needs to demonstrate he is still capable of his job, of retaining employment, of being kept _around_ and involved with the mess of a company.

His brother scoffs and waves off his concerns. There is no reason for _Alan_ to be worried. _Alan_ wasn’t the one who told everyone the damn X-12 specimen was dead. _Alan_ didn’t cause evacuation orders to be cancelled under the guise of detonation no longer being required. _Alan_ didn’t foolishly report the site was _secure_ and personnel could return. _Alan didn’t do anything._ Alan is the same old Alan: the golden child of the family, likeable but never the one who gets shouldered with the blame. Alan doesn’t face consequences. Alan is Alan, and Alan has nothing bad happen to him—Ever.

 _One-hundred-thirty-thousand dead. Class eight. Christ._ The number repeats in Tucker’s head. He winces, but the man is quick to clam up when his brother glances over from the driver’s seat. He turns his attention forward, praying the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead aren’t too off-putting. He _must_ make a good impression for the vice president. He must. He can. He _will._

Tucker Mason is not convinced by his words. The second the car pulls off an exit and begins the scenic route across the Florida Keys, his heart begins to race. His hands clench until the knuckles turn whiter than he already is.

The car stops at gated grass acres. Two men in suits approach; Alan rolls down the window, flashes a badge, and one of the men calls another line to get clearance before the two move and the gate opens. The driveway is massive, made of clean stretches of concrete all the way past the greens and to the house beyond. Guards constantly patrol the area, some equipped with more firepower than he’s ever seen in his life. Tucker swallows and his blue eyes dilate where he sits; the fear is obvious to anyone looking in or out of the car. When the car stops in front of a massive house, a mansion really, Alan leans over and puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

His brother looks upbeat despite circumstances, with swept-back hair dyed deep brown and a grinning white smile. His blue eyes meet Tucker’s and he reaffirms what he said before, “—You’re going to be fine. When have I ever been wrong, Tuck?”

“Never,” the man begrudgingly admits.

The two brothers clamber out of the vehicle. Outside, the sunshine hits Tucker dead-on. He winces and makes to adjust a hat, only to remember he has no hat. He immediately feels self conscious; the man’s receding hairline is in full view. Every time a guard looks at him too long, he begins to question if they are mocking him. His hands tense at the thought; he sticks to Alan’s side as the latter strides forward and climbs a set of white-marble stairs.

Funnily enough, the mansion seems to be made from marble. Not entirely—But Tucker knows enough about architecture to see the way marble is seamlessly assimilated into the house’s layout. There are hints of Greek influence in the pillars climbing the outside walls as the two walk to the front door. Two guards, one on each side of the door, bow their heads and whisper into earpieces as Alan reaches to knock. The door buzzes and electronic locks unlatch. Alan draws his hand back and smooths his shirt before gesturing at Tucker to follow him inside.

“Come meet the boss,” Alan grins.

* * *

She passes time by counting the notes of an old _chiva_ -inspired song in her head. Music is not common to the Ka’Torag-Na Clan, but what music exists is traditional, performed using a Yautja’s extensive, guttural vocal cords. Lower pitches are kept for ceremonial songs, but higher pitched chirrups and trills make up the melodies shared between casual song. The huntress has not thought about chirping notes in many cycles, but with nothing to do but lounge around a half-filled medical pod and hope the skin grafts stick this time, her mind goes back to the memories of her youth and the notes intoned by the Elder _lou-dte kale_.

It has been an interesting day, as far as days spent as the prisoner of an Elite hunter can be. The bomb collar around her neck remains active as ever. She knows not to mess with it. Outside the medical pod, visibly pacing across the length of the chamber in endless fashion, is one of the oomans. The two other oomans remain close by, with one in the thermal mesh suit picking away at the unconscious body on the table. The other, a woman with rich brown skin and dreadlocks not unlike her own—though definitely shorter—stands nearby with her arms crossed and a conflicted look in her eyes. The human pacing is the one she remembers being introduced as… _Ivon._

 _Ivon._ She does not bother to say it aloud, tasting it on her tongue instead. She does not remember the other part of the human’s name, but _Ivon_ is clear. They are the electrician, the one responsible for… doing _things_ to a bio-mask and subsequently repairing one to the point it now rests on her face, filtering in breathable air. Vayuh’ta inhales deeply at the thought.

She has not smelled the Image around the medical bay or lower level lately. The strange aroma—enticing to a degree, but not enough to make her want to linger on it forever—that follows is absent as well. What makes the day so interesting is not that the Im-Gen is absent from what feels like the crew’s informal meeting place, but that the Elite hunter is present. On a table. _Burned_ and _unconscious._ Even through the glass—She smells the bitter char of Yautja flesh, not unlike her own. She growls softly and sinks lower in her pod’s liquid.

 _What burns a Yautja?_ She does not want to imagine. She knows _one_ of the answers, painfully obvious across the back side of her body. But from the glimpses she catches when the doctor ooman moves to the side and retrieves a new tool, Vayuh’ta sees the burns on the unconscious _kv’var-de_ are not… normal.

His equipment looks fried. Most of it has been taken off, mesh, wrappings, loincloth, veritanium plates, every part is in a heap on the floor, nothing more than scrap for the electrician human to eventually play with. Nudity is not an issue across most Yautja clans, but she wonders how invasive the burns are for an ooman to strip a Yautja. Perhaps it is simply the way the doctor human operates; Vayuh’ta recalls how quickly the woman was to take her equipment and attire when it came to the heinous, mutilating surgical acts the ooman performed.

One of the oomans begins walking her way just when she thinks the rest of the day might be a quiet one. Her orange eyes narrow from beyond the glass hatch. She can see the unease in the electrician’s face; the person’s lips tremble and their eyes betray their fear.

There is a hefty portion of fear. She doesn’t mind. When the electrician taps on the glass hatch, Vayuh’ta takes her time forcing it open. She does not climb out the pod, merely eyes _Ivon_ from beyond her mask.

“Can you help us?” The question throws her off.

When her clicks do not translate, she growls, curses, and messes with the input keys on the back of the bio-mask. The sensors are slightly thicker compared to the ones of her old masks, but she refuses to voice her pain when the sensors plunge into her flesh and dig through to her cranium. The Yautja tries again, helmet voicing the words in monotone, “What can a Yautja do for a human?”

“We need your blood.” Ivon is very tense. Weak, squishy, and tense. They show fear, but they speak anyways, voice becoming more _composed_ but not quite calm as they carry on. “—Mercy over there—Mercy needs—The doctor thinks he needs blood. Yautja blood. A transfusion.”

“Our blood will not match. Different Yautja, different blood.”

“Can you try?” The person asks. “If he dies—We’re all kind of… fucked. This is _his_ ship. And Mercy’s kept you alive. Doesn’t that mean you owe him? Is that how it works?”

The squishy soft meat thinks they have an idea how the concept of Honor works across clans. It makes her snort, mandibles briefly flaring at the thought.

The ooman has _no_ idea the complications that come from hundreds of Yautja clans interpreting Honor different ways. Some clans take the Council of Ancients and their word as _law,_ while others offer more slack and a tendency to keep to severe punishment over impromptu execution. As far as she remembers, the clan Sundew claims the hunter hails from—Clan Gahn’tha-cte, the Ruthless—is a clan with strict interpretations of the Code of Honor. The Ruthless differs from traditional clan conventions in that the Leaders of Gahn’tha-cte allow disputes between Blooded warriors to resolve through non-lethal measures. Winners of the dispute can _choose_ to spare downed opponents, subverting the loser’s reputation and social status but ensuring disputes do not aimlessly dwindle the clan’s population.

Ka’Torag-Na is a trick of the light in comparison.

The Ruthless Clan is brutally honest in their rulings, but the Lurking Clan will find a way to nix someone through all four hearts while sharing a bottle of _c'ntlip_ at the same time. Ka’Torag-Na plays with _politics,_ and they are not above mercilessly bartering or extorting anything between ships, technology, and even newborn pups. The clan’s power is always in the shadows, a loose grip on what is _Honor_ for its members versus _Honor_ for the other clans spread across the galaxies. Vayuh’ta does not agree with it, but in the same breath all she wants is the ability to return to her clan and reunite with her _mei-hswei_ and _mei-jadhi._

The human in front of her waits for an answer. Vayuh’ta cuts her thoughts short and chitters softly at them. Her helmet translates immediately, “Yautja cannot share blood with another outside immediate biological kin. Fifty-percent of a match, no less.”

“That doesn’t mean you—” Ivon winces at her low growl. The human grits their teeth and takes a step _closer,_ a brave thing all things considered. Vayuh’ta is almost impressed. She tilts her head to one side while Ivon takes another step, and another, until the human is at the open hatch and peering in at her. From the angle, it almost looks like they are the tall one.

A squishy soft meat being taller? She laughs, mandibles clicking together at the thought. It takes the ooman aback. Vayuh’ta’s helmet translates her next statement, “What will I get for trying?”

“His debt? Mercy’s debt, I mean.” Ivon rubs the back of their head.

“I will acquire his debt separately. But you are the one,” the helmet drawls out, no emotion seeping through regardless of the humor contained in the clicks and growls. “Who is asking me to help him.”

“What do Ya-Ow-Ja usually like?”

 _“Yautja.”_ Vayuh’ta corrects, though she knows the human cannot understand her clicks. She contemplates _what_ to ask for. What could a soft meat give, that nothing else in the universe could supply? There isn’t much. There isn’t anything when she dawdles on the thought.

Ivon’s hands suddenly grab one of her own, the human reaching into the pod to do so. Vayuh’ta hisses instinctively at them, squaring her shoulders and eying them dangerously. Touching a Yautja huntress without her permission is a recipe for disaster across _all_ Clans who follow the Code. But the human takes the risk of her ripping their arm off, all without knowing it.

“I’ll find a way to get that thing off you,” They speak with such resolve the huntress cannot help but quirk a crest above one eye. Vayuh’ta grunts, but Ivon goes on before her helmet can translate anything, “I know how to read one of your—One of the Yautja’s scripts. I can read _his,_ ” the electrician gestures behind them at the unconscious Elite on the table. “That’s what—It’s his shit around your neck, right? I’ll help get it off.”

 _“It would come off anyways. When I leave.”_ She clicks in response, not allowing the helmet to translate.

Ivon releases her and draws back. They straighten upright and grimace, “I—Look, I’m not—I don’t know _how_ Sundew makes heads or tails of the things said in those noises—But I can’t.”

Vayuh’ta snorts. She clicks quickly, and the helmet translates the words on her command. “I am not interested.”

“But—” Ivon’s eyes dim. They exhale sharply and glance over their shoulder. They look back at her and lean back to the open hatch. “The doctor said he might die if he doesn’t—If he doesn’t get blood. She’s a human doctor, I know, but if she can do one thing right—It seems to be keeping Mercy alive. Please.”

“Why do you care about this member of my species living or dying?” The helmet blares the words slowly, void of sympathy or concern. Vayuh’ta does not smell fear come from the electrician, surprisingly, but rather—It almost smells… negative. Something negative. She cannot put her finger on what, nor does she have to, as the electrician soon answers any questions she has.

“Sundew likes him,” Ivon’s face dusts pink, visible in the full-spectrum optics up and running in her mask. The electrician bites their lip and leans down into the hatch, no more than a foot from her mask while they add. “Your kind… scares me. You know. Terrifying. Powerful. Deadly. That means—Mercy scares me. A lot; so do you, if that helps.”

Vayuh’ta can’t help but chortle lightly at that. _Good._

“I would really like it if Sundew liked _me._ I know that’s—It’s a soft meat thing to say, right?” The electrician cracks a thin, bittersweet smile. They shake their head. “I might not be Mercy, but I still want her to be happy, so I want the terrifying, powerful, _deadly_ alien guy to live.”

“Selfless.” Is what the helmet intones in response.

Ivon blinks. They draw back, straighten upright again, and run a hand through their hair. They have heavy bags under their eyes, Vayuh’ta notices. The electrician bites their lip and shrugs. “I guess its what some of us ooh-mons do.”

 _“Oomans,”_ Vayuh’ta corrects, much quieter in her clicks. She pauses, contemplative. _Selfless. Unlike the doctor ooman. That is…_

She does not like the fact her mind is coming around to the idea of helping. Sundew, perhaps, though she considers the two on equal terms regarding the stabbing-shielding-from-plasma-blast incident back in the Amazon rainforest. But at a human’s request? An _ooman?_ One of the softest, squishiest meats around? Her clan would never—Ka’Torag-Na would _never_.

 _I am not part of Ka’Torag-Na anymore. Am I?_ The Yautja huntress growls softly. She feels pain in her chest, past anything the plasma burns caused weeks ago. The woman inhales slowly. She breathes in the filtered air and envisions her mind a great receptacle of water. Her thoughts are the liquid, piling up with each breath, but as she exhales the huntress imagines the water emptying a little more. She allows her mind to clear. She is a huntress forced into exile, a Bad Blood, but that does not mean she must turn to the ways of the criminal Yautja. She still lives with her honor intact. What Zabin did to force her out is unforgivable, and until the other huntress meets the Black Hunter, until her innocence is proven, she must live with her honor, her morals, and her beliefs.

She is Vayuh’ta. To some, she is a soft current of air with no purpose beyond the passing breeze. To others—She is a _maelstrom_ of fury and defiance against what her former _mei-jadhi_ did to her and Clan Ka’Torag-Na.

 _Is that who I want to be here?_ Her orange eyes dim behind her mask. _Do I want to be back with Ka’Torag-Na? My mei-jadhi? My mei-hswei? My pups? My kin? Even if I prove my innocence—Do I want to surround myself with the shadows? The politics?_

She does not have anywhere left to go. Her gaze flickers to the human nearby. The big, bright brown eyes are locked on her, awaiting her cooperation or refusal. They do not radiate fear anymore. Uncertainty, perhaps, but not fear. Vayuh’ta growls as she pulls herself out of the hatch. It is slow and painful; she refuses the human’s offer of help and takes slow, careful movements to ensure she does not damage any of the grafts done across her body. Her physical form has begun healing, but only time will tell if the grafts _take_ or if her body rejects them again. She does not know how much more skin she can lose from her arms and front torso.

She finds it amusing how two of the humans in the room turn away when she walks to the far wall and looks at the indentations. She is quick to find the one labeled _thermal suits_ and seize a new, _clean_ mesh matrix to dress in, along with the appropriate wrappings. It hurts to have the mesh cling to her backside, but she ignores the pain and turns to the humans. Her growl is louder the second time. The doctor human pauses, frowns, and looks up. There is a surge of fear coming from her _instantly,_ radiating outward in droves.

Vayuh’ta knows why, recalling a conversation between the human and Elite prior to the latter’s unconscious state. She strides to the metal table and lets her helmet do the talking, “I do not think this is going to work. Yautja cannot transfuse blood the same as oomans do. A Yautja’s immune system will attack anything less than a fifty-percent match.”

“Then—Immediate kin?” The woman with brown skin and dreadlocks frowns and looks at the doctor. "This isn't going to work."

“I am willing to offer a portion of my blood to… try.” Vayuh’ta cuts off the woman, staring directly at the doctor. “In exchange. The electrician owes me a debt. The Elite, if he lives, owes me a debt on the basis of my intervening alone. Do you agree?”

“I agree.” Ivon steps forward immediately, extending a hand. The huntress does not know what it means; when the doctor human gestures for her to stand at the other end of the table, Vayuh’ta stands, and she ignores the electrician’s confused stare in the process.

* * *

Arnold Escrow is an old man. He looks the part, what with the deep wrinkles across his face, bulging veins across his hands, and the thinnest layer of white hair across his head—He looks old. His house smells old. Tucker does not know what he expects a billionaire’s mansion to smell like, but not _old_ —It feels far too modern to be _old_ yet the smell of _old_ hangs around regardless. He doesn’t like it, but what he likes is irrelevant when Arnold Escrow looks up from a white leather chair in the gargantuan living room and puts his newspaper away.

He had sharper features as a young one, but his skin hangs more with age. Tucker notes the man’s smile holds great mirth, every bit as vibrant and beaming as the picture of him on the wall of Alan’s office. At least the setting isn’t the yearly Holiday Party; Tucker cannot fathom the billionaire in an ugly sweater or red hat. He does not want to fathom Arnold at all, but Arnold is already up and striding to the duo with outstretched arms. He wears bright blue khaki shorts, tasteless flipflops, and a short-sleeved white golfer’s shirt.

No doubt—The man has money _and_ too much time on his hands.

“Alan, my boy! And who is this fine gentleman? Is that you, Tucker? I haven’t had a chance to speak to you in—What? A good year, now?” The man gives Alan and Tucker individual handshakes. His blue eyes have a strange, vibrant sheen to them—The same gaze as his late daughter, a topic Tucker does _not_ look forward to getting into.

“Good seeing you. To see you now. Vice President.” Tucker’s voice contains his nerves. He stiffens when Alan snorts and Arnold laughs.

“Forgive my brother, he’s—You know. You know how it’s been, Arnold. I’m sorry we have to be here,” Alan stuffs his hands in his pants’ pockets. He tilts his head to one side, eyes flitting from Arnold to the numerous doorways.

Tucker pauses. It just now occurs to him there are no guards inside. _Man’s got good security, then. Or confidence out the ass._

“Well, we best move to the dining hall—Unless one of the two of you want a drink? Scotch, perhaps? Or maybe a craft beer? I’ve got a lovely company out of Seattle that’s been on a _high_ since last month—Flavors are flying off the shelf, orders coming in like the apocalypse is upon us—No, no, I can’t just go pushing the products I sponsored on you both. You’re here for _business!_ ” Arnold chuckles softly and shakes his head. “It’s just so _rude_ for me not to offer, yes? I have guests but nothing to give!”

“I wouldn’t mind a scotch myself. Tucker’s designated driver tonight.” Alan jokes and pats his brother’s back.

Tucker feels incredibly itchy, over-dressed, and out of place in his suit. The tie feels constrictive. He swallows and manages awkward laughter, but it doesn’t seem to bother Arnold. The latter leads the two brothers into an adjacent room: a great dining room, with perfect Swarovski crystals arranged in a fresco-like fashion across the floor, all drowned under a clear layer of resin to prevent any bumps or disturbances in the floor’s even surface. It is too over the top for Tucker’s face _not_ to pale and him to gawk.

Arnold laughs again. He takes a seat at the end of a long wooden table, the wood beautifully finished to hold a sheen against the dark, dark grains. The chairs have no armrests, prompting Tucker to awkwardly place his hands on the table. Overhead, a decadent chandelier swings with no lights. There are windows, but the room feels darker than outside, as does the entirety of the house when Tucker dwells on the thought a while. He half-jumps out of his chair at the sound of footsteps walking from another part of the house, down a set of stairs, and striding over the man’s hardwood and resin floors to the dining room.

In the open archway, holding a tray of assorted glasses and bottles, is the tallest woman Tucker has ever seen. Tucker freezes in place and watches as the person walks to Arnold’s end of the table and sets the tray down. The person has sunglasses and a long white jumpsuit on with riding gloves and high-laced boots in neutral tones. The hat covers most of her head, and an equally large mountain of makeup seems to coat her face. Tucker doesn’t care about women in makeup. Or men in makeup. Or people in makeup. He grimaces at the amount but snaps upright when Arnold begins to chuckle.

“Oh, don’t mind Alma—She’s not from here, she’s acting as my consultant to a matter outside the state,” The old man shakes his head with a smile. “And no, Alan, before you ask—She isn’t married, she doesn’t speak English, _but_ she knows how to kick your ass into the afterlife if you upset her.”

“That much to bag her as your _consultant?_ ” Alan’s brows rise, but the question is poised casually, as if the topic of sugar daddies is part of corporate culture.

“Far out of your wallet, young man.” Arnold waves a finger at the man. “Not that I would let you.”

“I’m a good guy, Arnold, c’mon, if she has your fancy—Nothing wrong with that. No judgement, no jealousy, nothing. We’re part of the same team.” Alan huffs, but it is all in good fun for him. The way he and Arnold laugh—It makes Tucker wonder just how close the two are, or if Arnold simply doesn’t have boundaries in how he talks to his employees. As if to answer the latter question, Arnold looks at Tucker with an expectant smile.

Tucker’s stomach churns. Alan reaches for a glass of ice and a bottle of scotch while Alma walks to Arnold’s side and stands quietly near him.

“We’re part of the same team.” Tucker repeats his brother’s words and fakes a smile. Alan grins and sips his scotch while Arnold laughs in approval.

“That we are, that we are! So, my boys,” Arnold drums his fingers on the table. His blue eyes are terrifying, but his smile seems friendly enough as he goes on. “Let’s discuss _Tucson._ ”

* * *

“When will we know if it works?” Jo frowns. She _hates_ the suspense in the room, especially when it involves aliens. There is already a shit ton of unknown in the aliens across the ship; the last thing she needs are more things to think over during her insomniac hours.

The doctor does not answer, busy at work rigging up a make-shift IV line. Or, what Jo would consider an IV line. She knows a little first aid, but anything hospital-related goes out the window; she feels like an outsider in the medical bay. If Garcia didn’t ask her to stay, she knows she would have wandered to the kitchen to find blah-tack to nibble on in boredom. But Garcia did ask—Not just her, but her _and_ Ivon; it is a surprising change of pace for the cold and closed-off, selfish woman. Jo wonders if having a bomb attached to the neck is the trick to making assholes less asshole-y.

“We do not know how either may react, during any of it,” Garcia informs the two for the third time in five minutes.

Jo snorts. “I’ve held an alien down in my short lifetime, doc. Too many times for a lifetime, might I add.”

“Maelstrom.” Ivon gets Tall Strom’s attention. The huntress growls in response; the alien sits on the ground directly next to the table where Tall Alien is passed out cold. Jo finds herself baffled by the situation all over again, but she doesn’t dwell on it. She watches Ivon kneel next to Tall Strom. “Thanks for doing this.”

“So dramatic.” Garcia utters under her breath.

Jo shakes her head. _So much for a change of heart._

She pauses. Her thoughts drift to the only alien on board _not_ present at the medical bay. She has not seen Flower Power since the latter came to the medical bay, an absolute wreck of weird, transparent tears and sobs, and begged her and Ivon to help Tall Alien. It was jarring. More than _jarring—_ It was freakishly out of character for Flower Power. The silver alien only stayed to ensure Tall Alien got to the medical bay before locking herself in the cockpit. It concerns Jo. Her brows furrow and she looks from Garcia to Ivon before asking, “Ya’ll mind if I dip for a moment? Kinda. Questioning if Flower Power knows how to steer a ship. Or not.”

Garcia says nothing. No snide remarks, no warnings or disgust, _nothing._ Her face is blank, gray eyes heavy, and though her hands tremble she does not shy from taking a needle connected to a long, thin tube and pressing it into Tall Alien’s forearm. Tall Alien does not respond, though his chest rising and falling indicates he is still alive.

Ivon looks over at her. “I think it’d be good to check on her. Maybe ask what the fuck happened?”

“I tend to ask those kinds of questions, yeah,” the woman attempts to joke; Jo cracks her neck and waves her fellow humans and the two Talls off as she departs the medical bay. It is a brief trek down the corridor of the living quarters; she stops at the rounded cockpit door separating the head of the ship from the fuselage segments. Her hand rises; she hesitates before knocking softly. When no response comes, she knocks louder. Then—louder. But Jo is nothing if not stubborn; when she continues to get silence, she rears back and kicks the metal door, yelling at the cockpit, _“Flower Power!_ Open up! We’re having a discussion! It’s easier face-to-face but if you ain’t gonna do that then I _will_ shout it for _everyone_ to hear—”

She stops midsentence when the locks of the door unlatch and, with a brief hiss, it slides open. Jo looks down at the shorter figure—shorter only by a few inches—and bites her lip. Sundew never looks good, having a skeletal face and visible eye sockets does that for a lady, but right now something about her body language seems even… _less good_ than usual.

“Greetings, Jo.” The alien says softly.

She’s been crying. Jo feels pity inside her chest. She does not know if aliens are open to hugs, but she tries her best to look positive and not like a complete wreck herself as she stares into the horrifying clear eyes of the alien. “So. Hi. You mind if I come in?”

“It is not my ship. I cannot stop you.” Sundew steps aside. The irony in her words seems to be beyond her, as Jo knows definitively the alien can and _has_ electronically manipulated locks and shit before.

“Okay,” is the first thing out of Jo’s mouth when she is inside the strangely normal-looking cockpit, the door shut behind the two. She turns to the silver figure and crosses her arms. “We know why I’m here. But I’m nice—Even if we don’t… Share the same _species._ I care when others are upset. So. I won’t ask you about Tall Alien yet. I’m just going to offer to _listen_ —If you want to share anything—”

“Jo.” Jo shuts up when the alien purses her lips and looks at her. Or—She thinks Sundew looks at her. It’s hard to tell when Flower Power has no visible pupils. Flower Power tilts her head to one side and frowns deeply. “I do not know if it is appropriate to share.”

“Yeah, but do you want to share?” The woman huffs.

“I do not know,” Sundew holds her head in her hands. “I do not _know_ , Jo.”

“…that bad?” Jo pauses. “If it involves a love triangle with Ivon—”

“I do not understand what a love triangle is.” The response is immediate. Mildly perplexed, which is a step up from horribly not-Sundew-y.

“Look. Look. I can,” the woman bites her lip and looks around the cockpit. Her brown gaze dims. She does not want to lie to the alien. She doesn’t know if Flower Power can read minds, but if she can—Jo is _fucked._ She prefers not to be fucked by any alien in any fashion. Jo inhales deeply and tries again. “I might not be from the world _you_ come from, but I’m pretty down-to-Earth, all puns intended. Heh. I’m empathetic. Usually. If you aren’t bullshit, which I don’t think you are. So. I won’t judge you, if you do want to share. Or—We could, I dunno, talk? What do you like to talk about? What interests an extraterrestrial lifeform?”

“I like hats.” Sundew confesses. She lifts her hands to the beige hat on her head and adjusts it to hide her forehead behind the large brim.

Jo’s eyes soften. Everyone on the ship knows who got Sundew the hat. It is kind of fun to know a giant, hulking death machine of an alien indulges in the practice of gift-giving. The woman nods at her. “Hats are… They come in a lot of shapes. Forms. I had a friend in middle school who moved here from China. Not—Not here as in Brazil, uh, ‘here’ as in Arizona. The USA. Does any of this make sense to an extraterrestrial lifeform?”

It is strange to hear Flower Power’s laugh. The sound is mimicked, but part of it feels real. Sincere.

Human.

“Some of what you say makes sense. It is… nice to know there are still many things about humanity left unknown to my kind,” Sundew slowly nods. She sits on the ground, unbothered by Jo remaining standing, and looks at her lap. “Humans are… They have lots of hats. Lots of different hats. Different hats for different groups. My hive contains information on most of them. But I—I do not. Jo. I do not know everything. I fear I am missing more of myself than I am aware of. My memories of landing on this planet are—”

Jo sees the lifeform pause, lips ajar with unspoken thoughts. The woman frowns and takes a seat next to Flower Power. She sits cross-legged. “That bad, huh?”

“My ship was… intercepted? It became very hot. It crashed.” Sundew confirms Jo’s suspicion. Her voice continues to waver; the lifeform struggles to pull together words, but she carries on regardless. “I know—I should have expired. My kind does not fare well with heat. So much heat. Fire. Razing fires. But someone found me. I know I engulfed them. I swallowed them whole. One second they were alive and the next… They were part of me. She was part of me. She is part of me, Jo.”

“Do you know who?” Jo’s curiosity borders on the precarious cliff, morbid but picking up the information shared is being told with _purpose._

“I did not. Not until…” The strange, clear liquid of Sundew’s tears begins to come again, falling in small streaks down the lifeform’s face. It looks bizarre to see when so much of her face comes off as _skeletal._ Tears are actions taken by the living, those who are _alive,_ but she does not look like life. She has a face of death.

Jo frowns. She reaches a hand out, but the lifeform’s eyes grow wide and she throws herself away from the woman’s hand, snapping all the while, _“Do not touch me!”_

“Oh—I’m sorry—Sorry!” The human holds up her hands apologetically. She winces. “I thought it would help.”

“It will not. It will make things worse. …confirmed what Doctor Garcia told all of you,” one of the words Jo cannot catch, but she assumes it references one of the two aliens on board. Probably Tall Alien, given how close the two seem to be. She watches Sundew wipe her face and eyes. Sundew imitates a human exhaling sharply before she states. “I am… My proximity is—It is affecting others. It is… I do not understand. I thought I did, but I—I do not. I do not. I do not. But I know it is. It must be. It is why … reacted like that. He told me—He said—He confirmed I am doing something to him. Something I was not aware of.”

“Oh.”

“He tried to do the same as you just now. Perhaps I… Am I effecting you too, Jo?” The silver lifeform holds her head in her hands. “Will I effect everyone on this ship? Is that what my kind does around others? Is that why we keep to ourselves? Is that why the hive prohibits flight beyond this system?”

Jo’s throat feels dry. She does not have an answer to the questions.

“You should go.” Flower Power says, voice falling quiet once more. She stands. Her hands come to her front and she begins to wring her wrists; the body language tells Jo she has done all she can for the alien. With a heavy heart, the human rises to her feet. Sundew points to the correct indentation in the door to open it. Jo watches in mixed awe and annoyance at the lack of automatic doors. She steps out into the corridor of the living quarters, but she turns around at the last second and looks at Sundew. The latter frowns at her. “I can keep the autopilot functioning until… Until another time. Jo. Do not allow anyone to come near the head of the ship.”

“I won’t.” It is a small promise to make to try and cheer up the alien. It doesn’t work. Jo stands there awkwardly, a loss of what to say or do.

Sundew’s hand rises to the wall. She pauses, not yet closing the door. She looks at the metal floor. “Jo.”

“Yeah?” The woman frowns.

“Please pass a message to Doctor Louanne Garcia for me.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay.” Jo straightens up. She stands, perplexed and waiting. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“I am sorry.”

“…Sorry?” The woman’s brown eyes widen. “What do you have to be sorry for? When have you ever done something to warrant apologizing _to_ that bitch?”

“Jo.”

“No, I’m _serious,_ ” Jo’s gaze narrows. “We know she beat the fuck out of you in the cabin. Ivon and I aren’t happy about it. You still have the bruises—”

“Jo—”

“She’s gone on so many rants about you! About… Things that don’t make sense to _me_ —But that doesn’t make them okay! It doesn’t—”

“Her sister,” Sundew’s eyes fill with tears again. Her hands begin to shake. “I took her sister away. I took… I… I am sorry—” She slams her fist against the wall of the cockpit, activating the door and causing it to slide shut. The electronic locks shift into place immediately after.

Jo stares, eyes wide and blank. She does not hear Ivon walk up to her, nor does she respond when the person taps her arm.

“You okay? Is Sundew okay?” The electrician frowns when she turns to look at them. “Jo?”

The woman grits her teeth. Jo can barely choke out the words, too overwhelmed in processing all the information. “We—We need to have a talk. With Garcia. Now."


	17. he had it coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think—Miss Louanne Garcia—Might have spent a little too much real in the state of Amazonas. Perhaps for Yurchik Ivon, perhaps not, it does not matter! What matters is that these humans are out there. More than likely—With stolen technology. Very, very important technology—The likes of which humanity can only hope to aspire to,” Arnold waves Alma back to his side; the woman walks over but steps to stand behind his chair. The billionaire looks back at Tucker. “My errands, Tucker, will afford you a beautiful trip across Brazil! I am sending you to South America to look for Doctor Garcia and our old friend Ivon. I need you to recover the technology stolen, or bring me either of the two alive. Anything else you discover does, of course, carry the possibility of a generous bonus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a long chapter i hope is worth the wait !!! i'm happy with it, particularly with everything involving stargazer corporation. it definitely doesn't adhere to canon lore anymore but there you go, villainous corporations. i hope i do this questionable interpretation some justice! 
> 
> TW in this chapter for:  
> -death  
> -murder  
> -suicidal ideation / implications / thoughts

“It’s unfortunate what happened. Not only the loss of a well-developed site, but that of twenty-six valuable specimens and valued personnel,” Arnold sighs and leans back in his chair. The man rubs his chin and shrugs. “Pity. All of it. It will be hard to recuperate the costs of Tucson.”

“I’m sorry for… The losses. Sir.” Tucker’s fists clench to the point his knuckles turn white. “I worked the site nine years. Was a good place. Lotta new developments came outta that place—”

“Indeed.” Arnold closes his eyes.

“Nothing that can’t be rebuilt. Company’s done it before.” Alan sips his scotch and smiles.

 _Before…?_ Tucker’s face pales. He takes an empty glass but looks for water. When he sees none, the man shoves his glass away and sits back in his seat. He bites his lip. No matter how much his brother reassures him, all Tucker feels is _out of place_ whenever he talks, replies, asks a question, _anything._ Words are not his. The right to speaking up belongs to those of the executive branch: the two men at the table who clearly have a grasp on the situation. Why Arnold invited him at all is beyond him. Maybe he will be fired and escorted off the premises. Maybe something worse.

 _Would Arnold do that? Do billionaires really…_ He bites his lip. Tucker flinches when Alan leans over and puts a hand on his shoulder. “—Yeah?”

“C’mon, Tuck, don’t tell me you’re zoning out already?” Alan quirks a brow and chuckles. He turns to Arnold. “Think my brother here might be distracted by that lovely consultant of yours!”

Arnold laughs at the statement. “Aren’t we all, my boy? Alma here’s well worth the attention. If you knew her as I did… Ah, where would I even begin?” The man trails off and shakes his head, a humorous smile on his lips. He looks off to the side, where a monstrous-size painting spans the length of the wall.

Tucker’s gaze follows; the man purses his lips and gazes at the picture in slight awe. It is an oil painting, the edges painted white with no frame or mat. Even from the distance, he sees the texture of the brushstrokes. The colors used are one off-complements; nigh-black tints of blue coalesce over rich, deep grays to provide depth across the composition. A white glow stretches across the yellow and golden hues painted in a circle, with fascinating stripes of black, brown, and neutral hues forming rings around the planet. The pairing of yellow for Saturn and dark cobalt for space works marvelously. Tucker can see, in the farthest reaches of the piece, specks of light-gray splattered to give the impression of stars.

“You like that piece?” Arnold’s blue eyes are on him when he snaps back to focus. The older gentleman smiles slightly and looks at Alma. “I got it for her. Commissioned, of course, and paid the artist a _very_ hefty tip to ensure it was up to my standards—I think it fits. Space is a marvelous and vast thing, my boy. So much out there left to be discovered.”

“I wish,” Tucker says softly. “We could have saved the subjects.”

“Well. Nothing can be done ‘bout it now. Tucson was a grave loss—But I do not attribute the blame to _you._ ” Arnold’s words cause him to snap his head back and stare at the senior.

Alan downs the rest of his scotch and pushes the glass away. The action tells Tucker his brother is only just hearing of this.

“Something or _someone_ overloaded the transformers of Tucson’s power grid. I’m sure you know all about that, Tucker, being the administrator overlooking that department of the company,” The billionaire shakes his head. “Couldn’t have done anything to stop it. It was fast. It provided the specimens… opportunity. We are a great corporation, but even our protocols and security measures can’t account for _every_ avenue of possibility! Not in the heat of the moment.”

Tucker frowns. “Yeah.”

“But _that_ is why we are here now. Because,” Arnold nods at Alma. She adjusts her hat and walks to Alan’s chair, hands folded in front of her waist. Arnold meets Tucker’s gaze and pauses. “Outside the heat of the moment—Someone could have done something. In fact, someone _did_ something. A request for termination was filed. Three executives were required to sign off on the file—"

“Woah,” Alan’s blue eyes narrow. He huffs and crosses his arms. “You aren’t talking about the Synthetic specimen, are you? Arnold— _Arnold_ —”

“You know me, Alan, I am a man of my word. And if I say I will not tolerate people going behind my back and signing off on orders to purge _my_ specimens—I mean it,” Arnold’s tone becomes deeper. The strange sheen in the man’s eyes is more visible than before. “I need to know _my_ executives are people I can trust! And you’ve shown me, Alan, I can’t trust you.”

His brother opens his mouth to speak but a sheen of silver suddenly juts through the man’s neck. Alma retracts a _long_ slab of gray material and, before Tucker’s wide, horrified eyes, the material begins to shift and take the shape of a human forearm, wrist, and _hand._ The skin is lustrous and silver. Tucker pushes his chair backward and balks while Alan’s body slumps forehead, crimson gushing out. Arnold’s smile remains while Tucker struggles to say anything beyond incoherent guttural noises.

Alma holds up her hand. Her other arm has her second riding glove tucked underneath; she slips it back on and looks back at Arnold.

“Thank you, Alma,” Arnold nods appreciatively. He gestures at the table, ignoring Tucker’s pale face, cold sweats, and sheer disbelief. “I apologize for the mess. Had to get that out of the way and you know how these things are! Two birds, one stone, the whole lot of it…”

“You killed him.” The man says in a daze.

“Oh, he had it coming. They always do.” The billionaire scoffs and shakes his head. “That is why he had to go! Couldn’t trust him. But you—Tucker. _You_ I can trust.”

* * *

The humans have been screaming at each other for the past hour. Vayuh’ta shuts her eyes and leans her back against the metal table. She sits on the floor against it, a thin tube leading from a point of entry in her forearm crease to a bag on a rolling stand nearby. There, the fluorescent green glow of her blood drips slowly through a sanitized, cylindrical device she vaguely recognizes as a miniature pressure chamber.

It is an outdated piece of Yautja equipment but still functional; what she recants of the old medical technology is that it uses alternating pressures to slowly draw blood out versus take a pint at once. There is no reason to keep it around in favor of automatic cellular regeneration serum, but she assumes the human doctor either does not know about the serum or the ship ran out. She does not know when supplies were last refilled. She doubts she will get an answer anytime soon—The status of the Elite _kv’var-de_ nearby remains nigh-unchanged. The burns are not healing fast enough, reflective of a deeper tissue damage than she initially thought, as a Yautja’s rate of healing should have forced _some_ change.

The only good sign to appear since she first agreed to donate blood is the fact the Elite is not dead. Not yet—Though he lays on Cetanu’s doorstep. Vayuh'ta grimaces at the thought; it would be wholly embarrassing to go through the trouble of donating her blood, part of _herself,_ only for the damn hunter to keel over dead anyways. His scales have begun to slough off, exposing the vulnerable dermis underneath. Much of the hunter’s body is now wrapped in compresses laden with sterilized water to keep moisture in. There are two antique IV bags with intravenous tubing snaking into points at the unconscious Yautja’s arms and feet; one bag has a bag of her blood, while the other has the medical pod’s dark liquid inside it.

The humans continue screeching at the medical bay doors. All three of them are involved, though the electrician who fixed a mask for her is much more subdued. Vayuh’ta shakes her head; she feels the urge to smack skulls together rise, but she is not a relentless killer. When she calls the Black Hunter to take someone away it is done in mercy or honor. Never unjustified. Never in agitation or provocation, though she doubts the humans realize how aggravating they are. She still possesses her honor and she will not let go of it easily.

The ship lurches to a stop suddenly, causing two of the three humans to shush and a third to flinch. Vayuh’ta frowns; she bends down and presses the temples of her current bio-mask to the floor. She can feel the vibrations caused by machinery shifting underneath; it doesn’t feel the way it has while the ship has been in flight the past few days. She looks over at the humans and her helmet intones, “Is the ship landing?”

“I don’t—We didn’t plan on it. But Sundew is the one with the controls.” Ivon sputters. “I—I’ll check on her—Jo—”

“Go.” The woman with deep, dark skin waves them off. Ivon scurries out of the room and shuts the medical bay door. Jo turns back to the doctor ooman and growls lowly. “This conversation isn’t done, Garcia!”

“It is for me,” the human doctor snaps back. She walks to the large metal table with the hunter unconscious across it. The doctor pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs deeply. “There is not much to say, _Jo_. Nothing that hasn't been said before.”

“How do you justify that?!” Jo storms over to her and shoves a finger at her chest, brown eyes flared and wild with frustration and fury. “All this time—You’ve been keepin’ it a secret! Why did you never share?”

“What was there to share?” Garcia bats the other human’s hand away. “I don’t have a sister anymore. There is no other relevance—”

“Fuck that! She’s dead—Because of—Because—” Jo begins to sputter, knuckles clenching into tight fists. She is truly brave, never once backing down or faltering no matter the doctor’s wretched, cold leer. Jo grabs the doctor’s arm when Garcia tries to turn away. “You’ve been treating all the aliens like _shit_ because of this. How does that not make it a now thing? _Relevant?”_

“Maybe it is a personal matter between two individuals and no longer concerns you?” The doctor snarls.

“We’re stuck on a fucking snake-shaped spacecraft. You really believe it doesn’t concern me? Ivon? Even Tall Alien! Mercy! What’s his name,” Jo’s eyes narrow at the thought. She hisses through her teeth. “Chances are we were the only fucking people who made it out of the Tucson Research Center alive, _Doctor Garcia._ We’re fucked. We’re not going home. We ain’t okay even if we did—You think Stargazer would up and let us waltz around, knowing what we know? We’re stuck in the wonderful world of intergalactic insolence until the fucking _end_ of time. If you got shit to take up with someone else here—When there’s _so few_ of us in the first place—How does it _not_ affect everyone else? Throw a rock in a pool and say the damn rock and the damn pool are the only things effected? What about the life in the water? The leaves floating on top? What the fuck about the rest of us?”

“I would not expect you to understand what it’s like to lose family.” Garcia rips the woman’s hand off her and shoves her back. She turns away.

It is a mistake. Vayuh’ta sees it in Jo’s eyes. There is a grief, a deep pain universal to the sentient species and lifeforms across the universe. It is the sign of loss. The tears that well up in Jo’s eyes are a reminder of the woes of mortality and the inevitable arrival of the Black Hunter to all who live.

Jo steps forward and socks the doctor in the jaw, forcing Garcia to stumble backward and hit the floor. The doctor stares, stunned and speechless, while the other woman walks forward and demands, “What would you know about me?”

She sounds somber. The woman stops where Garcia remains on the floor. She looks down at the doctor and glares.

“I lost my parents when I was twelve.”

The reaction is instant regret. Vayuh’ta watches it wash over the human doctor. Garcia’s face falls and she offers a soft. “I’m sorry—”

“Shut up!” Jo snaps. “Only reason you’re saying that ‘cause I called your sorry sack of shit out. I hope you take a good long look at yourself after this because you ain’t the only person here who’s suffered. I didn’t have my parents to begin with and now? I’m never gonna see _my_ sister and _my_ baby brother again! You think that gives me a pass to walk around spouting shit and stirring the pot? What goes through your head, Louanne? How do you justify acting the way you do? Beating others up in cabins? Being a _prick?_ And don’t say grief—Cause me? I get grief. I _know_ grief. Me and grief go way the fuck back. But I’ve never let it make me into _that_ kind of trash. I’m not perfect, but I’m not,” Jo exhales sharply and shakes her head. “I’m not… that. Why are you that?”

It is an open-ended question. Vayuh’ta’s mandibles click together softly as she watches. The woman—Jo—is not an ordinary soft meat. She is not like the electrician, who understands a written Yautja tongue, nor is she like the human doctor, who has successfully navigated medical procedures involving Yautja anatomy with increasing understanding. She is… _Jo. A soft meat centered on herself. She understands her faults with more awareness than most Yautja hunters I have dealt with._

In the depths of one of her four hearts, Vayuh’ta cannot help but feel a seed of respect take root for the ooman. She is significant in her own way, with her own trials, tribulations, strengths, and sense of self.

 _You have… honor._ Vayuh’ta acknowledges.

On the ground, Garcia slowly picks herself up. The doctor’s gray eyes are dim. She carries guilt, and Vayuh’ta believes it is rightfully so. The huntress watches as the doctor human smooths the already-smooth and form-fitting thermal mesh suit. Garcia grits her teeth, inhales deeply, and returns her attention to the Elite on the table. “Well, you know now. Why I hate that _creature._ Her… species. _Drosera._ Sundews. Synthetic. Call them what you will. It doesn’t matter.”

“Stop that.” Jo barks. Her teeth clench and she takes the Doctor’s arm, though far more gently this time. “That isn’t an answer to my question. Stop dancing around the subject! Tell me why! Now!”

“What would it change, Joan?” The human doctor shakes her head. “It won’t bring my sister back. It won’t take this thing off my neck. In fact—It won’t change anything at all. The past is concrete and absolute.”

“The future isn’t.” The woman releases Garcia and averts her gaze to the side. “No one said grieving was a fun time. No one said moving past these horrible events in our lives was _easy._ But that doesn’t mean we can sit around fucking feuding and treating each other like garbage. For fuck’s sake—Fuck’s sake, Louanne,” Jo continues to curse under her breath a moment before shaking her head. “We lived through Tucson working together. Why do you keep lashing out at people?”

“I’ve never hit you.” Garcia’s hand reaches to touch her lip. No doubt—It will swell later; Jo knows her punch hit well and true.

“I wasn’t talking about the aliens.” Jo cocks her head to one side. Vayuh’ta notes there is not _hate_ in the woman’s brown eyes—Not yet. Jo hesitates a moment, a glimmer of something passing through her brown eyes, before she tacks on, “Your sister wouldn’t want this shit.”

It is a visceral reaction. Garcia grabs the other human’s shoulders and shakes her. “Don’t you— _Dare—_ Bring Monet up—Keep her out of your mouth! You didn’t _know her_ —”

“I wish I had,” Jo spits in the doctor’s face. “I bet she was miles better than you!”

* * *

The doctor’s gaze falls. The room falls silent a moment, but the woman cannot care about that when all that comes to mind are the endless memories of a time forever gone. 

“She was,” Garcia says. Her grip loosens, then her hands fall from Jo’s arms. She rests them at her side and looks across the floor, where splotches of bright green remain. “I would give anything to trade places with her. I would—Anything. _Anything._ I…”

“Past is concrete and absolute.” Jo quotes the woman’s words back at her.

“She’s gone.” Garcia acknowledges, turning away. “She was my best friend.”

“I think you’re a pretentious bitch,” Jo’s tone becomes cold and harsh once more, brutally honest and unforgiving. “Up till now—I actually thought—Y’know, maybe this Garcia chick can come around! Maybe surviving a nuclear disaster changes a person! Maybe she’s just traumatized like _the rest of us._ But I’m not an infinite reserve of compassion, niceness, _hope_. If you want to live the rest of your life like this—You can be a bitch elsewhere.”

* * *

“Sundew—Sundew! What are you—” Ivon sees the cockpit door slide up as they run down the corridor of the living quarters.

They hear the hiss from the cockpit and reach it in time to observe the cockpit windows pop open. A sunset sky over unknown terrain greets them. Their brown eyes stare at the silver figure before them. Though they have seen Sundew wearing the thermal bodysuit before—She does not wear _only_ the mesh matrix and its matching wrappings. The silver figure has one of the Gauntlet Knives on. Initially, Ivon thinks she wears a broken piece from the scrap pile, but when they do a double take, they see the equipment looks very much intact.

“Greetings, Ivon.” Sundew walks over to the cockpit wall. A jolt of electricity shoots out; a second later a drawer pops open from the wall and she pulls it open. Ivon notes she does not have her hat; they locate it on the pilot’s chair nearby.

“Why are you wearing that stuff?” Ivon asks as Sundew plucks a square-shaped electronic device from the drawer and runs a finger over it. They freeze in place; the thoughts click together like well-oiled cogs in a machine. The electrician strides forward and tenses. “—You aren’t—You’re wearing his stuff! Mercy! That’s—Why are you wearing his stuff? You aren’t planning to go out—”

“Ivon.” The way it is spoken is kind and gentle. It makes their heart skip a beat. “You know how to… fix things. Things belonging to … Yes?”

They assume from the strange click—She references the Tall Alien, Mercy. Ivon stiffly nods and frowns when Sundew turns the square-shaped computer over in her hands.

“I took enough blood from … over the months we spent imprisoned at Stargazer to understand certain functions of this equipment. Not the internal mechanics. But I understand how certain pieces of their technology are used.” Sundew explains carefully. She pauses. “I will go and do what is necessary to recover the components used for repairing the _Kukulkan._ It is the least I can do after I…” Her entire body tenses.

Ivon’s eyes widen. The human stares, uncertain a moment. “—Sundew—"

“I hurt him. He is in this state because of me.” Sundew curses softly under her breath. “I am—I keep hurting others. Ivon. I do not like it. I do not like this side of me. But I do not know how to stop it—”

“Are you talking about Garcia’s sister?” The electrician’s voice drops in volume.

Sundew grits her teeth. “I do not know how to stop it. You—You should not even be here, Ivon! I do not want to hurt you. Not intentionally, on accident, or… Or… I do not want to hurt you. I do not want to hurt Doctor Louanne Garcia. I do not want to hurt … or Jo. I do not want to hurt. Right now—I—"

They can see the remorse in her features. Even if her eyes are closer to sockets than actual eyeballs, Ivon knows the look well. Their chest aches for her. “You want to help.”

“I _need_ to. I cannot apologize to … I cannot face Doctor Louanne Garcia. I cannot… I am not strong. I am not strong. I am a Sundew. All I want,” Her grip on the wrist-computer tightens. “I want to say… sorry. Even if I cannot say it to either’s face. I can—I _will_ —I will help repair the ship. I will find the alloys necessary. I will come back with them.”

“Do you want help?” Is the first thing out of Ivon’s mouth.

Sundew shakes her head. “I look soft, but I am not as delicate as my namesake. If the worse happens—I will return in a liquid state. But I _will_ bring back the metals required. The _Kukulkan_ will be fixed. And then I will… I will… I do not know. I will think about that during the time I am gone.”

“—Maybe you should take Jo along,” the electrician tenses when the Synthetic imitates a human sigh. Ivon rubs the back of their head and looks away. “I mean—She was, what? Former guard? She knows how to fight—I bet we could figure out how the rest of the equipment works—”

“…Ivon.” The silver figure hesitates. “I—Can you assist me in attaching this to my wrist? My left one.”

 _You want to do this on your own._ The electrician does not enjoy the thought. 

Ivon stops at her side. They can feel the tension in her body; Sundew is clearly worried about having them there. It stings their pride, but they know it is because she fears hurting them. They are quick to strap the wrist-computer to the silver figure’s left wrist. They go a step further and carefully attach the wires from the computer to the back of the thermal suit’s left glove. It is an awkward fit given the wrist-computer is made for a Yautja arm, but it works. Ivon pauses and glances up at Sundew’s face. “Do you know what drawer here has extra, uh, straps? Like—The kind your suit uses to keep the matrix taut to your skin?”

“I do not.”

“Then—Be careful.” Ivon bites their lip. “I’m worried it might… It might not stay on. I mean—It should, but—It feels loose around your wrist.”

“I will be careful. You have my word. I will not break it easily,” Sundew slowly nods.

The crickets of the world outside the _Kukulkan_ fill the air with a myriad of chirps not unlike those produced by either Yautja on the ship. It is a pleasant ambience. Ivon steps back while Sundew climbs to the edge of the cockpit and looks over her shoulder. She pauses.

The electrician frowns. “Yeah?”

“Thank you, Ivon. For… being nice to me. I know my hive possesses extensive details on your species—But—I find myself learning new things every day I am in the company of humans.” The Synthetic’s clear eyes are on them. They can’t see them, but part of them _knows_ she stares. Sundew glances forehead. “I will use an electrical charge to make the ship lock and cloak after I get out. Unless you are in dire peril, do not leave. I do not know how dangerous this will be.”

“Wait—Wait! Sundew! Are we still in Brazil?” Ivon asks, if only to put to peace the question in their mind.

Sundew slowly nods. “For now. Palladium first—But should I come across any others—I will bring them back. Take care, Ivon.”

“Take care, Sundew.” The electrician watches her jump off the ship’s edge, her impact sounding shortly after. True to her word, the _Kukulkan_ reacts to the sound of electricity crackling. The ship’s cockpit window shuts and locks. Though the view to the cloudy night sky remains, it offers Ivon no comfort as they turn and walk back to the medical bay.

* * *

Tucker wouldn’t say his brother was a good man. In many ways he was not. Alan was the boy who always got off no matter how vigorous his teasing. Alan was the one who blamed him when caught trying cigarettes. Alan was always the partier, the socialite, and the one-upper. It didn’t matter if Tucker bought his first house using his savings as a down payment—By his age, Alan already had three _and_ an apartment complex! Never mind the suspicions of why Tucker’s first wife divorced him, or how Alan rented an entire resort in Bermuda for the family of an old friend after Tucker offered to pay a portion of the daughter’s dream wedding. The two’s history is full of times where his golden brother uprooted him.

Now, Alan is dead. The wound in his chest continues to bleed. Tucker tastes bile in the back of his throat. He struggles to breathe from the stench of _blood._ The gushes of crimson seep through his brother’s shirt and slacks, pouring to the ground. Nearby, Arnold smiles politely while Alma shifts to remain behind Tucker’s chair.

He is not dead yet.

He looks at his lap. His hands won’t stop trembling.

“You killed him.” Tucker says in a daze.

“Oh,” Arnold scoffs at the thought, as if a murder did not just occur in front of him. The billionaire shakes his head. “He had it coming! They always do. That is why he had to go! Couldn’t trust him. But you—Tucker. _You_ I can trust.”

Tucker points a finger at his own chest, still dazed. “Me?”

“My boy, who else would I refer to? My dear Alma here knows better than to trust me! And what would you know—I know far better than to trust her.” The old man grins wickedly and nods at the woman.

“I don’t. Get it. Understand.” Tucker wants to slide out of his seat and into a hole. Everything feels like a dream. It doesn’t seem _real._ He pinches himself to make sure he’s dreaming. When he looks at his side, Alan’s corpse is slumped over where it was originally. The body is lukewarm.

Tucker throws up in his throat.

“I thought it was obvious why! Tucker, Tucker, Tucker—Did you not come here to own up to your mistakes? My daughter’s death—On your hands! Miranda was a good one, too, perhaps my finest progeny. Of course, the deaths of so many innocent civilians—A terrible thing, but _my_ daughter? _Miranda?_ She was, perhaps, the most useful child I had. It will be hard to replace her,” Arnold speaks of it all as if she is nothing more than a machine part. Tucker stares and the billionaire waves the words off. “Nevermind that—No, no, no, Tucker, we are not here to lament on the _why_ ’s and _if’_ s—Just know I value your honesty, my boy! Your willingness to come before me and tell me _everything._ It is your most useful trait. I do not tolerate secrets, as you can see.”

Arnold nudges his head in the direction of Alan’s corpse. Tucker’s stomach flips. _How is any of this real?_

“You see, my boy, I happen to value honesty as much as I do _loyalty._ Two fine attributes to possess, perhaps the most essential ones to helping run my empire! I need someone loyal like I need someone honest, because both of those things are sorely lacking in the higher-ups of my company. It isn’t just Alan Mason, Tucker, I have had a chat with _several_ executives over this past week. I’m delighted to say, well, three positions have become… available.” The man leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. His eyes hold a strange gleam to them; Tucker cannot identify what it is.

“Could you… explain it? Explain why I’m here. I don’t.” Tucker fumbles over his words. The heavy-set man shifts in his chair, clammy and uncomfortable but slightly more grounded in the world as before.

He tries not to look at his brother’s dead body.

He finds that, as time goes on, all he can look at is Alan’s slick-back hair, professionally dyed but grown out enough to show a hint of his original hair color. His brother will never dye it again. The thought is wretched. Even if Alan was the favored son, the golden child, the one who got _everything_ and then some—Tucker didn’t want to see him die like that.

“I am making you a one-time offer,” Arnold’s voice draws Tucker back to reality. The man remains calm and casual even as the corpse in the room continues bleeding out. “Think of it like a promotion! A hefty check for your bank account, a few errands for me, and you walk out of here a far, far richer and _very_ accomplished man.”

Tucker swallows. “Do I—I get a say in this?”

“Tucker Mason, as clear as the sky is blue, I swear on my life _I_ will not cause you bodily harm if you turn this offer down.” Arnold vows, both hands smacking the table’s surface. His palms spread and he rises to his feet, leaning against the head of the table while eying Tucker with a knowing smile. “I am a man of my word, Tucker Mason. You know this.”

Tucker stares at Alan’s corpse.

His brother is dead.

Tucker holds his head in his hands and curses. He looks around the room, stares at Alma, then at Alan’s body, then at Alma again. He turns to Arnold. “How… How much would this check be? What errands?”

“Ah, I knew you would like this proposition! Tucker, my boy, I have a _very_ large bank account. Twelve of them, to be specific—And I could just drop _any_ number I want into your bank account just like _that._ Name a number, my boy. Name a number.” Arnold tilts his head to one side after, expectant.

The man swallows. “Fifty… million?”

“Then it will be done. Fifty-million—Alma, make a note, will you?” Arnold nods at the strange woman, who does not respond. He laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, she is just wonderful—She really is consulting me on an… _out of state_ matter, if you will. Knows numbers and sequencing better than anyone on this planet! Absolute mathematician—I could never do my taxes with anyone else, haven’t in the past fifty years… Oh… Yes. Wonderful Alma, what would I do without you?”

“You would die.” Is Alma’s response, emotionless and immediate.

Arnold clutches his sides and laughs. “Oh, I _bet_ I would! What a show it would all be—I owe my life to her, Tucker, I do. One day, when you are old, when you are as rich as I am, perhaps I can share how we met over a nice cup of scotch by the fire. Would be marvelous—Oh, yes, right, the errands! Yes, yes, you asked about the errands, didn’t you?”

Tucker slowly nods. He does not like sitting in front of Alma. He does not want her anywhere near him. There is something terribly off about her, besides the fact she can turn her limbs into… _stuff._ He cannot think of the right shit to describe it.

“Going back to Tucson, my boy—I didn’t bring it up for nothing, you see—I have been keeping tabs on a few _missing_ individuals. Never say I am not an attentive employer! I notice every little thing. Every detail. Every slip-up. Every single _move._ Do you remember Yurchik Ivon?”

 _Fuck you, Tucker._ The words ring clearly in his head.

Ivon was always a goody two-shoes. Never late, well-behaved, and somehow survived X-12 escaping containment and rampaging across the facility. Tucker’s eyes dim. _Lucky bastard, Ivon. You were a good one._

“Following the call between you two—” Arnold goes on. “I had a suspicion about Yurchik Ivon not sharing the… full picture. I had to make a few calls myself, but—Did you know the company cellphones come equipped with GPS trackers? In any developed country—A satellite monitors the locations at ten-second intervals. I checked the coordinates of Ivon’s cellphone—The path they took through the facility before your phone call is almost _identical_ to the ones taken by Doctor Louanne Garcia and Security Personnel Joan Mackenzie.”

Tucker bites his lip. He knew Ivon didn’t trust him, but not to the extent of leaving out crucial details on other survivors.

“Garcia’s and Mackenzie’s phones did not go dark until the presence of an unidentified flying object was seen crashing into the structure. I’ve kept eyes on all personal and private accounts since. Almost a week ago,” Arnold sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “A _week_ ago one of the… shall we say, _survivors_ , had a strange amount deducted from her American bank account. Now, I won’t judge you for getting it wrong, but do you know the national currency of _Brazil?_ ”

“I do,” the man surprises himself in answering. Tucker flinches at Arnold’s laugh. When the latter continues to stare at him, Tucker quickly sputters out. “—The Brazilian real, right?”

“Very good! I’m impressed.” Arnold brings his hands together in a slow clap. He grins wickedly. “I think it’s fascinating to see someone who is supposed to be _dead_ go shopping in Manuas, Brazil! For a nigh-identical amount of prescription medication our good friend Yurchik Ivon _needs_ to function. I do not believe in coincidences. I believe in people underestimating themselves and each other. And me, of course.”

“Of course.” Tucker states.

“I think—Miss Louanne Garcia—Might have spent a little too much _real_ in the state of Amazonas. Perhaps for Yurchik Ivon, perhaps not, it does not matter! What matters is that these humans are out there. More than likely—With stolen technology. Very, very important technology—The likes of which humanity can only hope to aspire to,” Arnold waves Alma back to his side; the woman walks over but steps to stand behind his chair. The billionaire looks back at Tucker. “My errands, Tucker, will afford you a _beautiful_ trip across Brazil! I am sending you to South America to look for Doctor Garcia and our old friend Ivon. I need you to recover the technology stolen, or bring me either of the two alive. Anything else you discover does, of course, carry the possibility of a _generous_ bonus.”

“That’s all?” It surprises the man; Tucker squints in disbelief.

“You will be taking the President of Stargazer Corporation with you.” Arnold makes to move to the side; he takes a theatrical bow before stepping backward. Tucker’s eyes grow wide as Alma, the lady in the white jumpsuit and a mountain of make-up, sits at the head of the table.

“Allow me to reintroduce myself,” Alma reaches up to take her sunglasses off. Tucker freezes in place at the sight of empty eye sockets staring back at him. The lady smiles politely. “My name is Alma. I am the President and founder of Stargazer Corporation. I look forward to us working together and learning many new things.”


	18. pluck my quills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In minutes, all three of the aspiring kv’var-de are tucked into their individual pods, with H’chak being the last to make sure his unmarked bio-mask and combistick are back with the rest of his equipment. The glass hatches shut at the top and a bright green liquid, almost glowing in luminosity, begins to fill. It stops just before H’chak’s shoulders; he settles in the pod, tucks his dreadlocks to the side, and shuts his eyes. In his head, he imagines the screeches of the sleek, obsidian-carapace monstrosities. The hard meat will soon be crushed underfoot, and the aspiring kv’var-de will be aspiring no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be the other half of the last chapter but it got... long... so... arc 3 just gets to be Extended. Yes. 
> 
> i should reiterate i know very little of predator canon besides wiki pages. this fic is definitely not adhering to canon 100%. I will probably repeat that statement in the future as more and more stuff related to H'chak, Vayuh'ta, and the two's clans come up ! 
> 
> side note: in the chiva flashbacks, the unblooded are 20 cycles/years in age. i have no idea how long it takes for Yautja to normally reach adulthood, but tl;dr they are considered adults in this.

_“Hold on! Cjit, can’t let a guy work in peace? Where’s your honor?” The Unblooded scoffs and ducks the deactivated combistick chucked at his head, his short dreadlocks shuddering from the motion. The long chirrups that follow are jovial and humorous. “What? You might not get any, but after this chiva I’m coming home to all the ladies—”_

_It is only natural for Chirp to be stuck with him and Guan on the three’s chiva. They are all friends of many cycles, having grown from pups to Sucklings and then Unblooded together. The three mesh, in a way that led Elder Ma’or to assigning the three aspiring kv’var-de to the same chiva._

_His own orange eyes narrow at the thought. Truthfully, Chirp is closer to a pest than a mei-hswei half the time. The copper-hued Yautja does not have dreads anywhere near the length of himself or Guan, and the younger Unblooded’s yellow eyes are constantly full of excitement and energy. There is little calm, no composure, not to mention the asinine idea that a new Blooded warrior would up and earn the affections of a mate so quickly. Chirp is not a suckling; the young man should know better than to fill his head with endless optimism and acts of borderline dishonor. The quill-plucking is disgusting outside private quarters._

_In private quarters, too. Cjit. H’chak keeps the thought to himself. He is but an Unblooded himself. The three Yautja are equal in cycles, differing just by the months of their bearers._

_“H’chak. Stop throwing your equipment across the ship, take off your helmet, and get in a pod. Chirp, get the pauk to pod. We have one-half cycle before we hit RSGC1.” His mei-hswei’s voice is calm and composed, yet the disappointment in Guan’s chirps is obvious. When the Unblooded looks up, H’chak see the other Yautja staring expectantly at him from the sleeping pod Guan’s body is mostly tucked into._

_It stings. H’chak looks away quickly, but he acknowledges Guan’s words. “Sei-i. Sleep will do us good before our chiva.”_

_“ki’sei, ki’sei, you never let me pluck my quills!” Chirp growls and clicks, but the young Yautja puts the set of tweezers into a pouch and walks to his pod._

_In minutes, all three of the aspiring kv’var-de are tucked into their individual pods, with H’chak being the last to make sure his unmarked bio-mask and combistick are back with the rest of his equipment. The glass hatches shut at the top and a bright green liquid, almost glowing in luminosity, begins to fill. It stops just before H’chak’s shoulders; he settles in the pod, tucks his dreadlocks to the side, and shuts his eyes. In his head, he imagines the screeches of the sleek, obsidian-carapace monstrosities. The hard meat will soon be crushed underfoot, and the aspiring kv’var-de will be aspiring no longer._

* * *

“What is that?” The words make Ivon jump out of their seat. They sigh, calm their nerves, and sit back at the bar counter where their current project remains. Next to them, Jo smiles apologetically and takes a seat to their right.

Ivon holds up the contraption. It is made for the wrist or ankle, though they anticipate it can be worn as a belt or necklace with the proper adjustments. There is a strap of the material used for securing mesh bodysuits enabling one to attach it to a limb. The device itself is a modified cloaking device, only the inner mechanisms have been taken out and removed in favor of using parts from the shoulder-mounted plasmacasters. Small bits of palladium, amassed from what Sundew brought back over the course of the past two weeks, are carefully adhered inside the empty metal chamber of the cloaking device. At the center of the device, Ivon has removed the target-guiding lights from a bio-mask and employed them inside. The three red dots do not receive power right now, but when they do—They anticipate seeing all three light up and glow inside the cloaking device.

“I’m going to close this off. Not sure with what. But something—Essentially,” Ivon rubs the back of their head. “It’s kind of like… Well. You know how Sundew’s worried about electrical charges? About those charges effecting us—”

“It’s why she’s running in and out of the ship. Locking us in.” The woman grumbles.

“Well, yeah, but—Okay. Anyways.” Ivon pauses. “I’m making something for her to wear. It’ll use excess electricity. I noticed their… Targeting? Guiding? The three red dots the Yautja use to aim their plasmacasters—When I turned it on—The lights don’t generate heat. If Sundew produces electrical currents—It’ll go through this device and power the lights.”

“Aren’t those lasers?”

“They don’t emit heat!” Ivon stammers. “Or—A _lot_ of heat. So.”

“Maybe don’t cover it. Give it like… A little hatch. Window. Then—She could see if it’s working or not.” Jo suggests.

Ivon frowns. They didn’t consider a hatch. It makes sense—And it might make it easier to perform maintenance if that becomes a problem in the future—The electrician turns the idea over in their head. They flinch when Jo puts an encouraging hand on their shoulder. “I—I’ll think of it. I will. I’m not sure how to get the… I don’t know how to do the metalwork or glasswork on this scale without tools. I need to figure out that part.”

“You got time. I hope,” Jo draws back and purses her lips. “It’s a great idea, for what it’s worth. You come up with it on your own?”

“Actually—Maelstrom suggested it,” Ivon confesses sheepishly. “I’ve been spending more time in the medical bay. She knows what the different equipment does and the functions of some internal components. Not all, but—It’s helped me learn. She explains it to me through her helmet. I’m starting to feel like a mechanic, honestly. Not that it’s a bad thing!” The person chuckles softly, though Jo does not look like she understands the humor behind it. Ivon quiets down and shrugs.

Jo hesitates. Her dreadlocks are longer; Ivon cannot imagine how long it takes to ensure each coil of hair remains neat and orderly. They wait for their friend to speak. “…I don’t like the medical bay anymore.”

“Garcia?” Ivon frowns.

“Actually,” the woman snorts. “It’s the smell of everything. Fucking _gross._ I can’t figure out how to get it out of this mesh stuff.”

“Remember when we all thought we’d never wear those weird bodysuits? Now look at us,” Ivon shakes their head.

At least the thermal bodysuits are comfortable, easy to move in, and keep their body temperature regulated. Jo, too, wears one. The woman cracks a smile at Ivon and nods. “Can’t say I look bad in fishnets. It surprisingly works.”

“It looks good on you.” The electrician nods.

Jo lightly jabs the electrician’s arm. “I’m too young for you.”

“That—I didn’t mean it like that—” Ivon’s cheeks dust pink and they drop their work to hold their head in their hands. “I’m trying to be supportive!”

They can hear Jo laughing next to them. “Yeah, yeah, I _know,_ sorry—I just—Gotta tease you where I can. Garcia ain’t spoken to me in… uh… Weeks, maybe?”

“She’s been quiet.” Ivon looks over at their friend. They frown. “I… I might just move all this junk to the medical bay. I know Maelstrom’s mostly healed, but—I don’t—I worry sometimes. About Garcia trying something on one of the two. It’s unlikely for Maelstrom, but…”

“For Tall Alien.” The other human slowly nods. She tenses her fists. “Funny how quickly things change. He’s less scary when he’s… that. Y’know, Ivon,” Jo meets their brown gaze with her own. “I think the thing you’re making for Sundew—It’s important. It’ll keep her from… Doing _that._ To anyone else. Because—I—I don’t like making assumptions, but—If that was _us_ and not Tall Alien—I think we’d be dead. Fried.”

“Fried.” Ivon repeats softly.

* * *

_The planet, Scutum-186f, is tucked away in the Scutum-Crux arm of the system commonly called the Milky Way for its coloration. The star system is not frequently visited by Yautja outside the use of a habitable hunting grounds called Terra Firma. That is not where Elder Ma-Or takes the three aspiring kv’var-de. When the three Unblooded are roused from their sleep and made to don their equipment, H’chak puts his helmet on first. He looks out one of the rounded ship windows; his orange eyes widen at the sight of Scutum-186f quickly approaching._

_“Beautiful…” He clicks softly._

_It is nowhere near the size of Yautja Prime, but the planet is adequate and covered in a myriad of swirling silver clouds. Near him, he hears Chirp chirrup in streams of excited trills and chirps as he darts over with only half a gauntlet on. The Unblooded shoves H’chak to the side and tries to press his face to the glass, only to forget he wears a mask. H’chak cannot hold in his chirp of amusement when Chirp reels back, clutching his head and cursing. Behind the duo, Guan sighs at the two. H’chak stills immediately and leaves Scutum-186f alone to return to his gear._

_The three Unblooded have different sets of gear. It differs mainly in the mesh thermal suits given and the primary weapons of choice._

_H’chak’s preferred weapon is the combistick, the ki’cti-pa, a device capable of activating into a metal staff with both ends serrated. The weapon is great for balance and parries, good to throw short distances, and can be deactivated to return to its much more compact form when not in use. In hunts, only the basic weaponry is allowed, and H’chak knows his combistick is a much less advanced version of the standard device issued to Blooded kv’var-de. He knows not to overestimate its abilities, and to not rely on one piece of equipment._

_Like all hunters—and future hunters—H’chak has a set of the Gauntlet Knives on him. Most Yautja do not use two dah’kte unless they are or aspire to become Brawlers, but H’chak finds having two Gauntlet Knives puts him at ease. Guan and Chirp both elect to wear one, and Chirp continues to give him cjit for donning two even after Elder Ma-Or snaps at the younger Unblooded to shush._

_When it comes to weaponry, H’chak notices Chirp possesses a bow and standard set of fortified arrows in a sleek black quiver. Guan is the sole member of the trio without ranged weapons; he keeps his single dah’kte on his right hand, but his weapon of choice is an Elder Blade. The sword is shorter than those seen at the clanship, no doubt the blade shortened to keep the difficulty of the chiva intact. It remains beautifully cast and extends the length of Guan’s forearm. Guan clicks in satisfaction when he slides it out of its sheathe, tests its weight, and tosses it up and down a handful of times before sheathing it and clipping it to his left pauldron._

_Though H’chak sees he and Guan share identical sets of light veritanium armor plates, pauldrons, greaves, and thermal mesh bodysuits, he notes Chirp opts to forego the veritanium as a whole. The latter’s thermal suit is tinted green. Chirp grins and pounds his hand against his chest, chirping eagerly, “They offered to let me use a cloaking device if I didn’t wear armor!”_

_“When you die—I’m not bringing your body back.” H’chak huffs._

_“Says the guy named ‘mercy.’ Oh, H’chak! Save me, H’chak! Mercy, mercy! Ha ha!” Chirp begins to trill and click his mandibles together at H’chak’s deep growl._

_“It won’t be ‘Mercy’ for long! When I’m Blooded—”_

_“If you pass your chiva,” Chirp reminds him. “Always an if!”_

_“You two—Cease mindless babbling. You drop in ten.” The voice of Elder Ma-Or makes both individuals stiffen and quiet immediately._

_When H’chak looks—He sees Guan has already entered his drop pod. The older Unblooded does not meet his line of sight. H’chak clicks a string of curses under his breath, shoots Chirp a deadly glare, and strides to his pod. He opens the hatch and climbs in with care not to squish his prized dreadlocks against the back when he sits. He hears Chirp cuss a storm from the latter’s pod, no doubt having made the very mistake he just avoided. H’chak trills with laughter and shuts his pod’s hatch._

* * *

There have been too many day cycles where nothing is said. Occasionally, the unconscious Elite stirs long enough to groan in pain before he slips back into a nigh-comatose state. The human doctor ceases her snobbery; there are no snide remarks or statements.

For the first time since she was brought onboard the ship, the huntress feels a sense of eerie, uncomfortable _calm_. It is too quiet for a Yautja to be happy with; this kind of quiet indicates a problem with the ship or its inhabitants. It is a thick, heavy silence. Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes narrow behind her mask.

She no longer needs to spend every waking second in a medical pod, but phantom pains persist from damaged nerve endings. Her scales stop and restart in sporadic patches across her backside. Though she spends most days lounging in the medical bay or poking through drawers accessible via the walls, she loses patience with the _quiet._ The calm does not feel legitimate. It is a temporary thing, brought on by the human doctor’s shame. For the sake of not becoming agitated during the precarious circumstances, she decides it is time to speak up.

Her helmet is her voice, the translating software blaring out the words without a shred of emotion. Vayuh’ta does not speak until the human doctor has finished changing the dressings on H’chak’s body.

“Your comments have ceased.” The huntress’ clicks translate into monotone.

“…What?” The human doctor seems genuinely surprised to hear the helmet blare words. She turns and her black bangs fall over her face. The woman brushes the hair to one side, straightens upright, and peers at the huntress. She has small wrinkles over her forehead and bags under her eyes. She _reeks_ of fear.

Vayuh’ta’s voice drawls on. “Your comments toward others of this ship. You are not loud now.”

The doctor turns away. The fear lingers, but in lesser amounts. Vayuh’ta imagines the woman feels most fear toward the other Yautja. The fact she does not offer an answer is unsatisfactory. Vayuh’ta does not want the annoying silence to creep back in. She growls, but it does not provoke the human into speaking.

“Is it,” Vayuh’ta struggles to remember the name. “The other human female. Is it because she is not present?”

The human doctor shakes her head. She mumbles something under her breath but Vayuh’ta doesn’t hear it over the sound of the Elite on the metal table groaning in pain.

She asks again. “The Image. Is it because she is not here?”

The word ‘Image’ seems to puzzle the doctor. Vayuh’ta clicks her mandibles together in thought. The room falls quiet as the human doctor resumes her work and Vayuh’ta struggles to think of the proper term. She does not remember what the humans refer to the Image as; it annoys her. She growls under her breath and squints beyond her mask at the human doctor. She _hates_ the silence. It reminds her of how Ka’Torag-Na operates, quiet and behind the scenes. She detests it. She wants to be something closer to a river: an ambience that is steady, consistent, and unafraid of hiding or holding back. She wants to be honorable.

Perhaps the goal to resolving the unspoken tension in the ship is not through goading or provoking someone to speak through a problem. Perhaps she needs a different approach; she must understand what plagues the doctor’s mind. She recalls when all three humans were together in the medical bay and what was screamed back-and-forth for a while. A single name comes to mind.

“Monet.” 

The doctor freezes before spinning on her heels. Her face is pale as a corpse in the snow. “Don’t you _dare_ say her name.”

“I am not the others. I do not have attachment or investment to the individuals involved. I am… curious,” Vayuh’ta tilts her head to one side. Her mask continues to translate her dissonant, faint clicks. “As was established—Jo is not here. Sundew? Not here. My fellow hunter is on the table unconscious. I do not know where Ivon is, but they are not here. Tell me about _Monet.”_

“Why should I?” The doctor’s gray eyes grow cold.

Vayuh’ta shrugs. “I will leave this ship once I recover, repay my debt, and collect on the debts owed to me. I will not be here much longer. As a neutral party to this conflict, consider it an opportunity to speak freely. I don’t know you. This is your chance to say anything left unspoken to a wall.”

* * *

_Beautiful. His words on the ship echo in his head as the Unblooded opens the hatch to his pod and looks across the landscape._

_His pod is stuck inside a gargantuan, sprawling tree’s canopy. The leaves are golden and have an iridescent sheen; he takes care not to touch them as he shimmies out of the pod and crouches on a thick limb. From his perch, he makes out a forest of similar trees stretching into the distance, where dark brown mountains rise above the ground and frame the horizon line. From the tree looking up, he sees the clouds are serene swirls of silver mingled with a soft pearl white and shimmering mercury gray. The swirls vaguely remind him of the planet’s star system, the Milky Way, and how the galaxy takes the shape of swirling strands of milk._

_He keeps close to the trunk where the leaves are thinnest as he climbs down. The ground feels strange beneath his sandals; he notes it is soft yet resilient. The colors are mixes of dark gray swatches and warm red hues. He considers taking a sample, but if an Elder has chosen the planet for the site of a chiva, then chances are the Ruthless Clan already has information on the elemental composition of Scutum-186f. H’chak reminds himself not to get ahead of himself—Even if he wanted to take a sample, where would he put it? It would be contaminated on the ship; there is no sterilized containment unit onboard Elder Ma-Or’s spacecraft._

_No, what he needs to do is locate his mei-hswei. Stay on target. He has a kiande amedha to hunt, kill, and mark himself with. He anticipates the other two Unblooded look for him as well. The aspiring hunter enters a quick code in his computer, the small device strapped to his left bicep due to wearing the two dah‘kte. Though he knows only Chirp has access to a cloaking device, the portable computers still offer the ability to conduct scans when hooked up to a bio-mask. H’chak clicks softly in satisfaction when his bio-mask’s optical system shifts to show directions of nearby sounds. There is a small alert notifying him of the wind currents, and two larger pings directing him to similar lifeforms—No doubt Guan and Chirp._

_The Unblooded stills as chills run through his body. He surveys the landscape and swallows the ensuing nerves. There are no other indications of life. No sounds are picked up beyond the rushing winds and the noises produced by his fellow Unblooded. In a way, it seems like all life has stopped, or does not exist, and judging by the masses of trees stretching across the forest—H’chak believes it is the first. The very first rule a Suckling is taught is the rule of prey: when a predator is nearby, the world holds its breath and hides._

_Elder Ma-Or warned them the chiva would not be easy. The Hunt has already begun._

* * *

“Her name was Monet. Monet Esme Garcia.” Garcia shuts her eyes and stands at the metal table. She can hear the ragged breathing of the unconscious Elite; her patient lives only thanks to the other Yautja sitting near the medical pods. “She was my other half. My twin. I don’t know if your species has twins—”

“Pups are born in packs.” The helmet interrupts her, without a hint of sympathy.

The human inhales deeply. She has grown accustomed to the strange odors that come from injured aliens, but she is no fonder of them than when she stepped on the ship. The blood of a Yautja carries a rancid odor past the initial day, and though it gradually dulls, it never _fully_ leaves. It lingers, and it lingers, and she is left missing the small pleasures in life like mint toothpaste and breath mints. Mint in general is a must; she debates adding it to a list of items to pick up if the ship stops by a human city in the future.

_If._ In the month since the burnt Yautja was first dragged into the medical bay, the chances of long-term survival for the ship’s crew has significantly decreased. The Yautja not outright dying is a fluke. Even now, he has not recovered to the point of lasting consciousness, drifting in and out of what is surely a pain-filled delirium.

“What was she like?” The helmet voices the words slowly. “Your other half. Twin.”

“She looked like me when we were girls.” The doctor grimaces at the thought. “You don’t know about… You wouldn’t know about human movies, would you? I don’t recall anything in _his_ ,” she sweeps a hand at her current patient, the unconscious Elite. “File regarding… Video recordings as entertainment.”

“We possess the technology. Not the desire to emulate your kind.” The Yautja’s mask replies.

“Then I’ll skip the pop culture references.” Garcia clicks with her tongue and her teeth. She turns back to face the other Yautja, leaning against the metal table for support.

“Pop culture references.” The translating software repeats in monotone. “…Appreciated.”

 _Appreciated._ It sounds utterly bizarre hearing from an alien, much less an alien fully capable of killing her like one would an ant underfoot. Garcia’s gray eyes dim. She hesitates before going on, “We impersonated each other. Well, _I_ impersonated Monet. Took her bigger tests, did her homework… Except for math. She always got that right. Numbers made sense when nothing else did.”

She can tell by the way the Yautja cocks her head to one side that not everything Garcia says makes sense. The woman shakes her head; part of her doesn’t care if it doesn’t make sense. The memories have been tucked away and painful for almost two years. She cannot remember any time before this where she could speak of her sister and not become emotional. Though the thoughts hang heavy on her shoulders now, the doctor clears her throat and wipes her eyes. She will _not_ cry in front of the damn alien.

“Monet developed alopexia when we were in high school.”

“Aloe-Pea-She-Uh?”

“Hair loss. Across her entire body, but her eyebrows and head were the most noticeable. She was bullied terribly for it. It became a lot harder for me to pretend to be her after that,” The human doctor averts her gaze. Her voice is weary. “I did… everything I could to make her life better. But here, on _Earth_ , children can be insufferable brats. Adolescence can invoke a disturbing sense of cruelty. Monet was not excused from that experience.”

“Pups. Sucklings. Those who have yet to pass their trial,” the dark-gray skinned Yautja clicks, with the helmet translating immediately after. “They demonstrate acts of violence toward one another. Immaturity in age. Unblooded who wish to pass their trial are usually… They understand the importance of respect, of honor.”

“Lovely. Children being brats is universal.” Garcia utters under her breath.

She stiffens when the alien’s helmet adds, “Not all of them. Many grow up to become honorable warriors. Leaders. Bearers. Sirers. Capable adults. Do the children of _Terra_ not experience the same?”

“That doesn’t matter,” the doctor feels herself growing defensive again. Her tone becomes cold; her body tenses and she exhales slowly to calm herself. “Monet was hurt because of them! Because of those _shits._ Disgraceful. I will never forgive them for tormenting my sister!”

“You were protective of her.” The Yautja notes, nodding once. “Why?”

“Why?” It flabbergasts the doctor that she has to explain at all. Garcia holds her head in her hands and sighs. “Because—Because she had alopexia! Because our peers hated her for it! Because she always needed me and I couldn’t—I wasn’t there for her, _enough._ Not enough to stop everything. Not enough to keep her from how bullshit life is.”

“Your bearer and sirer—”

 _“Good as dead.”_ Garcia snarls. “Useless, the two. Useless, useless, useless. _Useless._ Neither wanted us.”

“In Lurking Clan,” the translator voice slowly trickles out. The Yautja is being pickier with her words choices, and Garcia does not like that she does not understand what it means. “Pups are… A blessing. Offspring is glorified. There are five caretakers for every pup who loses a bearer in birth. I do not understand how soft meat can forego the sanctity and value of progeny in favor of… what?”

“In favor of wanting boys,” Garcia hisses again. Her nails dig into her palm from how tight her fists are. She turns away. “You would be surprised how common it is across Earth—For a family to favorite a gender over another.”

“You felt like you had to protect her then. Your other half.”

“I did not _feel_ like it. I _knew_ it. There is a difference, Maelstrom.” The doctor retorts.

The sound of clacking mandibles fills the room. It makes Garcia’s hair stand up on end; she shudders and glances at Maelstrom to notice the huntress is laughing. The Yautja finds something of the exchange hilarious and it bewilders the human to think of _what_. Garcia turns back to the unconscious Yautja on the metal table. She eyes the bandages; the Yautja is not due for a dressing change for many hours, but part of her contemplates changing them just to end the stiff back-and-forth between herself and the laughing Yautja nearby.

She recoils when Maelstrom jumps to her feet and strides over, looking at her handiwork. The huntress tilts her head to one side. “—I was unaware you knew my name.”

“I am _trying_ to remember names now.”

“You did not use it until now.”

“I didn’t feel like using it!” Garcia snaps. She shuts up at the Yautja’s soft growl. The human inches away and crosses her arms, trying to make herself look more composed and failing by the second. “For all this talk of _family_ , you have yet to comment on your relation to this one. You said Yautja require a fifty-percent match in blood transfusion? Your past donations have not caused a significant reaction in his body—I assume, based on _your_ words, that entails you two are… _family?”_

“Kin through blood. Not through clan.” Maelstrom mimics her pose, arms crossed and showing off the scar tissue visible past the mesh thermal suit she dons. The scar tissue runs along patches of the back of her limbs, with noticeable lack of dermal denticles compared to the rest of her scaly body. Her dreadlocks sway. Though the latter wears her mask, Garcia is certain the Yautja stares at her. 

The human looks to the side. “Well. Since we’re _sharing_ , I’d like to know the story behind that.”

“Don’t know.” Is the Yautja’s immediate response, voice of the helmet monotone as always.

Garcia blinks. “Oh.”

“News to me,” The huntress shrugs. A second later, a nob on the side of the bio-mask lights up with three blue dots before the translation voices, “I did not agree to share. I offered to listen. You chose to share.”

“Perhaps I regret that,” the doctor states curtly, brows furrowing.

“Do you?” Maelstrom inquires.

Garcia falls quiet. Her arms drop back to her side. Her gray eyes return to the patient on the table, observing the rise and fall of the Yautja’s chest. He is recovering. No doubt in a cacophony of pain—But he is still recovering. She knows she does not owe an explanation, much less an _answer_ , to the huntress nearby, but she hesitates to push her away. The pain is just as real now as it was nigh-two years ago, when the call came in about an ‘accident’ involving an otherworldly entity and her sister. She has not forgotten. She _promised_ she would never forget what happened to Monet. She would not fail another human like she had in protecting her sister from the beings of the stars.

 _I couldn’t protect you._ Garcia’s hands begin to tense into fists again. Her teeth clench at the memories. It is easy for them to rise and consume her, enveloping her in the grief that never really left after Monet’s funeral. _I should never have agreed to have you visit me. God damnit! You shouldn’t have been at that place, at that time, at that…_

“Your name is Louanne Garcia.” The Yautja’s voice calls her out of her thoughts. Maelstrom has dropped her arms to her side, too. “Do you regret sharing?”

“I regret a lot of things.” Garcia states softly. She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and shakes her head. Her voice is tired as she adds, “I regret this too. I’ll add it to the list of things I can’t take back. Let it simmer in the back of my head each night.”

“You want that?” Maelstrom walks back to the medical pods. She looks over her shoulder at Garcia; the reflective alloy of the bio-mask feels ominous to have facing her. 

“I need to want it,” the doctor says. “I can’t let myself forget her. Not her. Not what happened. Not what the… What creatures like _Sundew_ can do to creatures like _me._ You know the fragility of humanity. You understand it, don’t you? You call us _soft meat._ ”

“Soft meat.” Maelstrom confirms.

“We’re easily killed, disposed of, replaceable. To each other and to… To everyone else in this universe. Monet is just a name to everyone else. Easily killed, disposed of, _replaceable._ But to me—She was my best friend. My _sister._ I can’t forget her. I won’t.”

“You don’t have to forget her. I have not forgotten my brothers and sisters. They are dead to me, but I have not forgotten them. You do not need to cease her memories to grieve what you lost and let go,” Maelstrom taps a hand on the medical pod to her side. The glass hatch pops open.

As the extraterrestrial begins to climb into the pod, Garcia states, “You are more of a talker than a listener.”

“I am what I am. But I am honorable. I will live by honor and die by honor. Doctor Louanne Garcia,” Maelstrom pauses and looks over her shoulder. “What do you want to be now? Alive? Honorable? Afraid?”

“I don’t know—”

“Figure it out. No one is stopping you but yourself.” Maelstrom climbs into the pod. The faint splash of water sounds as she settles inside and reaches to close the hatch. It becomes quiet in the room, and Garcia realizes just how much she’s come to dislike the silence.

* * *

_The Unblooded races across the ground. The tree roots burst from the soil like bulbous, bulging veins of an Elder Yautja. One of the pings remains the same volume, while the other increases in volume as he travels east. H’chak ducks under a gnarly, rope-like root and climbs three more in his effort to close in on the source of the closest ping. He brushes a low-hanging branch and the sickly sheen of the leaves scrapes his mesh, leaving a disgusting residue. H’chak winces as the ping suddenly spikes in volume; he comes to a sudden stop in the soil and listens._

_Twenty-Two nok… Twenty nok… Fifteen nok… He holds his breath and looks around for a place to hide in event a kiande amedha has found one of his brothers. It doesn’t matter; what comes is not the screech of a hard meat lunging after his brother, but the yelp of surprise when the tree roots beneath his feet shift and rise. H’chak fumbles to keep his balance, regaining it in a low crouch and staring, stunned, as the tree root lifts high, high, high… It isn’t stopping. He looks at the closest tree and makes a dive for the branches, breaking through weaker limbs and leaves. His thermal suit becomes coated in the gross residue; it sticks to his equipment and glues the alloys of his computer and weapons to his mesh. The aspiring hunter growls and curses in his effort to untangle himself from his gauntlets; he is forced to discard his right one and leave his left arm stuck to his torso at an awkward angle._

_The tree roots settle on the ground when he climbs down the trunk. The terrain slowly shifts from tree roots twitching or tunneling underground. It is a heinous biomatter nightmare; he can only imagine what happens to creatures that can’t get out. He is mobile, but what of Chirp? Guan? It unnerves him to consider how easily the other two Unblooded could fall prey to the natural terrain or be impaired to the point of failing their hunts. He hates to think about it but chiva’s often end with at least one Unblooded dead._

_He does not want to be that one, but he doesn’t want Guan or Chirp to be the one, either. H’chak cusses under his breath. He refuses to activate his bio-mask’s communication relay; there is zero chance it will result in anything but Elder Ma-Or rebuking his right to a chiva and calling him back to the ship. He will live, but he will be shamed and made to wait another cycle before any Elder can choose him for a chiva. If Chirp and Guan succeed—No. He refuses. H’chak will not be the sole member of the trio to remain Unblooded._

_There is a chemistry to everything. The trees, more specifically their leaf-sap, has a chemical equation of some kind. He doesn’t know what, but he anticipates it reacts to something in the mesh’s material, or the alloys composing his equipment. A thought crosses his mind. He tentatively reaches his right hand out and lets a claw-tip touch the residue. He lets the coated claw-tip poke his exposed thumb. It doesn’t stick. H’chak cusses softly. Elder Ma-Or selected a planet where the trio’s equipment is useless. No wonder Chirp was approved to bring a cloaking device, and he was permitted to use his combistick.  
_

_The Unblooded quiets down and uses his free hand to rip the mesh and wrappings free of his left arm. He cuts through the straps securing his personal computer, frees his hand from the gauntlet, and then begins the tedious process of stripping himself of all his equipment. As he suspects, the plain fabric of his loincloth and smaller wrappings for his feet and wrists do not become gluey when the leaf sap hits them. H’chak looks regrettably at his equipment, curses Elder Ma-Or out a third time, and takes off. If the old man wants to see a brawl with a kiande amedha that badly, H’chak intends to demonstrate just how vicious a Yautja can be._


	19. liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Something’s here with us,” H’chak grabs the other Unblooded and drags him behind a behemoth tree trunk. The latter grumbles under breath but complies and crouches next to him while he peeks out around the tree. H’chak shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. He can barely pick up the odor in the olfactory sensors at the roof of his mouth. It is well-masked by the natural aroma of the planet, but there is a distinct, bizarre quality to it that makes him hesitate: it is prey.

_He finds Chirp first. The latter is a loud, exhausted mess of profanities and thrashing. No sooner than H’chak spots him does the situation become clear: the Unblooded has met the fate he feared, with his thermal suit stuck to his limbs and causing him to be little more than a writhing mess against the base of one tree. H’chak growls softly and tip-toes around the exposed tree roots to where Chirp can see him. The latter freezes immediately; his bio-mask is stuck to his arm, but H’chak imagines the latter in positive spirits when he notices his approach._

_“Finally! By Cetanu—I thought I was done for! Imagine if a kainde amedha found me like this, mei-hswei! I’d be pauk! Cjit! So much for my chiva—How did you…” Chirp’s trills of enthusiasm quiet when H’chak holds up one finger to his mask, careful not to touch it._

_H’chak has no idea if the trees have ears, or if they shift and move based off things on the surface causing tremors in the soft soil. He doesn’t want to take a risk with either._

_“…This planet is covered in trees that react to the materials in our equipment, but not our flesh.” The Unblooded clicks softly. “I need to cut you out of your gear.”_

_“Hey—Hey! H’chak, h’chak, not my good loincloth! It keeps everything dry—”_

_“Pauk, what part of quiet do you not understand?” The Unblooded’s worry ebbs into impatience as he makes quick work of the thermal mesh. He refuses to strip Chirp of it, but he cuts enough holes using his clawtips so the latter can wriggle free. Chirp slits the straps of his sole dah’kte and huffs as he frees the arm._

_It is an exhausting process. The two collapse on the ground, their hands covered in a thick mess of leaf sap, donning just the essentials and nothing more. H’chak grunts wearily while Chirp crosses his arms and grumbles. “Why do you still have your mask?”_

_“I didn’t get it glued to my arm.” H’chak snorts._

_The former’s yellow eyes bulge in irritation. “It wasn’t intentional! Cjit, I don’t do everything just to piss you off! What kind of mei-hswei you take me for?”_

_“The loud kind.”_

_Chirp looks ghoulishly offended at his clicks, but H’chak ignores the Yautja. H’chak climbs to his feet, extends a hand, and helps Chirp up. He cannot receive alerts for noise without his wrist-computer to run scans and processing, but his optics can shift between full spectrum view and his natural thermal sight. He takes a moment to shut off his bio-mask’s optics system and sweep the grounds, searching for any unusual heat sources._

_“We need to find Guan.” H’chak undoes a wrapping at his wrist. He takes care to keep any leaf sap off his mask while he ties his longer dreadlocks back into a mock ponytail. At Chirp’s soft growl, the Yautja pauses and looks over. “What?”_

_“Of all of us—You know he’s the most likely to succeed, yeah? Cjit for brains here, you’re named Mercy, and he’s… Perfection! Paya,” the Yautja holds his head in his hands, mandibles clicking incessantly. Chirp’s words hit a note with H’chak._

_The other Unblooded snarls and grabs Chirp by the arm. “Don’t say that! He is our mei-hswei! Same as us! Equal footing! This is our chiva, not just his—”_

_“Word gets around the clan, Mercy,” Chirp trills quietly. The Unblooded removes H’chak’s grip on his arm and gently shoves him backward. “Elders wanted Guan to take the chiva last cycle. You know what he said? It would be—”_

_“Dishonorable,” H’chak growls again. “I was at the kehrite, Chirp. I saw it. He declined their offer with the honor of a sain’ja. A true warrior! He did that for us, his mei-hswei—”_

_“He did it because we’re weaker than him!” Chirp throws his hand into the air. “He knows we’re weaker than him! S’yuit-de, both of us! The Elders know it, too—”_

_“Something’s here with us,” H’chak grabs the other Unblooded and drags him behind a behemoth tree trunk. The latter grumbles under breath but complies and crouches next to him while he peeks out around the tree. H’chak shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. He can barely pick up the odor in the olfactory sensors at the roof of his mouth. It is well-masked by the natural aroma of the planet, but there is a distinct, bizarre quality to it that makes him hesitate: it is prey._

_It smells like prey. Like weak, weak prey, and it baffles him to no end. He scans the surroundings once more in full spectrum of color before shutting his bio-mask’s optic systems off and viewing the world in a range of heat signatures. Most of the trees fall into the faded pink range, though some cross into darker hues of magenta. The ground is very warm; he can feel the heat stored in it beneath his feat. H’chak clicks his mandibles quietly as he waits for something to move or change in the environment. He half-jumps when Chirp taps his let arm and points up, up, up…_

_There is an amorphous shape in the canopies high above. It is masked by the leaves and foliage, but no doubt—It is there. When H’chak turns his mask’s optic system on and views the world in regular color, his eyes widen behind his mask at the sight of a spectacular thing stalking the two from above. It almost reminds him of molten metal, only light passes through it and hints at a less opaque composition. It sways in place, unafraid of the leaves or leaf sap. H’chak notes its movements are masked by the constant breezes and gales passing through the area; the thing does not move unless the leaves are in the process of rustling. It is almost impressive to see; the thing has successfully crept up on two Yautja._

_Unblooded Yautja. H’chak grits his teeth. His mandibles chitter softly. If he was Blooded—There is no way a random lifeform could take him by surprise. Not like this._

_“Cjit, cjit, what is that?” Chirp’s clicks become quicker, his composure beginning to weaken. “The chiva grounds aren’t—This isn’t a—That’s not hard meat! It isn’t! Hard meat have dark carapaces—That thing doesn’t even have a carapace! Pauk!”_

_When H’chak inhales again, he knows it has moved closer. The thing doesn’t look like it has gone anywhere, but the aroma is stronger than before. He is about to mention it when Chirp grabs his arm and points behind the two. The Unblooded freezes and slowly turns around. The odor of prey becomes overwhelming through his bio-mask’s filters._

_On the ground, three dozen noks away, an identical silvery thing hangs off a protruding tree root. The second thing is disgustingly larger than the one in the trees. H’chak feels his scales stand up on end; he growls and steps to impose himself between the ground thing and Chirp. Chirp blabs about not needing help and not needing protection, but H’chak doesn’t care._

_This isn’t right. Chivas differ by clan, but the Gahn’tha-cte Clan has always opted for the traditional rite of hunting kiande amedha. The kiande amedha are worthy prey across the universe, and there is no reason to sway from the traditions. H’chak swallows nervously. He doesn’t intend to show fear, but as the ground thing shifts off the tree root and smacks the ground, he begins to feel hints of it. The odor of terrified cold sweats permeates the air from his side—Chirp is not faring well._

_“What do we do? What—How in Cetanu’s name do we fight without our weapons? Not even—Our gauntlet knives—" Chirp chirrups a frantic string of clicks._

_“I don’t…” But the words fall away, as does the rest of H’chak’s attention. He hears the crackling of electricity and winces as his mask begins to power off to keep itself from shorting out. He tears his mask off and drops it as the olfactory receptors in the roof of his mouth light up with the perforating aroma of prey. It is too much for him to look anywhere else; in a second H’chak’s heartbeats begin to race, his eyes fill with awe, and he struggles to think coherently. His perception of the world melts and changes from the tree-ridden planet of Scutum-186f to a plane of nothing but him and the enticing silvery prey before him. He needs to kill it and take it as a trophy. He must. He cannot think of anything but meeting it head-on, in a rush of combat with claws tearing through the thing until it relents in calling him kv’var-de._

_In the back of his mind, he can hear Chirp yelling at him. He knows he shouldn’t, but his body moves automatically as more and more electrical currents reach his form. He needs to defeat the prey. Weak, easy, soft prey. He begins to walk forward. A warm hand latches to his arm; H’chak violently wretches his arm free and runs for the silvery thing._

_It waits for him: a glistening shape that is not quite bipedal yet eloquent all the same. It looks like liquid, but it holds enough density to not splatter across the ground. As it begins to extend towards him, the thing’s mass twists and distorts until a long, tendril-like appendage begins to snake forward. The limb is almost transparent in quality, vastly different from the faint silver sheen of the main mass, but the thing stretches out the ‘limb’ as if it is a hand begging to be snared. H’chak reaches for it, oblivious to the sound of someone else shouting his name._

_The silver thing suddenly lunges for him. It ensnares his arm and begins to constrict around it like a boa with prey, engulfing his limb and attempting to worm to his torso and neck. The scent of weak prey dissipates and H’chak comes to with a scream of shock. Electricity courses his body and his muscles lock up, unwillingly restrained as the silver thing starts to engulf him.  
_

_It is a mess of fluctuating temperatures. The thing does not feel organic. It looks like it should be gooey, but it is a mottled mixture of textures and sensations. The only thing he knows to describe it as is ui’stbi, an abomination of feelings that would normally provoke shivers if his body responded to his commands. The arm strangled by the silvery mass begins to go numb; H’chak struggles to breath as he is pulled deeper into it. He feels Chirp grab hold of his torso and yank back, but the thing begins to drag Chirp with surprising strength._

_There is a gleam of veritanium metal. The beautifully cut edge of a blade comes crashing upon the silver mass, slicing it clean through. H’chak cannot scream or shout, but Chirp belts out profanities in alarm. A dusky-gray blur rears back and cuts the silver thing into pieces. Then—Guan does it again, his dreadlocks shifting with each new motion. H’chak stares in awe as Guan cuts away pieces of the silver mass from his arm. When free, H’chak falls backward only for Chirp to catch him._

_The three Unblooded stare at each other, reunited._

_“We need to move—Where is your mask?” Guan’s chirps are critical._

_“Why do you have your gear?!” Chirp jumps forward and jabs the Unblooded’s veritanium armor. “The leaves—The sap—Glue! Glue, glue, glue!”_

_“Irrelevant—We need to go, there’s another of those things here—" Guan points at the silver thing in the tree. It has begun to move down the branches and tree trunk. “It’s hunting us—I’ve already notified Elder Ma-Or. He’s going to land the ship.”_

_“But our chiva—” Chirp begins a disappointed ramble while H’chak struggles to put his mask back on. Sap from his hands has gotten on the mask. He does not want it to stick to any of Guan's things.  
_

_At the sight of the latter, Guan steps forward and extends his elder blade. He cuts a spot on his arm and holds it over the mask, letting the bright green blood drop over the metal, then over H’chak’s hands. H’chak flinches but remains quiet as the older Unblooded works. When Chirp begins to stare, Guan states quickly, “Our blood neutralizes the sap’s properties.”_

_“That’s how… Pauk! We should get our gear!” Chirp throws his hands into the air and growls. “How do we find it? All the things here smell like cjit sap!”_

_“No time.” Guan states._

_“You…activated the communications relay?” H’chak cannot hold his tongue. He should not pry, as everything seen on the bio-masks is recorded and uploaded to the ship, but he has a morbid fascination with Guan’s recklessness to do such a thing._

_The other Unblooded tilts his head to one side. “It was necessary. Our chiva has been interrupted. This is no longer a fair hunt. Elder Ma-Or agreed—"_

_“We could still find the hard meat.” H’chak pauses._

_“Those things already have. C’mon,” Guan sheathes his Elder Blade, grabs Chirp and H’chak by the wrists, and drags them away. The Unblooded speaks as he goes. “Don’t rush your steps—Walk softly, don’t jump over anything—The trees here—The n’ithyia is alive!”_

_“We know about the trees!” Chirp and H’chak click in unison._

_“But not about the sap! You two need to be more careful.” It devolves into a long lecture that doesn’t cease until the trio are far, far away from where the silver thing attacked him. The disappointment is obvious, but H’chak notes the worry tucked in each click and chirp. Even during his chiva, Guan continues to worry about him and Chirp. His mei-hswei continues to baby them, as if they are not equal Unblooded Yautja facing the trial together._

_At one point, he stops walking and pulls out of Guan’s grasp. The latter stops immediately, whereas Chirp tries to go on but fails when Guan pulls him back. H’chak’s orange eyes meet the orange eyes of his friend. He clicks shortly, “We’re not pups. We figured the sap out on our own—"_

_“You abandoned your equipment in favor of strolling these woods half-nude. If the kainde amedha—”_

_“I’d rip their head off! Chirp would, too, we’re not…” It pains H’chak to admit it, because he recalls his earlier conversation with Chirp and how adamantly he defended Guan, but its clear now that Chirp is right. H’chak growls softly. “You don’t need to look out for us all the time.”_

_“I do.” Guan snaps back immediately, the clicks slightly muffled by his bio-mask. “I’m your mei-hswei! What good am I if I don’t protect you, H’chak? You too, Chirp—"_

_“…You think we need… protection. You think we’re weak.” H’chak stills. His fists tense. “I respect you as a mei-hswei but you don’t—”_

_“What would have happened if I hadn’t come, H’chak?” Guan steps closer to him and grabs him by the mask. It is terribly obnoxious and a common way for a Yautja parent to address a child. H’chak feels his patience wane as Guan clicks quickly, “Those things—Devour. One engulfed the kainde amedha I was fighting before I could take its head. You want the same? You seek the final rest? U’sl-kwe?”_

_“Then—Consider me in your debt! Consider me equal! Equals repay each other—I am capable of extending the same protection to you—” H’chak stills when Guan releases him and growls lowly. It sounds frustrated._

_The other Unblooded turns away and looks to the side. Soft light filters through the canopies overhead and gleams off Guan’s mask._

_“For as long as I live—I will do everything in my honor to protect you and Chirp, H’chak. I do not do it because I view either of you as pups. I do it because you are my friends. And friends,” The Unblooded trills faintly, “Friends do not hold each other in debt.”_

* * *

_Liar._

In the medical bay, dressed only in bandages that soak up extra pus and excreted fluids, the unconscious kv’var-de’s eyes slowly flutter open. H’chak finds himself staring at what is initially cool heat temperatures. The paneling of the roof over his head is familiar, but he cannot place it. His entire body is a chorus of pain so deep he groans and winces with each movement. Somewhere nearby, he hears clothes rustling. Someone inhales sharply and says things his head hurts too much to process. He tries to think back to his last conscious memory, to the time before the tour down memory lane, but all he recalls is the dim lights of the _kehrite._

_I went to the kehrite. I was in the kehrite. Someone was there. What was I doing?_

His body does not move. It should, but it does not. He wants to curse at his limbs lack of subordination, but all that comes is confusion and growing impatience his body does not obey. His brain claws at any possible explanation, but his mind remains too foggy to recant. The more he tries to remember, the more pain shoots through his brain. H’chak growls internally and clenches his eyes shut.

“I didn’t think he’d wake up.” The voice is that of the cruel, cunning, cold doctor human. It is close, just by his side. H’chak briefly contemplates attempting to rip the woman’s spine out of her body for the sole purpose of staying _quiet._ Sounds are painful. Everything is painful. Existence is painful in a way that is inside and out.

“Fuck, fuck—What do we do once he’s awake? I mean, what do we do _now?”_ The electrician’s voice comes through.

“Mercy—That’s his name, correct?” The doctor asks.

H’chak wants to growl. _Merciless. M’di-H’chak._ But his body refuses, so all he does is snarl in his head.

“Sundew hasn’t told me how to say his name in his language. It isn’t really Mercy—But that’s what part of it translates to.”

“…Mercy.” The doctor shifts to the head of whatever he is laying on. It feels like metal in places, warm but cool pressed against his back, but only in _places._ He cannot feel all of his body, and parts of his body he can feel are overwhelmingly in pain. H’chak cannot do anything but open his eyes and try to catch a glimpse out his peripheral. He cannot lift his head, and when he fails to see the doctor—He shuts his eyes once more.

The doctor goes on.

“I reckon you can hear us now based off the movement of your eyes. Blink twice for yes.”

It is clever, even for an ooman. The Yautja begrudgingly blinks twice before closing his eyes again.

“…He really is awake. Wow.”

“Give us a moment to talk, Ivon.”

“Are you ordering me out?” The electrician seems bewildered.

The doctor sighs. “I am _attempting_ to ask you to leave in a manner _courteous_ with _respect_ to the _situation_ at hand. Is that clear?”

“Kind of convoluted—You don’t need me here, then? You made a fuss about me shoving his limbs around earlier.”

 _Pauk._ No wonder his body hurts. He doesn’t know the real reason, but at that moment all the Elite can deduce is that his body is unhappy to have been moved. While unconscious no less. He growls internally once more.

“I’ll be fine. But… Ivon—” There is a pause. It isn’t like the doctor to be hesitant once she’s made up her mind. She is crafty and sly, almost dangerous, but once she decides on something H’chak believes she follows through on it. He does not like the shift in behavior; the ooman has become a shred more unpredictable.

He cannot growl, so he listens and waits.

“If the Synthetic—”

“Sundew!” Ivon snaps, inhales, and seems to calm, as their next words are, “Sundew, doctor.”

“…Sundew. If… _Sundew_ … If she comes back before—”

“Keep her out?” Ivon sounds annoyed.

Another change. How long has he been unconscious? H’chak does not remember the electrician having a backbone. His best memory of the ooman is of them a blubbering, tearful mess the night he anticipated having to drop them out of the cargo hold to their death. Yet here they are—

“I’m not keeping her away from here. Though I—I doubt she even wants to come in right now.” There is something tucked away in the electrician’s words. It makes H’chak still on the inside. The Yautja’s brain struggles to comprehend just what Ivon’s words carry. Ivon goes on, “She’s probably off doing… Mining. Things. I dunno. I didn’t ask her where she was going this time. She seems to know what she’s doing, and she hasn’t run into trouble yet, so…”

“Ah. Good.” The human doctor remarks.

 _Good?_ H’chak can’t growl. It is pissing him off. He needs to express his disgruntlement with the developing situation but all he can do is _blink_.

Footsteps indicate someone leaves—Ivon most likely, as H’chak continues to hear the human doctor rustle around things at his side. He doesn’t feel her interact with his body, but he hears her pick at what sounds like metal objects. Minutes pass before the woman speaks.

“Given you can hear me, Mercy, I am going to… As they say it… ‘Catch you up to speed’ on what transpired since the time you were first brought into the medical bay,” the ooman states with far more confidence, though there is fear coming from her.

It is good to know she is still afraid; H’chak has not forgotten what the woman did to the Image. Just the thought makes his stomach twist painfully. He wants to growl again—But his body refuses to comply. He would lecture it if he could.

The human doctor clears her throat. It draws his attention back to her. “—It has been a little over one month since the Syn… Since _Sundew_ entered the medical bay aghast with tears and pleading for help. Jo and Ivon assisted in moving your body to the upper level and dragging it here. Whether you consider this a second debt to be repaid is up to you but know you would not live if Sundew left you in the rubber room.”

 _Rubber Room?_ What rubber room? His mind goes blank trying to deduce what part of the ship it belongs to. Granted—If it is even the _Kukulkan._ His chest aches at the thought of being taken from his ship, though H’chak doubts Sundew would ask anyone to do that.

“When you were brought up, your body was… It was in a state I have been privileged enough to never see during my years of clinicals and my residency. You won’t—You don’t understand what that refers to, and what it does refer to is irrelevant, but—Gods, Garcia,” the doctor sighs softly and utters something under breath he cannot understand. She continues. “—I have never seen such intricate burns before. I hesitate to call them burns, but I believe ‘burns’ are the closest thing my fellow humans and myself have to describing what transpired in your flesh. You were… I believe Jo and Ivon have described it as, ‘fried.’ Electrocuted. Very, very badly. The extent of the damage remains to be seen, but you should not be alive.”

 _A month ago… Rubber Room. Sundew. Electrocuted._ A disgusting feeling begins to churn in his gut. He feels abhorred at the thought the Image might have done something to him. He doubts she could, but at the same time—She has gone from _weak prey_ to _tolerable prey_ to _worthy prey_ very, very quickly. He has seen her ability to manipulate electricity before at the ooman laboratories.

 _Cjit, stop thinking that way. She’s not… She wouldn’t. She…_ He struggles to think of the right word. Part of his mind knows the word is _cares_ , but the other half of him refuses to assign that word to the Image—Even if it is true.

“The other Yautja onboard—Maelstrom. She agreed to… try transfusing blood to your body. It was the only way I could think of to save your life, aside from keeping your injuries clean, disinfected, and moving your body enough to prevent blood clots. The plasma inside Maelstrom’s blood—It seems to have helped. I understand that means she and you have something to discuss later on, but that is not… It is not important. Not right now.” The doctor’s tone becomes curt once more. “What is imperative to explain is that—That—You and the—You and _Sundew—_ "

His eyes snap open when the thoughts return to him. It comes back in a terrible rush of blood to his head, coupled by the bellows of agony that come when his body gives in and bends to his will. In a second, the Yautja has managed to throw himself off the metal table, all fueled in a desperate, frantic need to assess the situation and fix all the problems he’s caused. H’chak’s voice is a croak of pained expletives. He hears the ooman doctor curse, but his body is on _fire_ in strange chunks of flesh. It is strange; he knows no actual flames cover him but the sensation of it is so deep and permeating he can’t help but curse and snarl at the spots that burn.

Several minutes later, _after_ Garcia has gotten ahold of the other Yautja onboard—Vayuh’ta—and both humans, the four manage to lift his weak body off the metal floor and shove him back unto the table. It is painful, he roars and twitches in vain against his ‘captors’, but in the end the four get him up and he finds himself looking at the familiar ceiling panels. He assumes by now he is still in the Kukulkan.

 _At least I have my ship._ The Yautja curses internally at what the other residents of his ship may have done during his period spent unconscious. He does not have long to dwell on the thoughts, as he quickly returns to reliving the memories of what transpired in the _kehrite_ over-and-over. They are clearer now, and just as painfully shameful and dishonorable as they were the first time. Perhaps _more_ now, if the sickening swell in his chest—directed at himself—is anything to go off. H’chak refuses to look at the four in the room and keeps his eyes on the ceiling or shut. He will not give them a chance to note more vulnerabilities.

“You explain everything yet?” Ivon is the first to break the uncomfortable silence.

H’chak manages to growl. It comes off softer to a raspy croak. Nearby, he hears Vayuh’ta’s mandibles chitter with faint laughter. Anger burns inside him, but it dies when the doctor human clears her throat and begins to speak, “I had one thing left to say. About… what we’ve established of our _good friend._ Sundew.”

“Oh. That.” Ivon mumbles. Footsteps indicate they move backward. A moment later, Vayuh’ta hisses and Ivon bursts out, “Sorry—Sorry—I didn’t remember you were there—”

“Mercy,” Garcia says clearly. “You understand what _drosera_ are on this planet?”

“Carnivorous plants.” The translation device on Vayuh’ta’s helmet provides an answer. H’chak wants to growl, but for the sake of his ego he keeps quiet.

“Carnivorous plants… lure others in. A trap. Ensnare. Devour. Repeat. Sundew is… She is what Stargazer Corporation refers to as a _Synthetic._ A term used to describe something that is not… natural. Her mimicry, for example. Repetitions of living things. But—But that aside,” the woman coughs. “Up till a month ago, it was only hypothesized one of her kind could… Manipulate others. Their thoughts. Feelings. Wants. Goals. Electrical charges—”

His eyes flutter open. They grow wide. He struggles to turn his head enough to stare at the human doctor, but she stands too far to the side for him to get a good glimpse at her. She radiates more fear than before, which concerns him.

“—Garcia here thinks Flower Power’s been manipulating you. By electricity. Zaps. Something. I don’t fucking know,” it is Jo who intervenes, brash and cold when addressing him. Oddly enough—It does not feel like she directs it at him. She scratches her cheek as she goes on, “But even if that’s _true—_ What? It’s been a month. She’s been too afraid to go near your body, so. I reckon any of that shit’s worn off. If it was even there at all.”

“You saw the condition of his body firsthand—”

“She can electrocute people! Doesn’t mean she’s playing ‘em like puppets on a string—’

“Puppets on a string?” Vayuh’ta’s helmet intones without a shred of emotion.

To her left, Ivon leans over and quietly explains. “It’s an… It’s one of those Earth expressions… Uh… Like… Fuck you? But not—Literally—”

“We say fuck you.” Vayuh’ta crosses her arms and huffs, a stark contrast to the monotonous voice of the bio-mask translating the words.

It gives him a headache to hear it all go on, what with Ivon trying to explain themself to the other Yautja in the room, with Jo and Garcia yapping at each other once again, and the _damn_ hiss of the cockpit window in the background, it all _sucks._ He seethes where he lays, body tense and uncomfortable. His head throbs. Never mind the fact he’s spread like lunch meat in front of the four. Nudity doesn’t usually bother him, but he feels especially vulnerable at that moment. He feels _weak._ Easily overpowered. Disgustingly small.

He hates it all so much.

“Hey—Ivon!” Jo’s yell comes when the electrician hits the wall indentation and the door slides open.

H’chak manages to shift his head enough to see through the medical bay door and down the stretch of the corridor dividing the living quarters. At the other end, the door separating the cabins from the cockpit slowly slides open. Ivon stops just in front of it, speaking words too soft for him to pick up. H’chak winces at the sound of _things_ falling, something akin to rocks or heavy objects clattering across the metal floor. He remains looking down the hallway just as a sliver of a faded pink heat signature peeks out from behind Ivon’s bright red silhouette.

_Sundew._


	20. to be safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait,” Ivon lurches to grab her arm before she can leave. The electrician’s grip is surprisingly strong; they have made gains in muscle mass the past month. “Sundew—That’s—It’s one mistake—"
> 
> “A mistake he almost died from,” the Synthetic forces her arm to overexert the duplicate muscles inside the limb in order to wrench free of Ivon’s grip. Sundew steps backward and looks away. “I do not want him dead, Ivon. I want him to be safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i reckon. maybe 2 more chapters for arc 3? I want to finish writing out h'chak's recovery because there is only so much medical stuff I can bullshit my way through.

The device reminds her of a human watch. It sits on her wrist, secured by the material used for strapping Yautja thermal suits to the body. The small pod feels out of place, something closer to a bubble of metal versus how Ivon initially describes it, but it fits. Ivon makes a point of demonstrating how electricity makes the lights inside turn on. Though the device now sits on the back of her right wrist, she is not comforted by the thought. The only things in her head are worry, worry, and H’chak.

 _And_ the need to find cobalt, but Sundew doesn’t remember where it is found on Earth. She needs to take Ivon to find the _internet_ and research an answer.

 _I could ask H’chak if he knows…_ Her clear eyes dim as much as they physically can. Under the lights of the kitchen unit, onboard the beautiful _Kukulkan_ , Sundew sits on a bar chair and rests her hands in her lap. She feels queasy. No truly nauseous, but violently antsy to the point her mind wants to process it as nausea. Trying to sit still is hard when she worries. Acknowledging the worry only makes it more unbearable, prompting the sensation to crawl under her silver skin and linger in the back of her mind. She knows why, but she has avoided confronting the source of it for three days. 

“Sundew?” Her friend calls. She looks up to see Ivon’s big brown eyes watching her.

The Image tilts her head to one side. She musters a weary smile. “I am here, Ivon. Thinking.”

“You want to share?” The electrician returns focus to their work. “I mean—You don’t have to—But—If you need to—I have to figure out how the shit we extract ruthenium from ore when all these others metal are involved… I’ll be here a while. Maybe I can get Jo or Maelstrom to help me.” Ivon shifts and rubs the back of their head, though they soon return their sights to her as they wait for an answer.

Sundew averts her gaze. “I appreciate what you made for me. I hope it keeps you and the others safe.”

“It should. I ripped up a lot of technology making it, so…” Ivon says. Their lips drop into a heavy frown. They look at the bar counter. “Part of the reason I made it was so—So that you could talk to him. Without worrying about… electrical currents.”

The statement sends chills down her spine. She stands up, brushes off her thermal mesh like it is human attire and not a form-fitting alien bodysuit, and turns away. She identifies the warmth creeping into her face immediately. This kind is not pleasant. It brings back the unease and antsy fidgets. She imitates a human inhaling deeply, but the mimicry does not help. Sundew frowns to herself. “You are a kind human, Ivon. A kind human. I learn many new things by spending time with you. But H’chak—I—” Her words become tongue-tied; she curses.

“Sundew,” Ivon cuts her off. “Are you afraid to talk to him?”

“That is… Not entirely inaccurate. But it is not for the reasons you think, Ivon,” She yearns for her hat. It’s somewhere in the cockpit; Sundew refuses to wear it given present circumstances. She pauses and contemplates how to explain it. All she can think of are the words, “I am not… It is not fear of him, or what he may do. It is fear of—”

“Hurting him?”

“Yes.”

“Again.”

“…Yes.” Sundew’s shoulders slump. She does not recall consciously choosing to mimic the gesture, but she does it regardless. The Synthetic tries to replicate the act of inhaling deeply, but the copycat lungs do not provide the same sensations real lungs should. It feels unnatural. It reminds her—She is unnatural. The Synthetic purses her lips and adds on, “I do not… understand a lot about myself. Ivon. Because of that—Because of _me_ —I have hurt others. Not just H’chak—I could have been hurting any of you without _wanting_ that. I understand that I—That I _can_ do it. I have chosen to do it in the past, at the research center, but—I do not want to do it to any of you now. Not to him.”

“Right,” Ivon says, nodding. The person bites their lip. “Sounds like you feel remorse. And—And guilt! But—That’s better than not feeling any of those things and claiming it’s alright. So. From a human perspective, you’re handling this a lot better than most people would.”

“I do not know how to interpret this information, Ivon.”

“Yeah. Guess you wouldn’t.” They rub the back of their head. “Would it help if I… Um… If I asked him—If he wants to see you?”

“No.” Sundew answers immediately. She shakes her head. “It is not… It is not so simple. Whether he wants to see me or not—I cannot—I should not see him. I am not…” When her words trail off, the chills come back. No warmth comes, but a stinging pain lurks in her chest. Sundew’s eyes shut and she growls softly. “I cannot call myself his friend in good faith. Not after I almost killed him. I do not have that right anymore.”

“Wait,” Ivon lurches to grab her arm before she can leave. The electrician’s grip is surprisingly strong; they have made gains in muscle mass the past month. “Sundew—That’s—It’s one mistake—"

“A mistake he almost died from,” the Synthetic forces her arm to overexert the duplicate muscles inside the limb in order to wrench free of Ivon’s grip. Sundew steps backward and looks away. “I do not want him dead, Ivon. I want him to be safe.”

“The thing I gave you—It should keep him safe! Keep all of us safe—” Ivon begins to protest, rising from their seat.

“I am not avoiding him forever. I will not remove myself from him unless he asks.” Sundew snaps upright. She feels her own demeanor shift, whether by her own volition remains to be seen. When Ivon blinks and says nothing, it occurs to her just how strange her own words are. She lowers her gaze to the metal floor and says softly. “—I—I made a promise to him in the research facility. I would return to him no matter the circumstances. I do not break my word easily. If he wants me gone—Then—I will leave—But I will not—I made a promise to him. Ivon.”

“You confuse me sometimes,” The electrician scratches their head. The blond tresses are becoming quite long. “But that’s okay—It’s okay! Thanks for trusting me enough to share.”

“You are my friend. I trust you.” Sundew looks back at the electrician.

Ivon smiles faintly. “Glad to hear it.” 

* * *

Three days. He counts the planetary day cycles, relying on information from the oomans on the number of sunrises and sunsets to calculate the number. In this time, though the familiar aroma of soft meat, another Yautja, and an Image wafts through the ship, he does not get a glimpse of Sundew. He has not seen her since she got back. H’chak doesn’t go out of his way to fixate on her absence, but he finds her deliberate avoidance of him a blow to his pride. The sting to his ego is quickly numbed by the ensuing worry when he remembers the traces of fear coming off her; It fills his head with hypothetical _what if’s._

He knows better than to be surprised. His memories have come back to him in full force, down to the last words the Image spoke before electrocuting him. Her words repeat in his head, _Do not touch me. Do not touch me. Do not touch me._

He recalls, just before, shoving her off him as things between the two escalated; he remembers taking action to ensure lines were not crossed the two could not go back from.

The thought stirs a deep, brooding frustration beneath the endless sea of pain his body remains lost in. It is hard to think concisely with the horrible sensations, but he laments constantly on the conversation with Sundew over the three days. He makes a point of calling it a _conversation,_ as if the two were not deeply wrapped up in each other the way life partners are said to be. As if he had not done a mock of the damn proposal dance a warrior of his clan uses to express interest in a life mate. As if, as if, as if, and the as if’s are almost as irking as the _what if’s_ running through his head.

All he can do it wait and heal. The three days are spent in tumultuous pain, with the Elite _kv’var-de_ groaning and snarling whenever others are around. The human doctor pokes him with needles frequently; Garcia’s become acquainted with the locations of his veins. Bags of bright green blood hook to tubes running to blood vessels in his flesh. According to what the ooman doctor says, the blood comes from the other Yautja onboard. _How_ and _why_ the transfusion works baffles him, but he decides not to pursue the topic.

Not now. Not when he worries.

 _Cetanu._ The _kv’var-de_ thinks as he lays on the metal table and stares at the ceiling. He can sit up, but right now his neck is too sore to attempt it. _She worries me. I’m worried about an Image. Cjit. She's... She's supposed to be prey.  
_

Worthy prey but prey all the same. It is shameful to reflect upon, both his desire for emotional intimacy and the aggravating demand to do unspeakably lewd things with the prey. Just the thought brings disgust into his stomach, and that disgust is joined by the weak embers of a fire in his abdomen. He can feel the heat lick his body and slowly ooze across his flesh. His body has needs, and he wants to fulfill them with someone who is prey, a lifeline, and… _A friend._

When Garcia stabs his arm with a needle, he snarls and snaps at her. The pain from the movement is grotesque; he does not stop his profanities for a minute. The ooman doctor ignores him and he sinks back into the scum of his thoughts.

Sundew is his… _friend._ Worthy prey, probably, but first and foremost—His friend. Then—His lifeline. He needs her to gain honor once they return to the clan ship. He _needs_ her, but his mind takes the thought and twists it in a way prompting heat to spring across his face. He is an Elite, a hunter, a _sain’ja,_ but he is equally distasteful in how quickly his mind reacts to the thoughts in his head. He recalls how receptive she was, the enticing scent she gave off, the need to be closer—Just the thought brings back aches across his chest. His mind swarms. _I wanted her._

H’chak’s mandibles begin to twitch furiously, the anger directed solely at himself. His body knows what it wants. He cannot deny how badly he craves physical intimacy. Not the thrill of a mating dance and the rush of adrenaline where combat is involved; he wants the kind of _closeness_ physical intimacy transpires. He wants moments where he does not wonder if he will be kicked out of living quarters after a climax. He longs to have someone pressed against his flesh, holding him and wanting him just as badly as he does in return. He wants the pressure of limbs beautifully entwined, the sight of flushed faces, and the beautiful iterations of his name said in the throes of sweat and safety.

Once upon a cycle, he sought the affections of the beautiful Umbra Skull. He was shamefully smitten with her, always willing to play her game and let her toy with his heartstrings. His world was her, and he knows he would have worshipped her if she allowed him. She made it seem like she was interested. She had pulled him along. She reciprocated certain advances, allowed him to bring courting gifts, and offered him the opportunity to battle for the right to prove himself worthy of her. Even after Guan challenged him for the right to be considered, even after he was humiliated in front of the clan in a public spectacle and refused an honorable death by Guan’s hand, he remembers spending cycles lamenting over the loss.

In the custody of _oomans,_ he was distracted by his failed Hunt and the desire to escape, but his thoughts drifted back to Ikthya’de and Guan. It is only now, when the kv’var-de is lost in his thoughts, does he acknowledge how rarely he thinks of Ikthya’de with Sundew around. Ikthya’de feels like a distant afterthought, not even worth his hate. He does not remember the last time he has not felt burdened by hate for the woman.

 _Is that because I’ve moved on? Accepted it? Or because of…_ He feels his thoughts return to the shameful recesses of his mind.

He wonders if the reason he’s become taken with the Image is because of the two’s strange bond built during the period they were both imprisoned. Circumstances should not have dictated either escape, much less _live,_ but the two got out. The two proved oomans could not contain them.

 _She crashed the Kukulkan into the building._ Barring damage caused by her actions the thought causes him to chitter softly. It draws a questionable stare from the ooman doctor, but the Elite is too busy snickering to care. He enjoys the way she approaches things, vast and different to his own.

He recalls how she took it upon herself to stare at a ceiling for days, just to ensure she hadn’t missed a hidden meaning in the two’s conversation. Her concern for what he says, for _him,_ goes against what he has experienced at his clan. It is nice.

He enjoys having her around, as a friend. No matter where his mind wants to go—H’chak quietly acknowledges he has come to appreciate the Image’s presence on the ship.

 _Enough to kill two kv’var-de. Arbitrators._ He shuts his eyes. _Has my time on Terra softened me? The time we spent at the facility—Weakened me? For her?_

Maybe it is the electrical charges. His thoughts return to what the ooman doctor said. _But a month passed. A month passed. I am not easily manipulated. If Sundew had a hold over me—It is gone. The oomans said she hasn’t visited me since this happened._

It presents a problem. His body has wants, needs, and the drive to seek out a mate. If Sundew has not been the trigger for those physiological reactions, then it means they exist of his own free will. M’di-H’chak, outside the influence of others, has a…

 _Pauk._ The hunter begins to scold himself inside his head. He does not want to acknowledge it, even if it is very clear how _invested_ he has become in the Image.

Invested. He prefers that word. He is invested in the Image, her well-being, and her state of mind. And her opinion of him. Nothing he cannot handle. He just wants her safe, alive, and… _And. To have her accompany me. To the clan ship._

He has grown sick of calling her 'prey'. It spells ill—H’chak feels heat creep over his face at the implications. He is viewing her less and less as someone to use for honor and more along the lines of an _equal._

“I anticipate it will be weeks before you can… move. Humans would take months to recover from the bedrest, but I understand your species has an elevated rate of cellular healing—” Garcia steps away and looks to the side. “We will need to begin physical therapy when possible. It is impossible to tell the extent of nerve damage until then.”

 _Nerve damage. Pauk._ H’chak stares angrily at her but refuses to growl. It is not her fault he is in this position.

“I’m going to get hard tack and bring it up. See if you can keep it down.” Garcia doesn’t stick around; she walks to the medical bay door, lifts a hand, and touches the wall adjacent it to open the door. No sooner than the doors open does the woman freeze and go still. Softly, the human doctor’s voice comes out a detached, “…Sundew.”

“Doctor Garcia. I am here to see H’chak.” The Image’s voice comes as a surprise. H’chak feels his stomach lurch in his chest. All he can do is stare at the faded magenta outline while Garcia walks past the Image, and the Image turns her attention to him.

All four of his hearts begin racing when the footsteps draw near. Sundew stops several feet out from the side of the table. H’chak manages to lift his head and catch the full outline of her heat signature. He notes strange, cool hues in the shape of an orb on one wrist, and a rectangular box on the other wrist, the latter of which resembles a Yautja personal computer. It confuses him. Or—It _would,_ if his attention was anywhere else, on anyone else, with anything else. He can smell the soft, enticing aroma of _prey_ waft through the room. His first thought is to correct himself—She is an _Image,_ not prey.

Then it dawns on him he has no idea what to say. H’chak stares as the silence crawls in.

* * *

“Hello,” is the choice of greeting. She has already moved her hands to her waist and begun wringing the wrist without the personal computer device attached. Sundew struggles to maintain composure as her clear eyes fall on the Yautja’s form.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ He sounds beyond exhausted, worse than she has ever heard his clicks and trills. Her chest aches at the thought of how much pain the Yautja must be in. She knows the Yautja are a tough and enduring species, but thresholds for pain only go so far. Sundew purses her lips as the Yautja on the table begins to click softly. It takes a second for her to understand just what he is saying. _“You smell afraid?”_

The clicks and chirps give her pause. Sundew averts her gaze. “I know I do. But I—I am not afraid of you. That is not what I…”

The hunter’s orange eyes are entrancing. They remind her of Jupiter. For a moment Sundew loses track of where she is and watches him. _This is… Beautiful. You are beautiful. I wish… I…_

Something flickers across his eyes. Confusion? Sorrow? Relief? She does not know; she cannot identify the intricate mess she sees in his orange gaze. All she knows is that he poses one unspoken question: _Why?_

“I—” Sundew can feel the guilt claw up her throat and burst into the open. Her eyes start to water but she wipes them quickly. She will not falter. “I almost—Killed you. I hurt you—Put you in this state. That was me. I am—I am fearful for everyone on this ship, H’chak—"

* * *

Faintly, the faded pink outline changes at the point of Sundew’s head. H’chak sees the area warm to a brighter pink in his thermal vision. He does not understand why the statement would make her flustered, until Sundew imitates a human exhaling softly and adds on, “I am most fearful for you. I do not want you dead. You matter to me.”

He feels every one of his four heartbeats pound wildly in his head. All the time he spent thinking things through, every second of introspection, it does nothing to calm the very real warmth washing over him. If pain didn’t course through his body at every little movement, he would scoop her up and hold her as tightly as possible. The need to be _close_ is back with a vengeance and H’chak can do nothing to satiate it.

* * *

The little metal hatch on Ivon’s device opens after she fiddles with the hinge. When she looks inside, she does not see the three red lights on. It worries her. _Is it not working? Did I break it? What do I do? I cannot… I will not let myself hurt H’chak again. I will not._

But, Sundew remembers, the human demonstrated it worked when they first gave it to her. She sends a minor electrical shock into the device. Immediately—The lights glow red, only to quickly fade. The Synthetic stills and stares at it. She does not even acknowledge the silence in the room until she hears the Yautja nearby try to shift and move. Sundew snaps her attention back to him; she pauses when he begins to groan in pain. She feels concern wallow in her stomach. Her voice catches in her throat when the hunter stops and looks back at her.

_Jupiter._

But she almost killed him. Sundew cannot focus on anything else when that statement remains true. She bows her head and states, “I hurt you—I am sorry I hurt you. I know I—I am on your ship out of convenience—If you do not—If you want me to leave—I will. I will.”

* * *

_“M-di.”_ The hunter’s voice is a hiss. It sounds painfully confident, but inside his mind—He is a mess, utterly bewildered and full of disbelief.

She thinks she did something wrong. She thinks she must apologize. H’chak cannot recall Ikthya’de ever apologizing to him. He does not remember apologies past his Blooded rite, save for Guan offering the soft-spoken _sorry_ after the verdict was reached on Chirp’s trial. He does not know what to do with the information. Out of the way his clan’s social customs interact, he wants to take responsibility for any wrongdoing or misunderstanding that transpires with a potential mate. Not even a life partner—Just a mate. But those customs do not apply; he knows the two interpret things in very different ways.

Even at his inexperience in handling _this_ —whatever _this_ is—he knows he does not want the Image gone. She is his friend, his companion, his… She is his lifeline, technically. He doesn’t like the way the thought rings in his mind. It puts her as something to be used, a tool or prop, versus the intricate and occasionally baffling individual he has slowly come to enjoy. He worries about her well-being because she is his friend—Not because she has use to him.

 _Has use. Disgusting._ He scolds himself for applying the term to the Image.

“H’chak?” Sundew pauses. Her eyes are on him. He cannot make them out, but he _knows_ she watches him, perhaps as intently—if not more—than he stares at her figure.

He wishes he could sit up. He can’t, so the hunter opts to click at her instead, _“Come here.”_

Her hesitation makes him trill softly. H’chak wants her to stay calm. That is how this impending discussion needs to go—Calmly, smoothly, without the hiccups or bumps the two seem to encounter often.

“Are you sure?” Sundew’s voice betrays just how much worry she holds.

 _“—Sei-I, come.”_ His gaze does not move off her. He watches her take one step, then another, before she stops again. H’chak tilts his head to one side and holds back the grimace of pain shooting through his neck. He clicks at her to continue. When she does not budge, the hunter chirps quietly, _“I am a sain’ja. I have lived through worse. You won’t break me.”_

“Killing is not the same as breaking, H’chak.” Her hands tense to fists at her side. “I put you in that state—”

 _“On accident.”_ At her stare, the Yautja realizes she does not understand one of the words. He guesses it is ‘accident,’ and quickly adds to the string of chirrups, _“Not by… Not on purpose. You didn’t choose it. Sun-Dew,”_ H’chak pauses. He does not know what to add. He didn’t think he would speak so much, but his mind is in its own rush of antsy feelings and nervous thoughts. He wants her to be okay. The _kv’var-de_ ’s mandibles click softly. _“I am strong. Tough. Resilient.”_

She does not appear to know what ‘resilient’ is when spoken in his tongue. H’chak adds it to the list he must teach her in the near-distant future.

 _“—I won’t die. Trust me,"_ His own clicks cease when the Image crosses and stops at the head of the table. She looks so much taller from where he lays. The change in perspective amuses him, but not enough to make him laugh. When no words pass between the two, it occurs to the Yautja that she waits for him to do something, to go on, to speak, _something._ H’chak trills softly once more and ignores the speck of warmth in his chest when the Image’s attention returns to him. _“Sun-Dew.”_

“H’chak.” She sounds puzzled. She probably looks the same, but it is too hard to tell without the full spectrum optics of his mask.

H’chak shuts his eyes. He has an idea, but it isn’t a pleasant one, even if it complies with the doctor ooman’s orders _. “—Help me sit up.”_

It is not a command, but an open-ended statement. She does not _have_ to do it. But if she wants to—and he has no doubt she knows how much he detests asking for assistance—she can. Any delight that could transpire from the cool skin of the Image abruptly ends the second her hands reach under his arms and, with a sudden burst of strength, the Image wrenches him upright. H’chak draws his mandibles taut across his mouth and clenches his fists. His teeth feel the pain, his bones feel the pain, every part of him revels in the pain to an unholy degree. He forces the cries of anguish back down his throat, not because he is a Blooded _kv’var-de_ who will not show weakness, but because he wants to prove a point.

He pants and catches his breath through the pain. His eyes open and flicker to the Image as she draws back. H’chak is slow to state, _“Nothing to—To worry about.”_

“You’re in pain—”

_“Am not.”_

“H’chak, Yautja feel pain. I have seen it many times on you and Vayuh’ta.” Sundew’s comments become brisk. She is not scolding him, but merely stating fact. It makes him want to huff; for the sake of everywhere that _hurts,_ he does not. “Why did—"

 _“You touched me without killing me.”_ H’chak repeats the clicks, this time with a degree of satisfaction to the sounds. “ _Nothing to worry about.”_

* * *

“Oh.” Sundew blinks slowly. She feels the warmth she has felt many times before, the feelings that are not so unbearably, painfully hot, dip across her cheeks. She wants to cover them and turn away, but she does not.

She does not remember Vayuh’ta doing something like this, both during the time the latter held her hostage and the weeks since being on the _Kukulkan._ She cannot remember any information about this kind of behavior from any human’s memories, nor from what little recollections she has of her hive’s banks. It confuses her. She tilts her head to one side and watches him, but his lovely orange eyes eventually flit away to scan the medical bay.

“H’chak.” She says the name solely to get his gaze back on her. Sundew knows it is what humans call _petty,_ but she wants it on her for her next question. She inquires slowly, “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

_“Sei-i.”_

_Yes._

Something starts thumping nearby. She looks around the medical bay before realizing it is coming from her head. The replica heart, though situated in her physical composition’s torso, pounds gently in her mind. Sundew knows it is because of him, and she does not mind it. Her lips curve up at the edges as she returns her gaze to the Yautja.

“You are very strange.” She whispers softly, “M-di-H’chak.”


	21. one without mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is so much shorter than him, almost five-ten while he towers at seven-feet. Even though he sits, even though his body has yet to return to full capacity, he remains an imposing, gargantuan wall of scales and strength. When he sits slightly hunched, and she stands upright, she can only reach his collarbone. The feeling of her close proximity when he directs her to stand between his legs hanging off the table, is divine. Even in pain, he reaches for her. He settles his hands around her torso and trills softly at the proximity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter left for arc 3 !!!

Things are a little less strange after the first exchange.

Sundew begins wearing her wide-brimmed hat again after the third visit. The beige color looks good against her skin; it makes him think of the different kinds of bone trophies he has accumulated over the cycles. Only the hat isn’t made of bone—though he makes a note to make such a thing in the future—and it does not reek of the final rest. It is only a hat to everyone else, but H’chak sees a deeper meaning to it. It is symbolic of where the two stand, at a cross point of two differing but entwining cultures and worlds. He enjoys the warmth that pools when he remembers she accepted it from him. _His_ gift to her—And she _loves_ it.

The Image begins to visit him each day. There are no more gaps in day cycles, though the timing of each visit may be off from the previous. One day, she will come in the morning, when the ooman doctor is preparing him to begin his painful, physically demanding regiment of exercises. Another day, she will visit in the evening, just when he is in the middle of huffing and puffing through pain or sounding out a string of expletives for all Garcia puts him through.

It is exactly five days after the first visit that Sundew comes in the evening. She has her hat on—the wide-brimmed, beige hat is a disorder of wrinkles in the material—and wears it with delight. He knows the small tells of some of her body language. Her smile is calm and courteous; her mood neutral. She isn’t nervous yet, he smells no fear, and her gait indicates the day has not had any unforeseen events—Yet. Garcia makes her wait at the side while she finishes taking vitals and tapping notes into a suspiciously shaped square tablet that reminds H’chak a little too much of one of his personal computers.

“Tomorrow we’ll continue work on your legs.” Is Garcia’s only warning before she wraps up for the evening and exits the room.

“...Do you need to change?” Is the first question Sundew asks, having given him her standard greeting when she strode in earlier. At his pause and a glance down, Sundew strides to the wall. One indentation-press later, she fetches a clean mesh suit and appropriate wrappings. She is calm handing it to him, but when he shifts away from her, she imitates a soft human gasp and states. “I am sorry—I forgot if Yautja have customs regarding privacy and modesty across your clan—”

He trills behind his bio-mask. It is good to have the metal hugging his face once more, a respite from any remarks should he become flustered. H’chak lets the translation software voice his clicks as he slowly changes, “The Ruthless Clan believes privacy is a merit of respect. Respect, where earned, is honorable.”

“I see,” Sundew backs away and turns around. “Should I ask you questions about your clan’s social norms tonight? Are you comfortable sharing?”

He holds back from answering, finagling and roughhousing the mesh with his slow, aching body. The pain is a deep, steady, throb that alternates between throbbing and a searing-hot stab of pain. Trying to think and talk with it stretching across his flesh is asinine; H’chak waits until he has managed to get the start of the mesh leggings and the loincloth on before he gives a response. Once more, his helmet blares out the words in monotone over the sound of his clicks. “—With you. Yes.”

“Really?”

 _“I trust you.”_ The hunter clicks rapidly.

“Ah,” Sundew sounds happy as she replies, “I trust you too.”

It would be nice if he could continue the happiness, if he were not to delve back into the subject the two have drifted from the past five days, but H’chak knows there is a point where the two left off during the first visit. There could only be so much chatter between the two before Garcia returned with her hard tack and made him try to eat it. Any desire to discuss certain things—much less the very intimate subjects running amuck his head—dissipated the second Garcia reentered the room. But he has right now; it will have to be enough.

He struggles to pull the mesh bodysuit up his torso the rest of the way. After nearly ripping through it when he grasps the mesh with his claws, the Yauta growls lowly and huffs. He calls over in clicks ahead of his helmet’s translation, _“Sun-Dew.”_

“…Do you need assistance?”

He does not say yes, merely huffs impatiently. He hears her laugh. Probably at him, but it’s too pleasant a sound for him to care. She joins him where he leans awkwardly against the metal table, trying to wrench the thermal suit up his torso and get his arms in it. He stills when the Image takes the fabric and tugs it up. She helps move the sleeves to a point he can shove his arms through. Though it isn’t necessary, he does not complain when she helps him put on the gloves, one-by-one. It is nice. It feels comfortable.

“Do you need help with anything else?” She tilts her head to one side and peers up at him. He can’t tell for sure, he gets the impression she’s expecting an answer, but H’chak suddenly finds himself at a loss for clicks, growls, and chirps. Even through the glove, he feels the coolness of her hand on his. All the careful composure and restraint he built over the past five days begins to unravel.

He’s thought about this, _constantly_ , on-and-off for five days. Trying to say it makes his throat dry and his orange eyes to stare. The blasted heat returns to his face and he slowly draws his hand back. He can tell it perplexes her. Or perhaps—Disappoints? The tell is hard to pick up on, but she reacts to the loss of contact. Not that he blames her in any way—He imagines coming off as a bag of mixed signals. It is one of the things the two still need to discuss, but first he needs to apologize.

 _Apologize._ He reminds himself. Behind his mask, his orange eyes narrow. He thought this out before. He _practiced_ it in his head. But for a man from a world where apologies are rare, his clicks come out as smoothly as a cobblestone road. He sputters in each chirp. His only saving grace is his bio-mask; the helmet translates each word smoothly, “I want to discuss the night we were in the training room. Together.”

It is good to have his mask on. Very, very, good. He cannot think it enough when his face heats up and he begins to strain to think again. He tries to swallow his nerves, but they only grow when Sundew pauses. “Alright.”

Switching back and forth between his thermal vision and his mask’s full spectrum optical system gives him a headache. H’chak exhales sharply. He can see how the Image’s face reacts, becoming a faint gray from ‘blood’ rushing to her cheeks. She is growing flustered, though not nearly as much as she could be. Her smell has not changed; he relaxes knowing she does not exhibit fear. Absentmindedly, he tries to lift a hand to her hat, but his arm protests and he growls softly at the motion. His arm drops back to his side and he looks away. Once more, he clicks and chirps for his helmet to translate.

“I know we have an abnormal history with each other. We have wound up together many times.” The helmet says calmly, without any hint of how fucking loud his four hearts thump in his head. H’chak keeps his gaze off the Image. “—I know there were times we were closer to each other than not. Physically enmeshed.”

“I do not know if I would describe our history as ‘abnormal,’” is the first thing Sundew states when he pauses. He looks back in time to catch sight of her adjusting her hat, one of her tell’s for uncertainty. Sundew looks up and though he knows she cannot make out his eyes through his mask, it still feels like she is staring through him.

He breath catches in his throat. He briefly forgets what he is doing. _Apologizing. Apologizing. Righting my wrong._

“Though I understand your clan may not participate in physical displays of affection—I remain confused whether it is something Yautja do with other species across the stars, or if it is limited to one Yautja to another.” Sundew taps her chin with her finger. She remains blushing, but her voice is calm. “I know we have imitated the act of human contact before. Physical touch is a form of endearment across many human cultures—"

She does not begin a ramble of questions and speculation, much to his relief. He needs to concentrate; he cannot get distracted by all the thoughts that come to mind when he thinks of Sundew and _physical displays of affection._ H’chak knows the two’s questionable _partnership_ has scurried the line between honorable and dishonorable one too many times.

“Sun-Dew.” His helmet translates the nervous clicks. He is far from a composed, careful _kv’var-de._ He feels like a hapless Unblooded. H’chak waits a moment, picking out words in his mind, before he continues, “The night in the training room. I took actions I regret now. When I was holding you. When we were—When we almost—”

Seeing her eyes grow wide and her face deepen in blush in realization is equal parts mortifying and satisfactory. He cannot get past her eyes, utterly perfect in how effortlessly they make her have the face of a trophy.

“H’chak,” the Image states slowly. By this point her hands rise to cover her cheeks. “Are you suggesting we almost participated in a mutually pleasing act of inter-species copulation?”

 _Sex_ is a much simpler way of describing it, but hearing the runaround is the only thing he can expect from Sundew. The hunter clears his throat and lets the translation device shut off. He must be strong enough to say this to her face, on his own, without _help_. The Yautja absentmindedly lifts a hand to her hat and straightens out a wrinkle in the brim’s material. He almost forgets to answer, too lost in the pleasing scent and fascination with how good she looks in the hat _he_ got her.

 _“It—It isn’t about that.”_ He clicks shortly. _“It’s about—About when I pushed you away.”_

“That is not a yes or no to my question.”

 _“Sei-I, yes, we could have—Engaged—In—”_ He is too ashamed to finish the sentence. When he looks at her face, he notes she is a drastically different shade of gray. H’chak attempts to compose himself and clicks quietly, _“But we—We did not. That is what matters. We did not. I shoved you away.”_

Sundew doesn’t say only, merely nods. Her body posture indicates she is tense at that moment.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ H’chak trills softly. _“What I did—Was dishonorable—"_ He intends to go on, to break down just _how_ things got to that point, to explain why things between the two cannot work, but his weight rests on his bulky arm. His arm slips. He does not have time before the pain explodes from the impact of his body smacking the floor. The roar that follows rattles his bones; he realizes, with stars behind his eyes and pain gravitating in waves, it is from him. He is a mess on the ground, curled up and clutching his head where he smacked it on the way down. Thanks to his helmet, his face is fine—But he still hears the ringing of metal crashing against metal resound in his head.

“H’chak—” Sundew stops at his side, kneels, and tries to wrap an arm around his torso. His first thought is to curse internally because it _hurts._ “Should I get the doctor?”

His second thought is how much he does not want the damn ooman interrupting the two. He growls softly. _“No. I can get up—”_

“On three, then,” the Image does not argue with him. She tightens her grip. “One. Two. Three—”

He gets a grip on the table and claws at it to haul himself up while Sundew helps lift him. It clearly exerts her more than he cares to see; the Image still retains the physical composition of a human, and for that is far more limited in what she is capable of. H’chak growls at no one as he leans over the table and holds unto it for dear life. He catches his breath through the pain; the physical regiment Garcia throws at him each day will be extra brutal tomorrow. He can handle it, but the thought annoys him nonetheless.

He blinks in surprise when Sundew shifts at his right and imitates him, bending over the metal table and stretching her arms out for the other side. It looks ridiculous. His helmet’s translation software hums as it comes to life and begins to voice his string of clicks, “What are you doing?”

“I thought you would be more comfortable if we were on a level playing field,” Sundew turns her head and peers at him. “Are you?”

He drops his head to the metal table and begins to laugh. The pain is immediate but well worth the change in mood. H’chak cannot resist the chittering of his mandibles, laughter deepening until the pain is too much and he begins to curse mid-chortle. From the right, an airy copy of laughter joins in. H’chak pauses and looks over. He watches the Image carry on laughing a moment longer before she too stops and looks at him. His orange eyes squint beyond his bio-mask. “You were laughing.”

“You were laughing. I wanted to join you.” Sundew rests her head on the metal table and watches him.

By _Cetanu,_ he does not understand her. His orange eyes soften as he watches her calm face. She looks happy; she looks content. It brings back the remorse he feels, all of which the hunter cannot hold back the longer he stares.

Throughout all of this, the strange wrist-orb device on her wrist has not lit up once.

“Sun-Dew.” His mask translates her name as two words. The Yautja switches the translator off and clicks the remaining words, _“I acted dishonorably against you.”_

“H’chak. I do not understand what one of those words means.” Sundew says, blinking at him. “I acted… I acted… what against you?”

_“Dishonorably—Without honor. M-di yin’tekai.”_

“No honor. You acted without honor?” At his nod, Sundew pauses. She pushes herself up and looks down at him. “Against me.”

 _“Sei-i. In my clan—I would be dragged before the Elders. Punished with the severance of my crime. Perhaps even—Killed.”_ The Yautja growls under his breath as he begins the struggle to get on the table. He does not ask for Sundew’s help, but she attempts to assist him anyways. He begrudgingly relents and lets her help, though an expanse of profanities flows when she pushes and lifts his body in tandem with his own efforts. H’chak sits upright on the table, grumbling and snarling to himself while Sundew shakes her head.

“I do not want to see you punished.” Sundew says, frowning and tilting her head to one side as she watches him. “We are not at your clan.”

“I am a Blooded warrior of my clan. It is my home. I will return one day. Even outside the company of my clan brethren, I must abide by the customs, laws, and expectations others hold of one of my rank.” He lets his helmet blare the translation out in monotone. The Yautja lets the translation software turn off and he returns to his clicks and chirps, though slightly muffled from his mask. _“I am… acknowledging my actions, Sun-Dew. I want to demonstrate remorse. I want to express… I am… Am…”_

Apologies are not unknown to Yautja, but they are not common.

 _Maybe they should be._ His mandibles click together softly. He can feel Sundew’s gaze on him. Even if he cannot see it—He _knows_. It makes his stomach do nervous flips. H’chak ignores the rising heat in his abdomen and averts his gaze, _“Sorry.”_

“Me too.” Sundew’s words snap his attention back to her. She looks off to the side and frowns. “I do not think my species is… I do not _know_ if my species has a comprehensive bank on the concept of atonement. Forgiveness. Regret. Even if my species can access a full spectrum of emotions—It does not mean we feel them. Not often. It is like sleep; it is not necessary unless the physical composition calls for it.”

The words perplex him. H’chak stills and scours her form with his eyes, trying to discern the meaning behind what she says.

“I have felt a lot of things since I first fed on you,” she speaks of the matter calmly, carefully, concisely. Sundew takes one of his hands in her own and squeezes it. She does not linger in the action, releasing his hand and drawing hers back immediately after. “That is a gesture of reassurance. I learned it from the memory of a human. Please know I do not hold ill toward you. You do not need to ‘atone.’ If anything—I have a great deal to apologize for.”

“Sun-Dew,” H’chak turns the bio-mask translator software back on. “You did not kill me.”

“I have other things to apologize for. Though I,” she bites her lip and looks away. “I am sorry about that, H’chak, as well.”

“We discussed it. It is no longer relevant.” The translating software states blankly. He does not enjoy the voice blaring in monotone, stripping of it of the… H’chak hesitates to call it _reassurance,_ but it _is_ reassurance, specifically—only—for her.

“H’chak,” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “I have other things to apologize for.”

“What things?” Behind his mask, the Yautja’s orange eyes narrow. He tries to lean forward, but the pain is too much. He reluctantly stays as he is, half-holding his side with one arm while he keeps his attention on her. H’chak’s gaze briefly flickers to the devices at her wrists.

Sundew looks down at them. “I used your equipment without asking.”

“You did?” The helmet intones.

“Yes.” Sundew lifts the hand with the wrist-computer-lookalike and touches her other hand to it. She shuts her eyes. The spherical device on her other wrist briefly lights up with three red dots.

 _…That’s…_ His thought is interrupted when Sundew disappears. He shuts his mask’s full spectrum optics off immediately and returns to his natural thermal vision, a rising tension heralding his chest. He does not breathe until he confirms she is there, finding her faded pink outline against the darker-hued background of the medical bay. She has taken several steps back, likely waiting for him to notice. H’chak draws his mandibles taut against his face while he turns the bio-mask’s optic system back on. When the world shifts to a full range of colors, he notes she is perfectly invisible. He knows she will remain that way until she moves, at which point the cloaking technology will falter and readjust to the changing environment around her.

“How?” His bio-mask translates the question, tracking her as the Image returns to the metal table.

“Your memories.” Sundew turns the cloaking device off. It has no faults. It wouldn’t—Aside from the set of equipment fried by her previous electrocution, he is adept at keeping his gear in pristine condition. It is imperative to root out malfunctioning equipment and replace it as soon as possible; a Hunt can easily be lost if a Gauntlet Knife or combistick fails to activate at the climax of predator versus prey. But Yautja technology is _advanced_ , light years ahead of everything else on _Terra._

The Image tilts her head to one side, hat tipping in tandem with her movements. She looks puzzled, but all he thinks about is how impressive it is to see her adapt so quickly. He knew she could do _some_ things, as it was her who called the _Kukulkan_ to rescue them from the research facility, but this is a step past that. Before—It was survival that prompted the actions. He does not know her reasoning now. H’chak finds his hands tensing as he stares at her.

“…I thought,” Sundew purses her lips. “If I could acquire the materials necessary for repairing your ship—It would—It could help you. I wanted to do something. I am sorry I hurt you. It is the farthest thing from what I want, H’chak. It is not much, but—I have some of the materials. No, _you_ have some of the materials. Palladium, gold, silver, ruthenium… I am missing cobalt, but Ivon suspects it is possible to recycle cobalt from existing equipment to repair your ship.”

It is not the whole story. H’chak trills softly to indicate he is listening.

The Image averts her gaze. She frowns. “—Some of these materials are very valuable to humans. I could not walk into a human shop and purchase them. Do you remember the palladium mines you were going to visit? Before the events with Vayuh’ta.”

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak tenses again. His helmet blares out _Yes_ a moment later.

“I located one. I took one of the… I do not know how to say the word accurately, but it was one of the Gauntlet Knives,” Sundew nods. “I took a cloaking device in one of the wrist computers. Ivon helped connect it to my suit. I am awed by your clan’s technology; it has little faults and works smoothly for a beginner.”

She used his equipment to accomplish her own miniature Hunt while he was unconscious. All because she felt bad over hurting him. H’chak shifts on the metal table, desperately vying for his legs to heal faster so he can stand. He feels the pull to her, as vivid as her scent is in the olfactory organ of his mouth. Breathing it in, even through his mask’s filters, is enough to make him lightheaded and dizzy. She exhales softly when he grabs her hand and pulls her to where he hangs his legs off the table.

She is so much shorter than him, almost five-ten while he towers at seven-feet. Even though he sits, even though his body has yet to return to full capacity, he remains an imposing, gargantuan wall of scales and strength. When he sits slightly hunched, and she stands upright, she can only reach his collarbone. The feeling of her close proximity when he directs her to stand between his legs hanging off the table, is divine. Even in pain, he reaches for her. He settles his hands around her torso and trills softly at the proximity.

The lights in the little sphere object on her wrist remain off as H’chak studies the other extraterrestrial’s features. He remains enamored by her face, every bit the look of a trophy, of a _skull_. A hand rises to her chin and he directs her gaze up. He notes the flush of gray across her silver skin. She seems happy. When he breathes in again, he realizes with sheer delight that happiness is not the only thing on her mind. He can smell the pungency of her arousal in each breath. He dips his head down and nuzzles the ridge of his crested bio-mask against her head. In doing so, his orange eyes travel; he admires the soft fall of her breasts before the wrapping starts.

“We need to discuss… this.” H’chak lets his helmet voice the vague statement. He regrets it immediately; he feels the Image draw back. She is incredibly flustered, more out of shape than he is from Garcia’s blasted regiment.

She hiccups, swallows, and clears her throat before stating. “I am not done."

“Maybe we should skip them.”

“No.” Sundew shakes her head. “It is important."

“Not more important than you.” No sooner does the bio-mask translate do both individuals freeze. Then—H’chak begins to curse, snarling each word of profanity as he grabs at his mask and presses the indent on the top to cease the automatic translator feature. Beneath his mask, he knows his face must be greener than ooman grass. He cannot stop the endless rush of heartbeats in his throat.

He wants her. He wants her to the point he half-considers showing her how _much_ he wants then and there. He knows the doctor ooman will not disturb him when Sundew is present. He knows Jo and Ivon are off today, with neither having an interest to come by. The second Yautja on the ship is somewhere off on the lower level. Him and Sundew could have a wonderful moment together, entranced and wrapped up in a mess of greedy sweat, cries, and thrusts. Just thinking about how she might look, sucking all of him in, pleading for him to worship her, glistening with sweat and writhing in ecstasy—It is enough for him to become unsheathed, though the material of his loincloth holds him back from the embarrassment of having to explain it.

Sundew does not seem to notice. Or, if she does, she does not care. Her head tilts to one side and she states quietly, “H’chak, did Doctor Garcia discuss the electrical currents I give off?”

It is enough to draw him from the brink of lust, to let his shame catch up to him and snap sense in the matter. H’chak makes himself look away. He forgets to speak, which Sundew takes as a _no_ , as she delves into a boring explanation of what he understands. His eyes seek out every other part of the room, desperate not to be sucked back to her, but like the pull of two opposing magnets—He finds it naturally occurs the second his thoughts blank.

“…Ivon used some of the scrapped gear to make this,” Sundew pauses and holds up the hand with the spherical device. He heeds it a glance before his eyes are drawn back to her. The Image pauses. “It is supposed to light up if I produce unwarranted electrical discharge… And… And…” Her words become tongue-tied once H’chak takes the hand in question.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The Yautja clicks. _“Does it…work?”_

“Well—Yes. Yes, it does.” The Image stiffly nods. A small jolt of electricity passes through not only the device, prompting the three lights inside to glow red, but also through his hand and up his arm. It makes him want to snarl, but he holds in the urge and lets his thoughts settle.

 _“It is not broken… Then…”_ H’chk is very careful not to scratch her as he begins running the pad of his thumb over her knuckles and fingers. The action makes her relax.

He has a mess on his hands.

His mind puts it together quickly: the electrical currents are speculation, or at most much less common than Garcia or anyone else claims. The light has barely gone off during the time she’s been there. He doubts it suddenly changed its frequency from before to now. There is very little chance anything he feels or thinks is a result of Sundew’s doing. Once more, he is faced with the looming acknowledgement that he has developed such intense feelings for her on his own. He cannot have what he wants, but the desire lingers. The heat, the arousal, it continues across his body. He feels stuffy and antsy to remain close at the Image’s side. He wants to protect her, to bring her appropriate courting gifts, to express the growing interest.

 _“I have become… transfixed with you,”_ The Yautja’s chest and throat rumble softly. He can feel Sundew still under his touch. He hears her imitate a human’s hitched breath when he moves his hand past her wrist, up her arm, and to her head. There, he tenderly traces the shape of his clan symbol on her cheek over and over, trying to imagine what it might look like.

“H’chak,” One of Sundew’s hands rise to cover his. She sounds content. “I do not know what one of those words mean.”

 _“Transfixed?”_ H’chak takes a guess.

“That one,” Sundew says.

His face lights up with heat as an amusing, cocky thought comes to mind. The Yautja cranes his neck and shifts his head so he can whisper in her ear, _“It means I want to pauk you.”_

“ _Pauk_ translates to ‘fuck’, which means… Oh.” It makes him trill with humor when he sees her face become deep gray and flustered. But she looks back at him. Sundew exhales softly and leans forward into his touch. “This conversation is happening?”

 _“Sei-I, if you are not opposed to it,”_ H’chak clicks in response.

“Why would I oppose it? I do not remember my hive banks possessing expansive knowledge on inter-species relationships involving Yautja. If it is new knowledge—I would like to acquire it. I need to obtain it,” Sundew’s answer is surprisingly zealous. She seems fascinated by the idea, going back and forth with thoughts in her head before she adds, “I do not think my hive is capable of reproductive processes in our natural states. Unless we are mimicking the physical compositions of other species—We do not have an explicit need to copulate.”

The statement makes him still. H’chak’s orange eyes dim. _“You do not…”_

“What?” Sundew frowns when H’chak does not finish the sentence, he drops his hands, and draws back. He tries not to focus on the emerging confusion, opting to center his mind on the pain his body is in. “H’chak? _M-di-H’chak?”_

She says his name flawlessly now, start-to-finish. It makes his chest ache.

 _“You want to do this for knowledge. Not because,”_ H’chak curses under his breath, unable to hold back the sting of his wounded pride. _“You do not want me.”_

“I am not sure I understand the second statement.” Sundew purses her lips. “I know I lack the knowledge of the correct terminology to assign different emotions and sensations, but it does not mean they are absent in my system.”

The atmosphere in the room has shifted dramatically. It makes him growl at himself, both for letting his feelings develop to this point, but also because his feelings are not up and disappearing. H’chak turns his head to the side, refusing to give the impression of looking at her. _“How do I know what you want is sincere? Not based on your… ‘pursuit’ of information?”_

“I do not know what one of those words translates to, but I do not recall _lying_ to you.” Sundew steps forward, encroaching what little space he has. She leans over the table, not faltering as she tries to get him to look back. “I thought you trusted me.”

He growls lowly in response.

“…Then you—You are the liar.” Sundew states calmly, but he picks up on the crack in her voice. "You do not trust me."

 _“It is… not important. This would not last, this thing between us,”_ H’chak shuts his eyes. He cannot stand to look at her. The shame on his shoulders is back, digging through his smooth scales and piercing his flesh.

“What?” Sundew sounds surprised.

 _“I intended to discuss this with you sooner, but it slipped my mind,”_ the Yautja’s mandibles click together several times, conveying his frustration with the state of things. _“Relations between us would not… It would not be self-sustaining in the long run. I am Yautja. You are… prey.”_

“Prey.” The surprise becomes disbelief, and the disbelief becomes anger. _“Prey?”_

 _“Worthy prey,”_ he asserts, but it does nothing to make the Image calm. He has never heard her angry before. H’chak keeps his gaze off her. _“but prey nonetheless. My clan does not allow kv’var-de to engage in relations of this nature with prey.”_

“That is how you view me? View this? View us? Predator and prey?” Sundew’s hands tense into small fists. The small spherical device on her wrist begins to light up red. She sounds surprisingly human when she begins to seethe where she stands. “Why wait to tell me? Why offer hope of a different outcome?”

 _“I,”_ H’chak holds his tongue. He can feel the spring bubble up inside him, a well of boiling shame, of burning regret. He does not deserve to call himself an Elite when he cannot curb his own affections. The Yautja hisses sharply. His clicks are raspy and strained as he replies, _“I did not think I was this… invested in you. I thought my responsibilities and dedication to my Hunt were enough to… curb these temptations.”_

“What does your name mean, H’chak? _M-di-H’chak?_ ” Sundew demands the answer.

 _“Merciless.”_ The Yautja gives the reply immediately.

“That is exactly who you are. One without mercy,” Her voice becomes cold, far colder than the cool temperature of her body. She does not say a word when she walks over to the door of the medical bay and puts a hand on it. It slides open and she disappears down the corridor of the living quarters.

The door shuts a moment later, and Merciless is left in the medical bay with only his thoughts for company.


	22. her favorite hat (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do not remember the full extent of what prompts me to engulf others.” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “What I recall—If critical mass is lost—It must be replaced, or my system will begin the process of expiration. Engulfing organic life is the easiest route to replacing what is necessary for standard functioning or building a physical state shell to encapsulate remaining mass and protect it from outside exposure. It was… I believe it was your sister upon landing. During my time at the research facility, I engulfed Miranda Escrow after she caused my physical composition to expire. She was the freshest corpse in the room; the easiest to absorb. I do not care for her behavior; I elected to ignore the personality upon absorption."
> 
> “How much mass did you lose when you landed on Earth? Before you—Before you took my sister,” Garcia dares breathe the words. “Before you took Monet.”
> 
> “I do not remember much of the landing. I understand I was almost forced into early expiration. It was… hot. Unbearably hot.” Sundew shakes her head. “It was… I should not have survived. There was not enough of me left. I have begun to question if I am more human than I am Synthetic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is almost 12k words  
> ITS ALSO THE END OF ARC 3  
> WHOOO  
> AND THE SMUT IS FINALLY HERE  
> (confetti) 
> 
> TW for mentions of:  
> -vomit / barf  
> -implications of self-harm  
> -hallucinations of doctor garcia talking to herself  
> -unrealistic sex  
> 

_It has been thirty minutes and there is no sign of her sister getting out of the shower. Louanne huffs at the door; she holds her pile of clothes under one arm while she rasps on the door with her free hand. When no answer comes, the teenager grumbles impatiently and knocks louder. “Monet! Monet! C’mon, it’s—It’s five-thirty-five! Stop hogging the bathroom!”_

_“Go away, Annie!” The voice that comes through the door is not the cheery, upbeat voice she knows well. It sounds off; Louanne can hear her sister strain to speak concisely. Her brows rise and she lowers her free hand._

_“Monet?” Louanne frowns. “Is this about your shirt again? I told you—I’ll replace it—”_

_“It is not about the shirt!” Monet hiccups, loud enough for Louanne to hear._

_The fifteen-year-old sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Monet—I really need to shower—This can’t wait?”_

_“I am not talking to anyone,” the sniffles that follow are incredibly telling._

_“I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.” Louanne looks down the hallway. She imagines the two sibling’s mother is busy watching television again or on the phone gossiping with church friends. Trying to get their mom to talk sense into Monet will be like pulling a hangnail off; she feels disgusted thinking about it. The teenager looks back at the bathroom door. No; her parents are useless. She must take care of Monet again. Louanne bites her lip and brings her hand up to knock on the door again. “Muppet—Muppet, c’mon.”_

_When her sister continues to refuse, Louanne makes a point of plopping unto the hardwood floor in front of the door. She tries to stick her hands under the crack between the door and the floor, only for Monet to swat at them. “Do not touch me!”_

_“Okay; you’re still alive, great start,” Louanne says sarcastically. She draws her hand back and leans her back against the door. “I’m not leaving. I need to shower.”_

_“Shower in mom’s bathroom.”_

_“Uh-huh, like she’d let me,” Louanne shakes her head. She tucks a stray bang out of her eye and behind one ear. “You know, you can’t hide from all your problems. Sooner or later—They’re gonna come out. I’m trying to be here for you, and you keep shoving me away.”_

_“You cannot help me.” The way her sister’s voice drops to a whisper makes Louanne still._

_It also makes her irrevocably pissed. The only time Monet ever sounds that way is when she’s upset, and the only person allowed to make her upset is herself! Louanne finds herself seething where she sits. “What the fuck happened?”_

_“I am not talking about it—”_

_“Who? Monet. Monet. Muppet—”_

_There’s silence. It makes Louanne nervous; she knows there are scars along her sister’s arms. She frowns and rises to her feet, ready to knock the door down if necessary. She begins to count to ten, stepping back and steeling herself._

_“—Dmitri.” Is her sister’s soft answer._

_“Dmi—You mean Dmitri Smirnoff? Double-down Forward Dmitri? The senior—”_

_“Yes, Annie! Yes! That Dmitri!” Monet barks at the door._

_“Why was… How? I’ve never seen him talk to you—What’s a senior want with a freshman?” Louanne is baffled, anger rising, falling, and rising again in spikes. She clenches her fists. “What’d he do, Muppet?”_

_Louanne flinches when something rises behind the door and slowly unlocks it. The door creaks open, revealing the teary gray eyes of her twin. Louanne frowns and waits for her twin to say something. Monet pulls the rest of the door open; Louanne can see the smudged mascara and her sister’s pale, pale head. Her sister doesn’t have a single hair across her head. The fact Louanne can see her head at all makes her face pale._

_“Where’s your hat?” She steps forward, abandoning her clothes on the floor to cross to Monet’s side. Louanne already knows the answer to her question when Monet begins crying. Louanne curses under her breath and draws her sister into a hug. Her irritation at not getting to shower is long-gone in favor of concern for her sister and sheer outrage at Dmitri Smirnoff. “—I’ll take care of it.”_

_“How? You cannot get it back—Annie—”_

_“Just trust me,” Louanne grins sheepishly when she draws away. She pats her twin on the head and huffs at Monet’s scowl. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”_

* * *

“I did not expect you to successfully connect them,” the helmet blares out the voice of one tall, cross-armed Yautja. She stands at the side of the kitchenette, head tilted to one side and her orange eyes aglow with sincere fascination behind her bio-mask.

It is true—Vayuh’ta is baffled, in a positive way, that the ooman manages to not only strip the busted Arbitrator armor of precious metals but re-purpose it altogether. There is no logical explanation for how the electrician finagles their way around Ka’Torag-Na technology. Although it is nigh-identical to other Yautja clan technology, it is still _Yautja_ technology. They are an _ooman._ Yet, before her eyes, she observes Ivon do just that: meander about in an almost disturbingly lost fashion, pick at pieces and run gloved fingers over each end, study the piece with utmost scrutiny, and somehow use all that information to procure a solution so far out of her anticipations she would call it _alien_.

It makes no sense.

“Ah, well, um,” Ivon rubs the back of their head. She notices they do it a lot; it is a tell for their fidgety tendencies and their nonstop anxiety. The electrician looks over where she stands and shrugs. “—I figured… If someone is dead… They probably aren’t using these anymore. I remember cobalt being on the list of shit Mercy needs to repair the thingy—”

“Communications relay.” Vayuh’ta corrects, unfolding her arms to untangle her dreadlocks. They are a fair length, dropping past her shoulders but stopping before the small of her back.

Ivon flimsily nods. Their mouth hangs open a moment, observing her, but when she turns attention back to them, they snap their head forward at the bar counter and return to their work. “—Yeah. That. He needs it for the, uh, for talking to his… Group?”

“Clan.”

“To his clan. I forgot the name of—”

 _“Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Vayuh’ta clicks, though the helmet intones it as _Ruthless_ a moment later.

Ivon’s lips quirk up at the edges. It is a brief gesture before they frown again. “Clan Ruthless. That sounds… Ruthless.”

“Clans earn their names by actions taken by their members. Clan Ruthless is known for the warriors it possesses. Many become Elites. Some start clans of their own. They hold significance to certain parts of the galaxies, but not here.”

“Why not here?” Ivon furrows their brows.

“Your planet— _Terra_ —and its star system make up a territory the Council of Ancients decreed neutral hunting grounds. Clans can travel this region of space freely for Hunts.” Vayuh’ta explains carefully, each translated word as honest as her memory allows. She understands things could have changed since she left Ka’Torag-Na, but she speaks with confidence to what she knows or knew. 

Her mandibles click together in confusion when Ivon sets their work down and spins on the bar stool to face her. She finds her orange gaze drifts to their face, staring down the set of peculiar brown eyes that are filled to the brim with curiosity. Though she can predict her opponents’ movements on a battlefield, she is not prepared for the human to brazenly ask, “What about your clan?”

 _“That is… It’s not a good subject to approach.”_ Vayuh’ta looks to the side as she clicks softly, her helmet translating it after.

The electrician looks perplexed. She half expects them to ask more, perhaps pry a little, but Ivon turns to face the counter full of small doohickeys, bits, and bobs of broken Yautja armor and equipment. “Well, um, if it’s anything like my family—I understand completely. Some families just… aren’t good.”

“Some families betray you.” It slips out of the helmet’s monotone voice. Vayuh’ta stiffens and grabs at the upper-back edge of the bio-mask, fumbling a moment to turn off the automatic voice-to-speech feature. She misses her old bio-mask; the current one has a consistent bug with its translating software.

“…Did… your family betray you? Maelstrom?” Ivon’s brown eyes dim when they land on her. They reflect concern, with both baffles and confuses the Yautja. Oomans are soft meat, not emotional caretakers.

Vayuh’ta attempts to look neutral while she grunts affirmatively, only forgetting she wears a mask and her face is obscured for a few seconds. Ivon’s shoulders slump. They fidget in place and look from the bar counter back to her.

“…I’m sorry.” Ivon says, finally deciding on facing the bar counter once more. “Do you have anyone to call family now?”

“Only by blood.” She shakes her head while the bio-mask translates.

“Oh—Oh, right, Mercy. I forgot about that. It’s been some time, huh?” Ivon rubs their chin with a free hand.

Vayuh’ta shrugs. “It is what it is. I have yet to address it with Merciless.”

“Well—Hey, if he doesn’t work out, you got me, right?” Ivon cracks an awkward smile.

Vayuh’ta tilts her head to one side. Her helmet briefly flashes blue before translating her clicks, “Perhaps?”

“It was a joke,” The electrician hangs their head and sighs. “I’m not very good at those, huh?”

“No.” Vayuh’ta answers, mandibles clicking together with faint amusement while the helmet translates. “But I noted your efforts.”

* * *

At the end of another day, Doctor Garcia finishes assessing her notes on the strange tablet-like device. It is the result of Ivon’s tinkering, but the electrician’s antics are far from her mind. She is busy scrolling through the glowing machine with one gloved hand, using the pad of a finger to flicker through tabs and pages. Occasionally, her actions prompt a blue hologram to project and an alien voice to begin screeching in her ears. Even in the comfort of her cabin, the noise makes Garcia’s fear spike and the doctor slams her hand over the surface of the machine with a yelp. She exhales only once the voice ceases.

Her own cursing is far quieter.

Her two Yautja patients have improved considerably. The one designated _Maelstrom_ is at optimal health, with the grafts across her backside finally healing to the point she is mobile across the ship. The huntress continues to bring complaints of phantom pain, but Garcia cannot alleviate it. In the doctor’s mind, she has done all she can and ticked the _recovered_ box next to Maelstrom’s name.

Mercy—or Merciless, it confuses her to no end—is better, but not good enough. Though the burns have mostly healed in the weeks since, the alien’s body remains in varying degrees of pain. He is constantly snarling at her when she makes him undergo an intense exercise regiment to build mobility back up. The pain of damaged nerves will likely remain for life, but she is not keen to mention that to the same entity that locked a bomb around her neck. Garcia grimaces as she scans the notes she has for _Mercy_.

He is stubborn enough to do many things. Walking is possible, but he favors his right leg. His grip on things remains weaker than she likes. He can roar as loud as the other Yautja. When she brings up the gruel-colored hard tack from the kitchen unit, the Yautja devours it in less than a minute. His stomach is as unfathomably adamant as his ego, which takes a noticeable dent once the Synthetic stops visiting him. Against better judgement, Garcia checks her notes from the past week. She confirms the exact date the Synthetic ceased in her visits, and the notes taken regarding Mercy’s subsequent change in mood.

He was never pleasant to begin with, but Garcia finds him much less pleasant _now_.

She is in the middle of pressing indentations on the wall when a knock comes to her cabin door. Garcia grimaces and waits for a section of the floor to lift and open into a shallow bed before she turns her attention to the door. She remembers thinking of which cabin to pick for her new one the day after Mercy broke her original door. Even after she picked the one at the far end from everyone else, people continue to harass her. Garcia drops her tablet on the floor-bed and strides to the door. She puts a hand on a symbol etched across the surface; it unlocks. As it slides open, her gaze falls unto the disgusting sight of silver skin and clear eyes.

“Sundew.” Garcia snaps on instinct, already on edge.

The Synthetic averts her gaze, only noticeable by the way she turns her head to the side. “…Doctor Garcia. May I come in?”

“No.” The woman huffs. She reaches for a panel on the wall but stills when Sundew puts a hand on the door.

“Please.” The alien whispers softly.

A strange glint in the Synthetic’s eyes causes Garcia to hesitate. The doctor squints when she notices what the glints are. It is the soft sheen of tears, a crown preparing to fall, and it looks disturbing. Garcia opens her mouth to say no again, but she stops when Sundew begins to wring one wrist.

“No one else is awake,” the Synthetic says quietly. “I do not want to wake them over this insignificance.”

“If it is insignificant it can wait until morning,” Garcia grunts, black bangs falling over her eyes.

 _“Please,”_ Sundew repeats. “Doctor Louanne Garcia—"

There is something in the alien’s voice. It is as fake as the rest of her, a terrible mimicry of all other life. But, for a moment, it sounds incredibly real, familiar, sincere. Garcia imagines it sounding human, like…

 _No._ She grits her teeth but Garcia steps aside just long enough for the entity to walk through. She shuts the door behind Sundew and turns around, arms crossed, while the Synthetic slowly strides forward and stops at the sleeping pod. Sundew lifts a hand and touches it gently. Garcia’s brows narrow as she focuses her gray eyes on the Synthetic nearby. Neither individual says anything, until Garcia breaks the silence by clearing her throat and asking, “What is it? What cannot wait for morning? What is _possibly_ so important you come to _me_ of all individuals here for advice?”

“… It is about …” The click-raspy-growl noises are indecipherable to Garcia’s ears. Sundew draws her hands to her chest and begins to wring her wrists.

“About…?” Garcia squints.

“Merciless,” Sundew pauses. “Your patient—”

“—If this is not a life-or-death medical matter it can wait until _morning._ ” She makes to lift a hand to a wall panel, shove her palm against it, and unlock the cabin door. Garcia watches it slide open. She gestures from Sundew to the door. Outside, the corridor that runs between the two rows of cabins has the lights set on dim.

The Synthetic looks away, indicated only by the tilt of her head. Seeing the clear eyes and the sockets beyond _horrifies_ Garcia; she shudders where she stands.

“…No. No. You are right, Doctor Louanne Garcia. It is not important,” Sundew bows her head. “I am sorry for taking up your time.”

Garcia shuts the door when she departs. Her gaze narrows, thoughts a mess in her head. She does not understand the _drosera_. And even if she did—It feels like there is some bullshit cosmic force in the universe intent on making her the bad guy. _She_ did not murder her sister. _She_ is not a carnivorous flytrap trying to trick the others on the ship, lure them close, and engulf them. She is not a _sundew._ She is a woman of approximately twenty-nine years of age, approximate only because she has lost track of the months spent on the damn alien spacecraft.

She _is Louanne Mary Garcia._ She is a professional, with _years_ upon years of education under her belt! She should be able to understand _this,_ especially with all the time passed since she first began working with the Synthetic.

 _But I don’t._ The woman wants to pull out her own hair. She runs a hand through the long black hair and sighs. At this time of the night, no one will be up for hours. The Synthetic can go mope or wallow in a corner far, far from her cabin with whatever problem ails her. Garcia doesn’t care. She does not have time to help the Synthetic. She didn’t before, and she does not _now._

 _Why did you ask me for help? Surely Ivon could assist you. They wouldn’t give two shits about you waking them up. They’re practically your best friend._ The woman sits back on the floor-bed. It is made of a soft, resistant material that reminds her of a dense memory foam mattress.

The thoughts continue to plague the doctor as minutes go on. She tries to concentrate elsewhere, to return her mind to the strange tablet device Ivon gave her weeks past, but Garcia cannot tear her mind away. She closes her eyes and sees the skeletal eyes looking back at her. She covers her ears with her hands but imagines the disturbing alien’s voice repeating her request. To describe it as _guilt_ makes Garcia feel horrifically nauseated; she pulls herself to her feet and staggers to the ‘bathroom’ area. The contents of gruel tack from earlier in the evening come surging up in a nasty fit of coughing. She continues to vomit and retch well past her stomach contents, throwing up bile and dry heaving.

“Fuck,” Garcia wipes her mouth and falls backward, away from the mess and against the washroom wall. Her eyes shut and she clenches her teeth. “What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Why the fuck do you keep usurping my life, Synthetic?”

 _Because she reminds you of Monet._ The voice whispers softly in her mind. It belongs to her—It _is_ her, reminiscent of the headstrong and confident woman she once was.

Garcia’s eyes widen and she holds her face in her hands, mumbling all the while, “That’s not true—That’s not—It’s not true—She doesn’t— _She can’t!_ Monet’s gone! Gone and dead and that _bitch_ took her from the world! From me! We were all the other had and now—”

 _She reminds you of her._ Her eyes well with tears. She begins to sob in protest, but she hears her own thoughts flicker out like wax escaping the side of a lit candle.

_It’s okay. It’s not your fault she died._

The thoughts only make her wail harder. Garcia begins to shake her head, blubbering into the alien mesh suit. “No—No—It _is_ —It is—She wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me! She wasn’t going to—She wanted to visit—If I had just—I should have said no to the job! Gone elsewhere! I could have gone _anywhere_ else and—"

_You didn’t know what was going to happen. You couldn’t have anticipated it. No one did. It’s why so many people died._

“Thirty-six.” She recites the number she memorized the day the papers printed the story. The press described it as a gas explosion.

There was no body for the funeral.

Garcia cries until her tears run out. She does not know the time that passes, nor does she care. She weeps and she mourns circumstances beyond her control. The world is full of unfair events, of lives lost long before they are ready to go.

 _You have to keep going._ She can hear her own voice in her head, a reflection of her younger self and memento of the past, urge her on. _You can’t stop living for one life._

“What is the point now?” The woman snaps at no one. “The only person I cared about is dead. That _thing_ took her—And you want me to forget that? To move on? To forget the only person who mattered to me? We were all we had! To hell with the rest of the world—It was us versus them every single time!”

_I know as well as you do. I remember what we did to protect her._

“I did everything I could,” Garcia’s eyes dim. She curses the world away. “Nothing mattered in the end. Nothing _fucking_ mattered.”

 _But it doesn’t have to stay that way! You have a chance to have your own life now._ She can picture it in her head, her younger self pleading and snapping at her. In her head, she imagines the rash teenage girl she once was, Louanne, with her pigtails and short bangs. She imagines the piles of papers she sorted, the worksheets she filled out, presentations she completed, and tests taken pretending to be someone else.

“This isn’t a chance.” Garcia whispers. “I’m stuck. Here. Now. I’m stuck. I can’t—I’m not getting out of this—Off this fucking ship—”

_We aren’t talking about the ship._

Garcia doesn’t respond to her own thought. She crosses her arms and averts her gaze to the wall.

 _Do you think I’m proud of who we are now?_ The voice whispers in her mind. _Proud of you? Of me?_

“You can’t be proud of anything. You’re a figment of my guilt. A manifestation of my subconsciousness,” the doctor replies instinctively. “Nothing you say matters. In the end—The world’s the same. Monet is gone. I’m stuck here. Muppet is gone. I can’t bring her back.”

_That doesn’t warrant your behavior._

“You intend to lecture me? On _myself?”_ She throws her head back and curses when it connects with the metal wall. Garcia clutches her head and fights the urge to cry more. The pain wells up slowly. She hisses through her teeth, “I’m too far down this path. I’m too far gone! I’ve done too much. Said too much—I have a bomb on my neck! You see how the others treat me—They would be happier if I was gone—If I was—”

_Sundew wanted you to live._

Garcia’s face slowly drains of color as the memory of a past conversation with Merciless creeps in. He was going to kill her. Out of consideration for the Synthetic onboard—He did not. She lives because of the silver-skinned alien. She lives because of Sundew.

“How ironic. One half dies but the other lives because of her existence,” Garcia growls softly. “What do I do now, Louanne? Where do I go from here?”

_I don’t know._ She thinks to herself.

Doctor Garcia exhales slowly, composing herself and calming her turbulent emotions. She shuts her eyes and imagines what she looks like now: disheveled, short, thinning black hair, bags under her eyes, wrinkles across her skin, and a complexion that’s lived a thousand lifetimes more than she’s got. Part of her wonders if Monet would have looked the same, if her twin would look as morose and sullen as she is now. She doubts it. Monet was bright and happy.

“I don’t know who I want to be,” she answers a question an alien once asked her. The woman opens her eyes and stares at the vomit-riddled half of the bathroom. It, much like she, is a mess.

“I don’t know if I can… If I can be anyone but this, Louanne,” she tells herself while gesturing to her body at the same time. “Look at you. You didn’t even take your Hippocratic oath. You didn’t even… You couldn’t even do that. You’re a mess. I’m a mess. I’m… a mess.”

 _I don’t want to stay this way._ She grits her teeth. The woman pushes herself up and presses the indentations to turn on a spout serving as a shower for clean water. She sprays down the barf-covered floor and scrunches her nose as the chunks and mess goes down the singular drain. She turns it off, steps back, and catches her breath. She feels more tired than she has ever been in her life, but the question burns in her mind. _What do I do about it?_

She looks at the door. Garcia’s gaze narrows. She walks up and presses her palm against the inside, prompting the internal mechanisms to unlock and the door to slide into the wall. The doctor steps out and into the dim corridor of the living quarters’ hall. She looks to her right, at the closed medical bay door, and then to her left, where the cockpit door is open. The light to the cockpit is not on, but she still sees the faint sheen of starlight reflecting off one silver figure’s skin. Garcia ensures her cabin door shuts behind her before she walks quietly down the corridor and stops at the open door separating the fuselage from the cockpit.

She hears Sundew pause when she takes a step into the room. The silvery lifeform has a crumpled hat in her lap. It is a gift from Merciless. Garcia’s gray eyes dim when Sundew looks over her shoulder at her. The latter’s eyes widen in genuine surprise.

“…Doctor Garcia.” The disbelief is sincere.

“Hello, Sundew,” the doctor pauses. “May I… Can I sit here?”

“I will not stop you. This is not my ship.” Sundew states.

“But will it… Will it be a problem for you if I do?”

“I already have a problem of my own doing, Doctor Garcia. You cannot add to it.” Is the Synthetic’s reply, shifting to face the cockpit window once more.

Sundew sits cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the cosmos visible across Earth’s skies. Garcia remains standing, but she takes a few steps forward. Her gray eyes grow big as she stares at the sea of stars twinkling from millions of light years away.

“…I read once—The light we see from Earth—It comes from stars that may have died by the time it reaches our eyes.” The doctor whispers softly, recalling the piece of information from an astrology class she took in her first semester of college.

“They are more beautiful up close. There are many kinds,” The Synthetic replies with surprising calm. “I like gas giants. They remind me of things I cherish. My hive—"

“Merciless,” Garcia remarks. She watches the Synthetic’s face flush a deeper gray. The alien looks down at the hat in her lap and says nothing. Garcia pauses. “I am not here to talk about stars. Or go sight-seeing. You came to me earlier for… assistance? Help?”

“I did.”

“Why?” The doctor tilts her head to one side. Her gray eyes scour the skeletal features of the Synthetic’s gaze, but she finds no answer.

Not until Sundew says, “I am not sure.”

“What?” The doctor stiffens. “You understand we are not… _Friends._ I do not care for you. Last time—"

“I know,” Sundew nods, posture just as rigid as Garcia’s body. “I understand where we stand in relation to each other. But—It does not change the fact—I felt I could.”

“You…” The human trails off at a loss for words.

“I was—I was distressed by my problem,” Sundew’s composure briefly falters. It is enough to tell the human doctor more than she expects. The Synthetic mimics the sound of a human exhale before gazing up at the stars outside the ship’s cockpit. “I felt like I could. I felt like… You would know what to do. How to take care of the problem.”

Garcia says nothing. The thoughts in her head begin to piece something together.

Sundew frowns. “It does not matter anymore. It was days ago. I know—I will not occupy your time with my problem.”

“What happens to the people you devour?” Garcia’s hands tense into small fists as she stares. “What do you do with them?”

“They become part of who I am,” the Synthetic replies immediately. “But I do not consume people unless dire circumstances arise. I prefer to copy their memories through consumption of cells. Blood is the easiest vessel to transfer memories through. Does that answer your question? Doctor Garcia?”

She is staring. She stares because the universe has hit her head-on with a ton of bricks.

“Dire circumstances,” Garcia mutters. “Why do you engulf others?”

“—That is a strange subject to discuss.”

“Answer it, please,” She says.

“I do not remember the full extent of what prompts me to engulf others.” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “What I recall—If critical mass is lost—It must be replaced, or my system will begin the process of expiration. Engulfing organic life is the easiest route to replacing what is necessary for standard functioning or building a physical state shell to encapsulate remaining mass and protect it from outside exposure. It was… I believe it was your sister upon landing. During my time at the research facility, I engulfed Miranda Escrow after she caused my physical composition to expire. She was the freshest corpse in the room; the easiest to absorb. I do not care for her behavior; I elected to ignore the personality upon absorption."

“How much mass did you lose when you landed on Earth? Before you—Before you took my sister,” Garcia dares breathe the words. “Before you took _Monet.”_

“I do not remember much of the landing. I understand I was almost forced into early expiration. It was… hot. Unbearably hot.” Sundew shakes her head. “It was… I should not have survived. There was not enough of me left. I have begun to question if I am more human than I am Synthetic.” The last sentence sounds closer to a confession.

“Then—Monet. She—You’re part of her now.” The doctor’s hands begin to shake. “You took her from me and made her part of you.”

Sundew faces forward. “She is part of me, but I am not your sister, Doctor Garcia. Perhaps—Part of me is— _Was_ —But… But I do not understand myself enough to know for sure. I do not remember who I was before I crashed on this planet. I do not remember why I brought the _Cassini-Hyugens_ to Earth.”

Garcia holds her head in her hand and curses softly. She ignores the urge to cry. Now is not the time. No, what she needs to do is far, far from crying. She grits her teeth and pushes her nerves to the back of her mind. “Sundew.”

“Doctor Louanne Garcia.” Is the Synthetic’s response, firm and blunt.

“Will you be here all night?” Garcia inquires.

“That is likely. I do not require sleep. When the _Kukulkan_ enters a part of the atmosphere facing this star system’s yellow dwarf, I will return to the lower levels—"

 _“Stay here,”_ the doctor ignores the Synthetic’s perplexed expression as she returns to the door, prompts it to open, and disappears down the corridor beyond.

She knows better than to pursue an impulse, but her thoughts run at a million miles a minute. Garcia can barely breathe as she strides the length of the corridor, enters the medical bay, and ensures the door shuts behind her. She finds the panel along the wall to turn on lights; the room goes from a terrible, shadowy chamber to a dim but bearable level of visibility. Across the chamber, Garcia sees the row of medical pods. Her eyes land on the third; the glass hatch is shut and a sensor on the outside indicates it is in use.

She walks up to the pod and pounds on the glass. With the lights on, she can make out the mottled, swampy green patches of flesh intermingling with white and brown splotches across the hunter’s body. Though the individual has a mask on, she imagines the orange eyes are just as pissed as she is a wreck of all the information she must process. She flinches when the glass hatch hisses, unlocks, and pops open. Merciless does not climb out—But the Yautja leans forward in the pod, rising to look through the open hatch at her.

She knows he is agitated. Not quite hostile—But close. She can hear his soft growls and snarls, and what is surely a dozen profanities in his own tongue. Garcia sucks in a deep breath. She must not show fear. She will not show fear. For the first time in what feels like forever, she knows what she wants to do; she wants to help.

“Doctor.” The mask translates the low hiss as a single word.

 _Yautja smell fear._ Louanne’s gray eyes narrow. She forces her arms to remain at her side. Crossed arms, when considering body language, makes the individual feel more guarded or closed off to others, but it can also be read as attempting to protect the extremities from potential threats. She will not be afraid. The doctor refuses to step back more even when the Yautja growls at her. She replies, “Merciless. I… understand it is outside our normal hours.”

“No shit.” Even in the bio-mask’s monotone translation, the irritation is clear. She hears the hulking warrior suck in a breath, no doubt trying to scent any fear. “You are different.”

“The collar feels just as heavy now as it did before, I assure you,” Garcia replies dryly, reaching to touch the bomb laced around her neck with one hand. She shakes her head. “This is not about me. This is about…”

She doesn’t know what it is about, honestly. Only that something transpired between Merciless and Sundew, and the two have been in piss poor moods since. Though everything inside her screams at her not to care, there is a deep-rooted stubbornness in the woman that traces back to her teenage years. She was once brave. She was once caring. She protected the person she loved no matter what the world threw at them.

Not all of _Louanne_ is dead. Those scraps of the person she was linger—And now they flit to the surface, stirring in wake of understanding unraveling circumstances.

“This is about Sundew.”

She does not want to be Doctor Garcia anymore.

The snarl forces her from her thoughts. She narrows her gaze at the gleaming, reflective surface of Merciless’ bio-mask. She takes a step forward and grabs hold of the pod’s glass hatch to keep the Yautja from closing it. No doubt he could force it from her grasp if he wants, but her actions seem to surprise him. He growls louder; Louanne growls back. “We are having this discussion. Now.”

“I’ll rip your head off.”

“That’s a bluff,” she snaps. “You owe me a _debt_. Collar or no collar—I will collect on it, _alive._ Get up.”

Louanne’s gaze is met by an ear-piercing screech from the pod. The Yautja is clearly unhappy with her choice of topic, but he is a man of honor. He complies in climbing out of the pod, emerging in a soaked mesh suit and typical wrappings. The physical therapy regiment she’s pushed on him does well; he continues to carry himself with a slight limp, but he remains standing. If he experiences pain from damaged nerves, he does not show it. Louanne marvels at his progress briefly before returning her thoughts to the matter at hand, the matter that she does not _really_ know of—But he does not know that.

“You do not smell afraid.” The helmet translates the clicks, stripping any emotion from the noises. Merciless is far taller than her, standing over her easily. He is a giant, and she is not.

It is foolish not to fear someone so powerful and capable of crushing one in a single breath. Louanne grits her teeth and brushes her black bangs out of her eyes. She stares up at the helmet. “You have made a huge fucking mistake. Both of you.”

Merciless tilts his head to one side, clicking softly. “What do you know about mistakes, doctor?”

“Too much,” Louanne says. She lets the remorse creep in, a calm before a storm. “—I know too much about _making_ mistakes, Merciless. Not enough of fixing them.”

“You are soft meat. Prey without honor. No authority to interject.” The Yautja stalks forward, hissing all the while. Louanne stills even when he sides her up like a meal. The latter’s body and dreadlocks drip with the dark liquid of the medical pod.

Louanne lifts a hand and grimaces internally as she shoves a finger at his chest. The cold medical pod liquid sticks to her glove. She notes the tension that spreads immediately across the alien’s posture; he becomes rigid and hyper-vigilant of her movements. Louanne clenches her teeth and pushes past her discomfort. “I know enough about _hate._ Resentment. The things humans regret late at night. What festers and simmers and leads to _disgust._ And I _refuse_ to let _this_ build into that.”

She can hear the clicks as he voices them, all a second before the mask’s translation software kicks in and replies in monotone. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“I do now.”

“What is your reason?” The Yautja snarls past the monotone words.

Louanne draws her hand back. She does not back away. She keeps her posture upright and her breathing calm as she picks through words. “That… That individual has… She is all that remains of my sister.”

“Sundew?” Merciless does not shy from asking the question.

“Her name was Monet. And Sundew took her from me,” Louanne shuts her eyes and winces. “And all this time—She’s been right there—In front of me. She is part of who the Synthetic is now. Sundew may not be fully Monet—But Monet is fully Sundew. And I have to accept that—And that means—It _means_ I have to _care_ about the entity that took her from me in the first place. Because she’s now… She’s part of who Sundew is. I can’t separate the two.”

“Your actions are selfish. Rooted in guilt.”

“I’m a selfish person,” Louanne acknowledges. “Only looking out for myself and my sister.”

“Embodied by guilt.”

“Embodied by guilt,” the doctor swears by it. Her hands tense. “I’m not here to lament my problems, Merciless. I’m making sure you and Sundew don’t become bitter assholes like me.”

The Yautja tilts his head to one side.

“If you do this,” the doctor pauses. “I will consider it adequate to my… Debt. It will be considered repaid. You can dump me where you like.”

“No.” Merciless snarls beyond the helmet. The Yautja bends down to her eye level. His dreadlocks shake from the movement. As he continues to click, the helmet blares out, “I will talk to her. But not out of debt. She is worth more than any debt.”

Louanne exhales sharply, unaware of the breath she’s been holding. The woman averts her gaze. She does not deny her nausea. Her own internal biases remain a problem to be resolved through the future, but the onus to do so is on her and her alone.

“I admit,” the doctor says. “I didn’t think a Yautja could be… soft.”

“I am not soft.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Louanne remarks. She turns away and waves him off, “She’s in the cockpit. I’d advise you talk _quickly._ I intend to work your leg muscles in the morning. Be ready to start at our usual time.”

* * *

The color of the sky indicates it is hours out from dawn. There are many stars visible from where the _Kukulkan_ continues to fly. H’chak can hear the rumble of the engines in use, the ship drifting lazily through the air, while he stops and shuts the cockpit door behind him.

“You are not Doctor Garcia.” She sounds neutral, but her hat is off. Worse—She is currently in the process of strangling the hat in her hands. The Image does not look back at him, nor say anything further as the minutes drag out.

Why the doctor thought talking to her could resolve anything is beyond him. H’chak has had more than enough time to reflect on the circumstances. He has replayed the two’s discussion over-and-over in his head throughout the past few days. He has moped on it, dwelled on it, picked it apart like a scientist dissecting a fine specimen—All for nothing. He does not have an answer or understanding of a way forward. It frustrates him to think about it, but in the darkness of the cockpit he tries to center his thoughts, his feelings, and his mind.

The Yautja’s orange eyes dim behind his mask. He does not step forward or sit down. He waits by the door of the cockpit, debating what to say. Eventually, H’chak reaches up and manually disconnects his bio-mask’s translating software. He removes his mask and tucks it under one arm. His gaze is heavy, never once moving from the faded magenta outline of the Im-Gen sitting on the ground. Outside, the stars seem to gleam and shine in suspension, never quite moving despite the _Kukulkan_ continuing to scour the skies.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ He clicks quietly. _“The doctor demanded I speak with you.”_

“That is what she wanted?” The Image hangs her head and mimics a human sigh, exaggerated in parts but very much disgruntled. “She is not acting like herself tonight. I should not have woken her. That is my mistake.”

It is news to the Yautja. He traces her outline with his eyes while clicking in response, _“You woke her?”_

“I did. It was not… I did not think it through. I should have let her enjoy her evening in peace.” Material rustles and it dawns on H’chak that the Image is standing up. He watches her climb to her feet, turn, and look from the object in her grasp to him. She walks up to him, the tilt of her head indicating her focus is on the hunter as she goes on. “I do not think speaking with me will change anything. I know you hold your clan in high regard. The customs of it are absolute.”

 _“…They are.”_ The Yautja clicks in confirmation.

“Ah.” Sundew purses her lips. “Then I—I do not have anything to add. You are… A warrior. _Kv’var-de._ I am… prey. I was foolish to misinterpret the circumstances.”

The hunter stiffens at the words. His orange eyes widen at how distasteful the words are in his head. _Is that how I sound? Calling her prey?_

His stomach twists in his chest. He feels ill at the thought. Before he can say anything, he feels something brush his chest. He puts the helmet back on and turns on the optics system to confirm what the item is. His eyes dim, his mandibles click softly, and he looks from it to her. His voice betrays him; the clicks reveal the disbelief he holds, _“That—That is yours.”_

“I am returning it,” Sundew does not break eye contact. Her voice is neutral, but her hands shake, and her posture remains tense. She stares until he takes the beige hat, at which point the Image mimics a human exhale. “I reviewed some of your—The memories I took. From the feedings. And—I—I understand it is part of a process to—It is part of a process your clan uses for courting life partners.”

His blood runs cold. _“You… knew?”_

“I did not. Not until—Until I remembered. You attempted to court a Yautja named Umbra Skull once. You brought her many gifts. They were beautiful things: bones carved into sculptures and jewelry, rare blooms from the deepest jungles of Yautja Prime, the heads of _kainde amedha_ mounted for display, all for her,” the Image’s voice gradually drops in volume. She shakes her head. “I am sorry things did not work out between you two. I am sorry your _mei-hswei_ humiliated you in front of your clan. Your life is full of painful things. I have always had a vested interest in obtaining new knowledge. I have always wanted to learn more. Whether about you, your life, your clan, or any other part of this universe.”

H’chak begins to click, but Sundew lifts a finger and presses it against his four mandibles. The feeling only brings a horrible sensation of impending doom.

“My species—We yearn for knowledge. We salivate in our pursuits. We embody greed, H’chak, but we still experience a range of emotions. We are not creatures without restraint, without the ability to divert our pursuits! When you accuse me,” Her gaze narrows on him and she drops her hand to his collar, pulling him down to her eye level. “Of discussing something so _intimate_ as nothing more than a vie for information—Dismissing everything else I have lived through with you—As nothing more than a cover to obtain new information—That— _Human_ words do not describe the betrayal—"

Electricity jumps from her finger into his body. It is not something that hurts him; the current is very subtle, gentle, and its purpose is to _convey_ , not to harm. In a second, his mind is plunged into a dozen flashing images of oscillating triangles that shift and move to form a sequence of different shapes. It is chaotic and full of crumbling symbols from the reverberating triangles. The Yautja does not need to understand the message to understand the meaning behind it. H’chak holds his tongue and watches as Sundew releases him and tilts her head to one side. She does not look angry; she looks sad.

“That is how you made me feel,” She states blankly. “Like a… mess. A mess. It would be nice to learn something new to offer my hive—But that is not... I wanted to do it because—Because it would be with you.”

Even in the dim light, he can see silver skin of her cheeks darken with a faint blush.

“I am sorry I called you merciless.” Sundew whispers. “You are far from it. I would prefer to call you something large and captivating. Like... Jupiter. But that is not—Not your name and,” she wipes her eyes. “And I want to respect you—Your clan customs—Your Code of—Of—”

He can smell the tears. She cries because of him. She is in pain because of him. He is going to lose her because of himself, because of his Honor to a clan that stabbed him in the back and mocked him to his face.

He will not receive Honor from them even if he brings her back to the clan ship. Losing to Guan sealed his social status across the hunters, the Elders, and everyone else on the clan ship. They probably think he is dead. And if they think he is dead—They will move on; it takes a member of Clan Gahn’tha-cte to know the members of Gahn’tha-cte will never stop moving forward. The dead are mourned quickly then forgotten. The thoughts provoke a deep sense of disgust in the hunter.

The Yautja is no Gahn’tha-cte Elite. He is someone with no honor left to reclaim. There is nothing left to lose when everything has been taken from him. _Everything but the Kukulkan and… her._

He does not want to lose her.

 _“I will disavow my clan,”_ he blurts out the clicks before he can stop himself. The Yautja can feel a furious fire blaze in his chest when the Image meets his gaze. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow behind his mask and he repeats it louder, _“I’ll abandon my clan and its customs.”_

Sundew blinks slowly, streaks of tears still visible down her cheeks. Her voice reflects sincere surprise when she whispers, “I do not understand.”

 _“I do not have Honor left with Gahn’tha-cte. I do not want to go back there—I will not. I cannot.”_ He drops the hat and clicks incessantly. _“I cannot—I cannot afford to lose you. Sun-Dew.”_

When her eyes widen and well with tears, he reaches for her and wraps her up in his arms. She is a shaking mess, and the hunter swears on his life he will never allow himself to cause such a scene again. He exhales in relief when he feels her arms rise and snake around his torso. Instinctively, his throat rumbles and a soft purring noise fills the air. It is something the hunter forgot he could do; the noise reverberates through his throat to his chest. He gulps in deep breaths of air and revels in the overwhelming, intoxicating scent of Sundew.

“You are cruel,” the Image whispers against his chest. “Telling me these things now.”

 _“Sei-i,”_ he rumbles faintly, leaning down to nuzzle her head with the ridge of his bio-mask. After a moment, he draws back enough to peer down at her. _“I mean what I am saying now.”_

“Do you?” She frowns at him, one hand rising to cup his face behind his bio-mask. “I do not know how I can believe you.”

_“Trust me.”_

Her eyes water. She presses her face against his chest once more, words slightly muffled. “I do not know if I can—”

A thought crosses the Yautja’s mind. He releases her and takes one knee, the Image now looking down at him, perplexed. H’chak uses one hand to rip the mesh collar of his thermal bodysuit down, exposing the white, scale-motley across the crook of his neck. With his other hand, he reaches up and rips through flesh with a claw. It hurts almost as much as the doctor’s physical regiments; he curses under his breath when his luminescent green blood glows against the darkness of the cockpit.

 _“You want to know,”_ the Yautja clicks softly. _“My memories will not lie to you.”_

Sundew exhales loudly. She stares at him, wide-eyed and at a loss for words. Finally, she straightens upright and inquires, “Are you sure?”

 _“Sei-i.”_ It is an immediate response; there is no hesitation. H’chak shuts his eyes when Sundew steps forward. He holds his tongue when her hands rest on his shoulders.

His hearts begin to pound in unison in his head as he feels her lean forward. The second her lips touch his neck, the Yautja exhales sharply and clenches his fists. The exhilarating rush of being at the mercy of another tears through his form; he finds it difficult to focus on anything but the contrast of temperatures across the two’s skin and the increasing proximity.

It takes a long minute for Sundew to feed. After, she shifts her head to rest in the crook of his neck. His neck continues to sting—as does most of his body, the pain of moving so much catching up to him—but he blocks it out in favor of feeling her against him.

She relaxes.

She believes him.

_“I think I love you.”_

He clams up at the words, entire face filling with an agonizing heat. He can feel Sundew freeze against him, then draw back. Her clear eyes offer no indication of where she looks, yet somehow he _knows_ she stares at him. Her face gradually becomes darker as she asks, “What did you say?”

 _“Cjit,”_ His hands let go of her to fumble with the buttons on the top of the helmet. His cursing does not cease for several minutes. He cannot ignore the warmth in his face, a sensation drenching his body with the need for proximity, the need to be _close._ All the while, he struggles to think of something decent to say, finally uttering a set of soft clicks accompanied by a long chirp, _“Helmet—Helmet malfunction—"_

“The helmet did not say anything,” Sundew begins, but she quiets when the Yautja repeats the purring noise from before.

A sense of calm falls on the room, but it is temporary; H’chak cannot stop from hissing when the Image nuzzles his neck. The hiss becomes a strained groan when her lips return to the scaly skin.

 _“Cjit,”_ He curses louder when she does it again. The third time is one too many for him not to react; he emits a low growl and walks her a step backward. When she pulls back to look at him, he leans down and breathes into her ear, _“I still want to pauk you.”_

“That is not romantic,” Sundew observes.

_“I’m not a—”_

“You bought me a hat,” she cuts him off, an amused and delightfully airy laugh following. It sounds too divine for him to not stop and snort at. He gingerly presses her back another step, repeating the process until he has walked her to the left dashboard of the cockpit. Though Sundew’s sense of humor goes over his head, H’chak has no qualms letting her laugh while his hand traces the curve of her body.

Maybe he is a _romantic_ , but only in hats. The Yautja’s growl is low and husky as he leans down and breathes in the unrelenting aroma. It is far past intoxicating; it is a flame and he is a moth, hopelessly drawn to it again, and again, and again. H’chak lifts his hands and cups the Image’s face. Sundew relaxes into his touch.

She smiles at him, small and soft and subtle. “We keep winding up like this.”

 _“We should do something about it.”_ The Yautja trills, hands already falling back to her body.

“There are a lot of things we could do.” When she reaches for his hand and pulls it to her chest the hunter realizes it is hopeless.

 _He_ is hopeless. He is a catastrophe enamored by the silver figure in front of him, willing to die to protect and kill for her hand. His orange eyes deepen behind his bio-mask. He cannot growl or hiss enough to vocalize just how hopeless he is. The soft inhale when he touches her breasts for the first time is _invigorating_ and memorable.

Lightly, gently, the warrior skims his hands back up and tugs on the mesh collar at her neck. Sundew pauses and blinks at him. “Do I take it off?”

 _“It will be easier if you do,”_ H’chak struggles to chirp coherently when his eyes are focused on every inch of silvery skin.

“I should rephrase the question,” the Yautja hisses when she leans away from him and tilts her head to one side. “Do _you_ want me to take it off?”

H’chak feels the blood rush to his groin. The hunter grits his teeth to hold the moan back. He did not expect her to be a tease. The hunter does not know how much patience he has for teasing. He reaches for her bodysuit and growls when she begins to laugh again. _“Off.”_

“You could take it off.” Sundew’s voice is neutral and calm, but a twitch at her lips is the tell he needs to know she has an impish streak reserved only for him. 

He can feel himself starting to unsheathe behind his loincloth. He seethes at the ache inside his abdomen and reminds himself she is not a Yautja. Yautja fight extensively as part of a ‘mating dance.’ If he tries, she will break from his blows. H’chak growls at the thought, displeased. He finds an unholy noise rips from his throat when a hand reaches to cup his groin.

“I do not have memories of you fornicating with other Yautja,” the Image pauses and looks up at him. “I do not know the appearance of your phallus, or the manner in which you handle it.”

It is too _Sundew_ not to snort at. H’chak’s mandibles chitter softly, joining in the amused trills and Sundew’s confused expression.

“What?” She frowns at him.

He makes a point to caress her breasts through the bodysuit. The action immediately causes any confusion to fade and her cheeks to flush deep gray. H’chak leans down and breathes in her scent while his clawtips begin to shred the mesh matrix and chest wrappings.

* * *

 _“I want you.”_ The Yautja clicks into her right ear.

Sundew bites her lip, feeling the tension in her abdomen grow at the thought. She lets her head fall back and she exhales loudly at the fingers tracing her flesh, flicking her nipples, and tweaking them softly. There is a fire inside her she needs to fuel, and everything H’chak does to her fuels a little more of the flames. When he stops to pull off his mask, she pauses and watches him. His deep, beautiful orange eyes meet her clear ones; she can tell he is hungry for her.

He lowers his mandibles to her shoulder, pulling them apart just enough to latch on while his tongue flicks out across her skin. Sundew’s breath hitches and she tightens her grip on his mesh, wanting him to both stay but also to travel. She gets the latter; when he begins to shift and drag his mandibles across her skin, she starts to pant. She moans openly—loudly—when he settled on her right breast, a hand tending to her left one. The Yautja’s right hand holds her in place and keeps her steady for him to adore.

His tongue is leathery and riddled with tiny bumps. Sundew clenches her teeth and gasps softly when it circles and closes in on her swollen nipple. H’chak is relentless in making her squirm and press against him. In minutes, she is practically clawing at his neck and chest for him to do more.

H’chak makes a point of ripping the rest of her mesh suit off, the wrappings following shortly after. She cries out his name for the first time all evening when his fingers cup her hips and feel the shape of her ass. He growls against her and draws his head back to look her in the eye.

_“Sun-Dew.”_

“Hi,” she can barely breathe from the intensity in his orange gaze. Her hands reach for him and she cups the sides of his face. She can feel his racing heartbeats.

 _“Before anything else,”_ his chirrups are strained. His hands begin tracing circles on her bare hips while H’chak goes on. _“I need to warn you-I am-I have been called 'rough' by past mates- I will not—I will be careful. But—If you need to stop—If you don’t want this—"_

Her gaze softens. She can feel the warmth from her toes to her temples as Sundew answers, “I like you a lot, H'chak," she leans forward and mimics a human gesture of affection, the act of pressing her lips against one of his mandibles. She smiles pleasantly when she draws back. "I want you _-_ "

 _"Pauk...I enjoy hearing that,"_ the _kv'var-de_ exhales shakily. One of his hands drops to her groin and begins to explore, slowly seeking out the wet folds in her flesh. Sundew hiccups and her toes curl when she feels fingers stroking her. She whimpers when his fingers locate her physical composition’s clitoris. The pleasure that takes her is immediate and it leaves her panting and mewling softly for more. She becomes louder when H’chak's fingers steadily grind against the nub of nerves with one hand. His other hand remains busy gently stroking her entrance. She struggles to process anything beyond him, hyper-aware of all he is and does and wants with her. She hears his heavy, raspy breathes and sees the lust in his orange eyes. It adds to the heat coiling in her abdomen. When a finger begins to pierce her for the first time, Sundew lets out a sharp breath and clutches the Yautja to her. She finds her body yearns to rock its hips against his hand. H'chak seems pleased with the reaction; he begins to thrust his finger into her, occasionally turning it or changing the angle.

"This is better than hats," Sundew begins to rattle off words, slowly replacing syllables with short, high-pitched gasps.

H'chak repeats his throaty purring. It makes his finger vibrate inside her, subtle yet enough to turn her gasps into short-lived cries. Her physical composition clamps on him tightly in response; the Synthetic whimpers in increasing need. H'chak moves one hand from her clit to her hip, holding her in place to better finger the woman. It feels electrifying, only no flesh-burning current comes. Sundew writhes against him, increasingly impatient and loud about it when the Yautja drags the tip of his claw along her inner roof on the way out of one thrust. His hips grind against hers and both individuals moan and pant against each other. 

“How—How much more?” She feels him hiss against her, his body weight now pinning her against the left cockpit dashboard. “H’chak?”

 _“You are so much smaller than the bearers of my species... Sun-Dew. I will not hurt you,_ ” The man clicks sharply. _"But it means-I cannot take you the way I have others. No matter how much I want to-"_ As he speaks, the Yautja lines up two fingers against her pelvis. Sundew's head falls back and she curses softly when H'chak pushes both in. He is slow and careful in how he rotates his fingers and the angles inside her, steadily prompting her physical composition to relax and stretch for him. When one of his clawtips scraps a soft spot on the roof of her vagina, the Synthetic suddenly looses a breathless shriek of pleasure. Her legs tremble and spasm around the Elite as she rides the high of her first orgasm out. The slick natural lubricant falls out of her in shiny, clear drops as H'chak draws his fingers back. His eyes flicker across her form, as if he lives on the sight of her, like this, alone. Then the man steps back.

Sundew's eyes widen in fascination when the hunter strips himself of his mesh bodysuit and peels off his loincloth. He huffs in pride and reaches to stroke his shaft, the corkscrew-like shape very distinct in sight alone. It is grievously thick, with the lines of the 'screw' a rough ridge spiraling down the side of his cock. He clenches his teeth when Sundew sits up and touches it. Immediately, she finds herself suddenly picked up and pressed into his chest. She hears his purr and a soft moan slips out from her lips. H'chak's purring suddenly transitions to a possessive growl. His grip on her ass tightens and he cups her hips in longing.

 _"Paya help me..."_ His cock is erect and presses against her thighs. The man pushes it between her legs and begins to thrust weakly, running the shape of it against her outer vulva and throbbing clit. Sundew feels her physical composition turn from a silvery hue to a deepening shade of gray in the cheeks. When H'chak breathes in the air near her neck, she presses her lips against his collarbone, unable to find any other way to convey her want of this moment. His voice is deep and husky now; he is becoming a man fueled by lust alone, lust for _her_. _"I can smell it on you-Your-Arousal."_

The Yautja falls silent when Sundew laughs at him. She draws back enough to look into his eyes, admire the bold orange once again, and reach to caress one of his many locs. Her own clear eyes soften and fill with warmth as her fingers play with the coiled hair, simultaneously fascinated and adoring.

“I like these,” she whispers. "As much as I like you."

The words seem to take the hunter by surprise. He emits a sudden, brief rasping noise, as if choking on air. The man's forehead lowers until he can nuzzle her head with his own. She exhales sharply and her arms wrap around his neck.

 _“Sun-Dew,”_ H’chak clicks. _“Look at me.”_

Her eyes rise to look at his face, lost in the connection they share. Everything about how the moment feels surreal; it feels perfect, like it was always meant to happen. She relaxes when his mandibles slowly flare and reach to tickle her forehead and cheek.

 _"I need you at my side,"_ The hunter swears on it. The head of his cock, of the pulsing, engorged corkscrew-like member, pushes against her core. _"I need you-"_

Sundew's gaze locks with his and she finds herself tensing and gasping as H'chak pushes inside. The Synthetic begins to squirm and clutch at him, burying her head in the crook of his neck while he slowly works his way in an inch. She begins to shake; the overstimulation of her nerves on fire, of his warm body against her cool one, of his blatant emotional expression and display, it all makes her melt in his arms. She whimpers and tightens her grip on him as he thrusts his hips into her inch-by-inch. The ridges of his cock are soft and squishy, a pleasant texture that spurns her moans and pleads when she begins to whisper, "I _-_ I can take more-H'chak-"

 _"Cjit,"_ the Yautja hisses softly, clicks strained. His hands grip her hips tightly. She can tell he holds himself back. 

When he bucks up several inches at once, the Synthetic hiccups in pained ecstasy. Her hands begin to dig into his back from where she holds unto him. The burn in her groin is terrible, both a searing, stretch of pain, and the lust permeating her form. She cannot stand to not fill the rest of herself with him. It is all she can focus on, the call of his flesh, the need to be one with him, all she thinks in her head is how much she _wants_ him. Sundew's pleads resume as she tries-and fails-to roll her hips over more of him. H'chak holds her in place firmly. He growls in deepening lust when she writhes enough to suck him in a half inch.

He is far bigger than any dick Miranda Escrow ever saw. Or any cock seen or witnessed by any of the past humans she fed upon. Sundew can only think of how much is left when her back suddenly presses against the wall. Her eyes look up and meet the deep, dark orange gaze of an entity about to claim a mate. She flushes deep gray; her mouth falls ajar and she whimpers as H'chak presses his hips into hers and the remaining inches go in. The head of his cock throbs inside her, pressed against her physical composition's cervix. She tenses and pants with trembling legs propped up against the Yautja's hips. H'chak purrs deeply and pushes into her until the scales of his pelvis tickle her vulva. His chest presses against her as he clicks words she does not understand.

"What," she whispers and whines, head falling back against the cockpit wall when he begins to pull out. "What are-You saying? Ah-Ah! H'chak _-"_ Sundew shakes from the sudden roll of hips. "H'chak!"

 _"Mine,"_ His throat and chest rumble with the declaration.

"Am I-Oh-Oh-Ah-" The Synthetic cannot think from the myriad of sensations. She whines and groans as the Yautja thrusts again, pushing all of himself inside until the head of his cock kisses her cervix and a brief spike of pain follows. "Am I-Yours? H'chak-H'chak!"

 _"Sei-i!"_ The Yautja swears by it with Cetanu and the Paya as the two's witnesses. His cock throbs inside the Synthetic. Her muscles tighten around him and clamp on his shaft, as if trying desperately to hold him in. H'chak pulls himself out inch-by-inch. He pushes inside her with equal restraint, hissing at her when she takes him again, _"I am-Yours-Sun-Dew. Sun-Dew!"_

 _"Oh, that sounds-It sounds,"_ Sundew cannot finish the sentence. _"H'chak-I need you-"_

The restraint of both individuals ceases as H'chak's mandibles flare and he sinks his teeth into the flesh of her collarbone. Sundew screams in agonized passion, lost in the throes of pain and ecstasy as the Yautja inside her suddenly goes from tentative thrusts to smacking the two's hips together in a meeting of sheer desperation. H'chak's head falls back and he roars against her, shouting and cursing in increasing volition as the man takes her and claims her as the only one worthy of his intimacy. Sundew's legs strain to stretch and shift to give him unfettered access. She struggles to rock against his hips when his body weight pins her against the wall. The Synthetic shrieks in euphoria when the Yautja pulls out, props her leg up against his torso, and begins to pound into her. The proximity is beyond intoxicating; it is a frenzy to connect and explore and worship the other in every way possible.

H'chak takes his mate to the floor as he thrusts madly into the tightness of her body. His body weight pins her and she clutches at him to get closer as he takes every last bit of air from her lips. He leans down to her chest, long tongue snaking out and tasting the perky nipples one-by-one between his fervent gyrations. When she suddenly tenses around him and her muscles clamp on his shaft in orgasm, H'chak continues to pump into her body. He thrusts past the tightening muscles, through her prolonged cry of his name, and sends her scaling up another mountain of ecstasy as he continues to take her, claim her, ensure she reeks of him alone. Sundew's toes curl and her limbs quiver as her mind loses itself on H'chak: his name, his feel, his _cock_ , his everything, it is all she wants and yearns to know. 

_"Look at me,"_ The Elite demands of her while both's pants become loud, messy noises and wails. His orange eyes lock on hers. Sundew feels every nerve in her body electrify as pleasure ebs at her body. _"I swear by it-You are mine-I am yours-Sun-"_ _  
_

H’chak throws his head back and bellows as his climax crashes into him. His hands grip her hips and Sundew yells as he pushes her down to engulf his cock. The head of his shaft smashes against her cervix and drags curses from her lips. H'chak thrusts wildly, smashing the two's pelvises together. Sundew buries her head in his chest as his tall, muscular form towers over her and he jams his cock through her cervix. Scalding heat explodes inside her body, deeper than she thought possible, breaching the line of orgasm and throwing her off its edge into sudden bliss. She hears herself cry out his name, repeating it over and over in an endless ramble as both individuals float through the sensations of their orgasm. H'chak gradually slows in his thrusts. He takes his time humping his seed into her physical composition. Even exhausted, Sundew continues to try and squeeze him every second he is inside her. The two watch each other a time, both silent with awe and adoration at their connection.

Eventually, H'chak pulls out of her and picks her up. He sits with her in his lap, a hand fondly tracing shapes in the skin of her stomach while the other arm is wrapped firmly around her shoulders. He is a tired mess, practically a mirror of herself. Sundew leans against him while both catch their breath.

The warmth of his body offsets the cooler temperatures of hers. She grabs unto him and buries her face in his chest, prompting his throat to reverberate with the strange purring noise.

“I do not need to sleep,” Sundew is the first to break the silence, sounding weary and exhausted. She shuts her eyes. “Doing this… Made me want to sleep. I am sleepy.”

 _“Did you… enjoy it?”_ The question comes out so hesitantly it makes the Synthetic pause and look up. She frowns at the four mandibles on his face drawn tight together, covering his regular jaws with an expression that looks something of a frown. He is worried. He needs reassurance; not even Yautja are immune to their own insecurities.

"I would describe it as _fun._ " She shuts her eyes again. “I did not realize it made such a mess in person. I would like to try in a washroom next time. Perhaps a sleeping pod. Somewhere that is not a common area. We will have to sanitize this room.”

She can feel his chest rumble in a mixture of delight and humor at the answer. She curls up against him, grip tightening on his torso.

 _“Sun-Dew?”_ H’chak leans down and his mandibles expand to lightly scrap her head.

She blinks and looks up. “I am very sleepy.”

 _“Before you sleep,”_ the hunter pauses. He shifts one of his arms out from around her and leans to grab her crumpled hat. H’chak places it on her head. _“This is yours.”_

“Is it?” Her lips curve upward into a sleepy, happy smile. “May I share something with you?”

The orange eyes soften. He clicks quickly, _“Sei-i. Anything.”_

“Beige is my favorite color.” The Synthetic shuts her eyes and lets her mind drift away.

She does not dream, but somewhere in her subconsciousness is the awareness beige is now her favorite color, and it has everything to do with her favorite hat.


	23. bearer's blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can see her pause. It is brief, and it is not decipherable. The body language of his fellow humans is spectacularly varied, with layers of meaning interwoven like an onion’s flesh. In comparison—Alma is good at presenting any meaning with any gesture at any time. Her pause does not mean hesitation or second thoughts. It can be anything from the acknowledgement of words to the understanding she is about to kill without discrimination. Alma is beautiful like that, one of the few entities to have outwitted him in his time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to arc 4, where everything begins to go horribly wrong.  
> this chapter chronically takes place during the month period in which h'chak is unconscious. 
> 
> the section with the adjutant at the end is extremely dark, major TW for:  
> -forced castration  
> -vomit / nausea  
> -gore  
> -talk about infertility
> 
> TW for the first section with alma:  
> -mention of drugs  
> -mention of past child death  
> -mention of torture  
> -there's a bit of self harm and blood

“My, my, you’ve been heralding all _sorts_ of clothes in here—I never took you for a fashionista yet here we are,” the eccentric billionaire cannot help but comment as he knocks on the open door. A grin touches his lips the second the silver figure at the bedside pauses in her packing. Arnold takes it as an invitation into the bedroom and shoves his hands in the pockets of his golf shorts as he approaches.

Folding clothes with glove-covered hands, the entity only gives him one look before returning to her task. She is inhumanely precise, capable of folding multiple articles of clothing in a minute when not interrupted. Arnold watches her with genuine fascination.

Of the horrible cosmic secrets uncovered over his impeccable lifespan, there are only three things in the universe capable of making him sincerely _afraid._ The first are prions, of which Arnold has had the misfortune of witnessing firsthand in the death of his grandson Zachariah. The second are the four-legged, bipedal parasites, the _Xenomorphs,_ whose adaptive qualities are just as deadly as they are magnificent and wretched. He only feels the slightest shred of regret nuking X-12 into oblivion, and that lays solely on the potential discoveries lost with X-12’s destruction. The third thing to scare him is best described as that—a _thing—_ because the species is innately capable of twisting itself and taking different—sometimes multiple—physical states to assert themselves.

 _Vekin._ Just the name alone gives him shivers. It riles him up, raises goosebumps, makes him feel _alive_ and full of purpose! Arnold smiles broadly as he watches the entity continue to pack in front of his eyes.

“You look so natural, I almost don’t want to bother you,” Arnold states as his eyes monitor her posture, body language, _motions._ Nothing escapes him; the cybernetic implants in his irises and pupils send an automatic record of all he sees to his private database for later analysis.

When Alma says nothing, he takes it as a sign to go on.

“Brazil, then?” He traces the outline of her form, flawless and flowing like the turbulence inside. The billionaire reaches a hand to his chin to scratch his beard, amused. “My, you really have thought this out, haven’t you? No, no, of course you have—”

“I am busy.” It is emotionless and firm.

Arnold holds up both his hands, palms facing out, and steps back. “My apologies, dear Alma, I am not trying to impede on your business! No, no, far from it—I am simply—I am _intrigued._ You’ve gone out of your way for your old friend.”

The entity straightens upright. Her sunglasses are off, providing a perfect glimpse into the seemingly empty eye sockets. Arnold knows the truth, but it is no less _damning_ to witness. He exhales softly, catches himself, and meets her gaze with relaxed shoulders and a crooked grin. Eventually, Alma turns back to the bed and resumes packing, but she engages him in conversation. “It is in everyone’s best interests, Arnold. I am looking out for our futures.”

“Are you?” He cocks his head to one side, pressing for the answer.

It comes immediately.

“Have faith in my capabilities.” Alma states, voice curt but otherwise relaxed.

“I do, I _do_ , since when have I ever turned my back on you? Mm? We’ve come a long way, dear Alma! I’ve seen what you can do, and it _bewilders_ me to think such decadence exists within humanity’s solar system, within _our_ grasp—But—In knowing you these five decades—You are aware I am not _insolent._ ” Arnold wags a finger at her, a _shining_ gleam to his eyes. “I do not trust you. I _respect_ you, but I know not to trust a Vekin.”

“Never.” Alma says the word, absent of any further emotion. She finishes packing the clothes—everything is a neutral tone and made to cover as much skin as possible—and shuts the suitcase. Her hands remain on the luggage, body still yet every bit as elegant and flowing as he appreciates.

He appreciates her in many ways, whistling sharply to voice such. When she looks over her shoulder at him, the man grins shamelessly. “If only time aged me so well.”

“What is the status of Tucker Mason?” She ignores his remarks.

Arnold shrugs. He puts his hands back in his pockets. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a good craft beer ‘bout now…”

He can see her pause. It is brief, and it is not decipherable. The body language of his fellow humans is spectacularly varied, with layers of meaning interwoven like an onion’s flesh. In comparison—Alma is good at presenting any meaning with any gesture at any time. Her pause does not mean hesitation or second thoughts. It can be anything from the acknowledgement of words to the understanding she is about to kill without discrimination. Alma is beautiful like that, one of the few entities to outwit him in his time.

He flinches when Alma is suddenly _there_ in front of him, her clear eyes bearing down on him. She radiates a cool temperature; when she touches a hand to his cheek he shivers from the cold. Arnold swallows when he feels the hand melt and mold into the edge of a serrated blade, every bit identical to a Xenomorph’s talon.

“I could kill you.” She reminds him.

“You won’t.” Arnold gambles, holding his breath.

“I think about it often. The use of one human life. I do not need you alive to fulfill my objectives.” She cuts through his flesh like butter, drawing a thick red line.

Arnold grimaces, not from pain but the fact he wears a gorgeous, short-sleeved button-up shirt. “It’s rude to get stains on my _white_ clothes, Alma.”

“It is rude to avoid answering my questions when asked, Arnold Escrow.”

 _Impatience._ That is the reason for her pause. Arnold grins at her, pressing his flesh further into her claw. He cannot hold back the guttural hiss of pain when it cuts deeper. Alma draws the talon back and it reverts to dense liquid—then to a new solid state, taking on the form of a human finger. Arnold drops one hand to her waist and pulls her closer, every bit enamored by the excitement at such an occasion as he is at her willingness to spare him. When she dips her head down and digs incisors into his flesh, the cry of pain is ungodly.

It is his. He hopes the world outside feels his pain, a reminder that humanity is subject to terrible things beyond comprehension. Alma is but one of those terrible things—A terribly beautiful one, and one he has long-since sworn to dance the dark waltz with. She is his reminder he is _weak_. She is his reminder he needs help preserving mankind against the deep, dark, crawling trenches of space. She is his reminder—His and his alone. He intends to keep her that way, in this relationship built on crumbling foundations and shifting grounds. On a level field—She is the one with all the power. In the two’s unholy partnership, the earth occasionally shifts to jut him into the sky and sentence her down below.

Alma does not take much of his blood. She draws back and lets him sway upright, not catching him when he begins to stagger. Arnold retreats to the far wall, leaning against it for balance and admiring his already-healing laceration. He lets a finger linger over the tender, closing flesh. “Are you satiated? In agreement with my answer?”

“It will suffice,” Alma says, returning to the bedside and opening the outermost pocket of her suitcase. She kneels next to a beautifully polished marble night table. She retrieves a case from inside its single drawer, sits on the bed, and pops it open. “Will you be satisfied in the exchange of three deceased specimen for a living iteration of the species?”

“Oh?” The old man cocks an eyebrow. He grins wickedly at her, unable to hold back the mirth at the thought. “So, you want my help, now? My, my, dear, sweet, Alma—”

“I will not repeat myself.” She states, apparently satisfied with her case’s contents. The woman closes it and activates a set of locks. The mechanisms inside the case latch it shut automatically. Alma puts it away in her suitcase and looks expectantly at Arnold.

He sighs; the man pushes himself off the wall and upright. He begins unbuttoning his sheet, annoyed at the great crimson stain down its front. “—If it makes you happy—I am willing to give up _two_ —But no more, and I expect the body to be in pristine condition upon extraction. You are speaking of the _Yautja_ , yes?”

“Two…” Alma considers it, but the tilt of her head to one side indicates she is anything but pleased.

“Be honest, dear Alma, is three _really_ necessary? You mustn't be such a sadist—Toying with your friend like that,” Arnold pulls off his dirty shirt and tosses it at the doorway. It falls to the hardwood floor in a crumpled heap. He crosses his arms and looks back. “I am not here to discourage your ideas—But you must understand—These bodies are _disgustingly_ valuable to mankind. It is impossibly rare to find intact _Yautja_ specimens—”

She sits on the bed and takes off her riding boots, then her stockings. She speaks as she does, “I will bring you a live _Yautja._ ”

“Oh, I am sure you will, but of course—As _Vice President_ of this company—I must look out for our company’s interests. Keeping one of the corpses intact in event of worse case scenario is a precaution, not a judgement on your capabilities.”

“How diplomatic.” Alma remarks, the calm masking her sarcasm.

“I can offer you two of them. Only two.” Arnold rubs his chin with one hand, looking thoughtful. “Will that suffice?”

She tilts her head to one side. He smiles at her unspoken _yes._

“Now! My dear,” Arnold walks over and plops next to the entity on the bed. He wraps an arm around her shoulders as if the two are old friends. “Do tell—How exactly does two dead _Yautja_ tie into finding your old friend? _Mm?”_

“I saw it in your memories, Arnold. You know why.” Alma pushes his hand off, but she does not stand. The woman shuts her eyes and inhales deeply. She does not need the oxygen, but it horribly convincing. Arnold marvels at her audacity to present human traits while looking so unnatural. When she turns her head to face his, he has a gentle smile on his face. It is a smart move; it seems to take her aback, though whether she is truly surprised remains to be seen.

“Tell me,” he urges, voice silky smooth. “I enjoy hearing it from you.”

“There was a ship,” the Vekin states, pulling off one glove and running a finger down the newest scar over his neck. She appears to admire her handiwork. “She allied with your former _Yautja_ specimen. She will be found where he goes. But where a _kv’var-de_ is involved—I must be capable of matching his physical prowess with my own. I will ensure he is recaptured and moved to an appropriate containment facility. You will have your specimen back. I will have my friend put back where she belongs. And Tucker Mason... He will ensure Louanne Garcia and Ivon Yurchik are detained. He will feel useful."

“You are confident as ever, my dear.” He cups her face, inhaling in utter delight at how cold she feels in comparison. Her hand latches on to his throat and Arnold releases his hands immediately. He maintains eye contact, if only to _dare_ her to kill him. The thrill has his heart pounding _hopelessly_ in his head.

He feels her hand tense. No doubt—The Vekin dissects the possibility.

“Tell me a secret, my sweet Alma,” it is a rare occasion to usurp her in the two’s deadly game. Arnold reaches to caress the silver figure’s face with his right hand while he maintains his calm and friendly demeanor. “Tell me about your friend.”

“A rich request.”

“I’ve been well-behaved, haven’t I? A kind old _philanthropist_ —The forgiving sort, even,” Arnold reasons, a hand reaching high to brush aside thin strands of platinum blond hair. He goes so far to tuck loose strands behind one cold Vekin ear. It mystifies him how cold she feels, how much heat she _sucks_ from the slightest contact. Arnold’s smile becomes a lofty grin when the Vekin does not move him away.

“Across the hive, we live within unspeakable hierarchies of adjacent geometrics…”

As she talks, Arnold soaks in each word. It is as invigorating as the nastiest shot of heroin to his veins, higher a high than the the deepest surge of euphoria sex has ever got him—To _know_ such abominable facts, all shared freely but only with him, is…

 _Delicious._ He hears himself growl, a demand for _more_.

Alma’s hand shifts and grips his throat, throwing him backward unto the bed and pinning him to the mattress. She keeps him there, just enough pressure to dig into the skin but not enough to cut off his air supply, while she continues to speak as if they are old friends catching up. “—When necessary—Our numbers pool.”

“A _Cluster._ ” Arnold whispers, not daring to remove her hand himself. He grins as he looks up at her clear eyes. _A spectacular name, a fantastical view._

She eases her hand around his throat, slowly letting up on the pressure until it merely rests there. Arnold breathes in silently while Alma drums fingers across his windpipe, “ _Clusters…_ A temporary, amalgamated consciousness linking one to another. Where one Vekin fails, the Cluster thrives. It is an intimacy only a Vekin can transmit. When the task is complete—The Cluster separates.”

“Pity.” The man laughs.

Alma’s finger finds the curve of his neck. The nail digs into his skin but does not tear the flesh. The Vekin tilts her head to one side. “FLORA and I once built the foundation for a Cluster. It dissolved upon forty-three cycles of use to our hive.”

 _Ah._ The secret is the name—Arnold already knows much of the Vekin, as having one around for fifty years reveals things to a man, but he does not know or remember the name. Hearing it is like seeing a face he does not quite recognize but insists on knowing—He imagines it is locked deep in his memories, buried beneath years of extravagant risks and near-disasters. Alma releases him from her torment and Arnold sits up to admire her up close. She is a walking catastrophe, yet she calls to him without saying a single word.

Perhaps the entity knows how to read minds, as Alma smiles. Her lips hold a certain nostalgia to them, though Arnold knows he may be looking too deeply into it. He decides to pry nonetheless, inquiring with the courtesy any gentleman should hold, “FLORA. When did you speak of her last?”

“October fifteenth, nineteen-ninety-seven.”

“Was she your intended target for the _Cassini-Hyugens?_ ” It is dangerous territory—Arnold grimaces when he sees the entity pause. Vekin are too dangerous to do things like _pause._

“FLORA was an unlikely possibility, but I deemed any of the hive acceptable results.” Alma states. She leaves him on the bed, stands, and browses her closet for new clothes. Occasionally, she holds up a jumpsuit for him to grunt or wave off. Alma continues to speak during this time. “—Had FLORA survived the initial landing—More progress on containing the Vekin could have been made by now. It is both tragedy and solace her ship was not successfully intercepted before the governments of this planet stepped in and shot her down.”

“Solace?” Arnold crosses his arms, now upright on the bed and sitting cross-legged.

“—Had more of FLORA survived the impact of the crash—I would seek the knowledge found when a Vekin borders expiration. The discovery of a subspecies within the Vekin alleviated that need.” It takes a moment for the implications of her words to sink in.

He throws his head back and laughs. It is a hearty noise, a contrast against the otherwise quiet and empty mansion. “Cruel, cruel, dear Alma! To think you would shamelessly advocate the torture of your friend—”

“It would be critical information to obtain. To know how much a Vekin can physically endure before succumbing to expiration—The reactions to pain, to alterations to physical states, to approximation of heat applied in strategic layers and intensities—Knowledge of how much is requisite to destroy them, contain them, control them—Arnold. Knowledge I need.” 

“Yet you never offered yourself as a test subject.”

“You would never let me.”

“True,” Arnold rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I much prefer you _intact_ and _alive_. It fits your morbid appeal, and it ensures _I_ am kept safe.” He grins at the latter thought, enjoying reminiscing across memories of hit-men personally stopped by the silver-skinned catastrophe nearby.

Alma holds up a white jumpsuit. It is identical to the one she wears, only it is free of blood splatters. She smiles politely at his nod of approval and then she reaches around her back to unzip her current jumpsuit. Arnold rises to his feet and moves to assist her, unable to hold himself away from the chance to be close once more. He knows one day his actions will make her kill him—But for now, he enjoys the way she drops her arms to her side and gives him the opportunity to unzip the garment down to her waist. He steps back and ogles every inch of skin underneath while she strips herself of it.

Alma looks over her shoulder at him. “You are the same man you were fifty years ago.”

“Slightly different, my dear,” Arnold corrects her. “Far less capable of fucking you, though the want remains the same. A shame about age; I cannot do everything I want.”

Alma walks over to a grand dresser and vanity. She pulls open a drawer and fishes a clean thong and brassiere from it. She is not shy or bashful about beginning to undress. Nor should she be—He has seen everything her human composition can offer time and time again. The two have many things left to hide from the other, but bare skin and nudity is not one of them. His eyes lock on the view of her backside, ogling and imagining the feel of her soft hips with his gaze.

“For someone who always insisted this relationship is casual, you are incapable of restraining yourself from voicing your desires,” Alma finally comments, unhooking her brassiere and tossing it aside. She faces him while she slips her arms through the straps of her clean one and shifts her arms to hook it tight at her backside. She looks up at him, expectant of a reply.

He grins. “You don’t consider this _casual?_ My, my, Alma—”

“You cannot hide _feelings_ from me, Arnold. I know your memories.” Alma reminds him.

“I wasn’t trying to.” The billionaire waves off her words and walks to the door, stopping only to pick up his dirty shirt before he calls behind him. “I’ll make arrangements for your ride to the airport, my dear! Enjoy South America, I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

* * *

The Adjutant has just returned from a meeting between the five Elders of Gahn’tha-cte and Leader Daga, serving as Leader Daga’s Adjutant and taking on the roles of a scribe, diplomat, and problem-solver under his mentor’s watchful gaze. Any other night, he knows he has reason to be out longer: Daga demands only perfection, nothing less, and the Elders come with their own requests which require tedious negotiations and fragile ego-soothing and tip-toeing to ensure every party leaves satisfied no matter what Daga’s ultimate decision is.

The Yautja clicks in greeting to his private quarters when the door slides shut behind him. He pauses and listens for a response; nothing. It makes the quills along his body flatten in protest; his bright orange eyes narrow and he scans the spacious common area in full spectrum color before shutting off his bio-mask and removing it. It is unusual to not hear _something_ when one steps inside. His life partner is as loyal as a hare in heat, shamelessly rutting with any sirer capable of defeating her in hand-to-hand combat. The Adjutant has long since moved past the sting of betrayal; now there is only an emptiness in his chest, a numbness that never leaves.

He is not above throwing a sirer out of _his_ quarters and forcing the sirer to take a long and shameful walk back to their own accommodations, but tonight feels different. He remains on edge as he stalks through his own residence. As a former Elite _kv’var-de,_ the dusky-scaled Yautja knows how to keep his steps feather-light. He instinctively lowers himself to a crouch and slowly creeps down a corridor, bypassing dark trophy rooms, a private _kehrite,_ and the washroom to the far end of the hall. There, a terrible noise makes his heart freeze.

Someone howls in pain and pleads. It is a wretched thing, spurning adrenaline through his veins and making his muscles ripple as he staggers backward, stands upright, and growls softly. The Adjutant’s long dreadlocks sway gracefully before he lunges forward and kicks the sliding door down.

He comes to a stop immediately, orange eyes locking on the thermal signature of a rising Yautja. When the Adjutant inhales, he identifies her _immediately_ as his mate. He cannot think of words at first, instead turning his attention to the bleeding Yautja sprawled out on the ground. There, the heat signature remains curled up in a ball, wailing horrific noises and belting in pain. He recognizes the individual as one of the recent Blooded.

 _“What is the meaning of this?”_ The Adjutant roars at his mate. He sees her holding the dark outline of a long, curving sickle-like tool. It has the barest traces of blood along the inside of its blade.

 _“He lost. He knew what would happen if he did.”_ His mate shrugs amicably, kicking something across the floor to the Adjutant’s right foot. A fleshy thing bumps into his clawed toes.

A lump forms in the back of his throat. He is meant to be _strong,_ and as such—He will not retch. But it is tempting, and it becomes a fight of raw willpower not to throw up and spew when he kneels and takes the mass of flesh in his hand. There is no denying what it is, or how violently maimed the poor sirer is. The Adjutant drops the severed penis in horror and runs to the wounded Yautja, struggling to get the injured individual in his arms. It is too slippery, there is too much blood to get a good grip; deep gouges and other lacerations along the injured hunter's form indicate the fight was far deadlier than any mating dance should ever be.

 _“You think this is acceptable?! Ikthya-De!”_ The Adjutant howls in rage at his mate, giving up on picking up the castrated hunter and running out of the room to track down his bio-mask. He finds it in seconds and turns it on, sending out a message for emergency medical assistance just before he hears laughter come from the entrance of the corridor. Guan turns around and glares at the woman. His clicks are far from calm, and every syllable is infused with _hate_ as he hisses, _“He just finished his chiva! You knew he wasn’t capable of besting you!”_

 _“He won’t repeat the mistake.”_ Her words hold no remorse, only a sense of her twisted humor as she takes a seat on a long, oval-shaped sofa and folds her legs beneath her. _“Consider it a compliment. If someone like him could defeat Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s mate, what would that say about you? You already toe a fine line with your impotence. I’m bewildered why my father lets you serve as Adjutant—"_

 _“Ell-osde’pauk!”_ Guan snarls, fists tense to the point his knuckles, visible without his equipment on, turn light gray against the darker, coal-gray color of his mottled skin. The man doesn’t hesitate running back down the hall and into _his_ bedchamber. He is aghast to find the younger adult a still mess of glowing green blood.

He tears apart three shelves in vain trying to find cellular regeneration serum. His emergency kit lacks the syringe necessary, and though he attempts to smear the paste over the bleeding amputation site, it does not take. Guan’s form falls still as he drops the tube of colored paste and reaches for the Blooded Yautja’s wrist. He shuts his eyes and curses when no pulse comes. _Pauk!_ He tries the other wrist—Nothing. The neck—Nothing. Though he knows the answer, he attempts to find a pulse along points of the foot and neck again before knocking at the door of his residence rings loudly from down the hall. Guan doesn’t bother to get it; he rises to his feet, grabs a bloody bed sheet, and carefully drapes it over the body.

 _“Cetanu guide you to the other side, mei-hswei. I will see to it you have a proper burial.”_ The Adjutant’s fists tense. He backs away from the body, hearing the door of his residency open and the sound of footsteps come in.

A Yautja at the other end of the hall, an older nurse by the name of Tjau’ke, calls for him, but Guan shakes his head and steps to the side. He watches Tjau’ke and her two accompanying medics bolt past him, stop at the door, and click in horror. Tjau’ke throws her head back and howls, one of the medics—a younger Yautja, just Blooded by the looks of it—throws up, while the third, a nurse with smooth blue skin, turns away and utters a prayer to the gods.

Guan’s orange eyes are dark behind his mask, a violent storm desperate to unfurl. He knows he cannot touch her. The daughter of Leader Daga is immune to retaliation or punishment. When he finishes putting in a request for mortician and janitorial services, Guan returns to the bedchamber where Tjau’ke prepares to move the body. He stops at her side, clicking softly, _“How can I help?”_

 _“I’ll handle the body, Adjutant.”_ The nurse is an older Yautja, with hundreds of cycles to her name. She dons no mask, letting Guan see her pain-filled, icy blue eyes; they are familiar, though Guan cannot place them.

 _“This took place in my quarters. My bedchamber. I insist.”_ Guan urges, voice steadily falling into something akin to calm but not quite it.

Tjau’ke shakes her head, long coils of hair falling out of place where she has them ceremoniously pinned into a spiraling twist down her back. _“The only thing I can ask of you, Adjutant, is to…remember this, if the time comes for you to lead. Until Daga is gone…”_

She trails off, but the message is clear: she wants Ikthya-De-th’Syra dead, and the clan leader stands in the way of it.

Guan clasps the woman’s hand with both of his bloodied ones. He looks over his shoulder to ensure his mate will not hear, then leans forward and clicks, _“I swear it on my life. I will see her held accountable for this. I will get the Council of Ancients involved if necessary.”_

The words offer little comfort, but Tjau’ke’s eyes soften. She reaches a hand to cup his face, looking into his eyes and nodding in satisfaction. _“You have your bearer’s blood in you yet.”_


	24. not a maid (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She clicks roughly, attempting to mimic Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s rough and merciless dialect, “We are related.”
> 
> “I didn’t know you wanted to talk about it.” The Yautja looks back down, staring where the legging of his suit has been rolled up to expose his poor left calf. There are definite signs of damage to the scales and muscles. Even healed—Vayuh’ta can tell something isn’t right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter really illustrates what I wanted to achieve with the group onboard the ship dynamic-wise. They are slowly becoming their own mixed up, rag-tag group. Maybe not a family-yet-but companions capable of looking out for each other.
> 
> And giving each other shit. Lots of shit. Vayuh'ta's code of honor has a specific clause for giving relatives shit.

It is warm under the clear blue sky of Buenos Aires, Argentina. The morning air is refreshing, apt for the city of Fair Winds. From where the heavy-set man stands, he sees every little thing pass outside. The resort rooms are spacious, several tourists meandering the streets outside. Cars follow in their wake, with the occasional taxi honking to get a tourist’s attention. Locals take bikes and walk animals. Everyone seems to enjoy the beautiful weather—Everyone but him. For a man on what is essentially a paid vacation, he is far, _far_ from relaxed.

He is supposed to be in Brazil. He is supposed to be in _Manuas,_ in the state of _Amazonas,_ in Brazil. What should be simple is making the pasty man pace back-and-forth across the length of his balcony, constantly fidgeting with his phone. He is on repeat: pick at his receding hairline, check phone, walk, check phone, look at the street, question what the fuck he has gotten himself into, check phone, check phone, _check the goddamn phone!_ Unlike his mind, which has since transitioned to operating semi-functionally while he is having panic and paranoia, Tucker Mason finds his phone does jack _shit_ for him. It is a complete and utter piece of crap, a waste of twelve-hundred-dollars, and he debates throwing it off the hotel’s balcony in his brief lucid moments.

His blue eyes bulge and he jumps where he stands when the damn phone vibrates. The man barely catches it in time and fumbles to unlock the screen. One clammy finger swipes the screen; he shoves the useless technology to his ear and blurts out in a rush, “Miss—President? President Alma. M’am? I haven’t—Hadn’t heard of you since—”

“I am on my way back. Expect my arrival within five hours.” The voice is calm but otherwise carries no, if any, emotion.

Tucker nods before remembering he is the only one in the room. He swallows and nods anyways. “Whatever you need, m’am. President. I’ll be here! Waiting… Erm.”

“Is there a problem, Tucker Mason?”

 _“You dumped me in Argentina!_ This ain’t Brazil! There’s no real here!” Tucker blurts out. He can hear what sounds like a man’s voice in the background. A nauseating thought crosses his head; he forces it from his mind and clenches his eyes shut. “Is—Vice President Arnold? With you? Is he coming here? We ain’t made shit for progress on locating—” He stills when he hears a bizarre noise: laughter. The man pulls his phone from his ear, stares at it, blinks, and brings it back to listen.

“…No, no, just chatting with an old friend, Blake—” It sounds abhorrently real. Which it could very well be, he doesn’t know _what_ the woman is or how she acts, but it doesn’t make it any easier for Tucker to listen to. He grimaces. A moment later the President’s voice rings loudly and clearly once more, “I am bringing a guest. His room has been taken care of, but as an employee of Stargazer Corporation you are expected to treat him with the same courtesy you extend others and yourself, Tucker Mason.”

“…I do that anyways,” the man exhales softly and slumps. “Is that all? M’am? …President?”

When Tucker looks, he notices his boss has already hung up. He rubs his forehead.

It is going to be a long day.

* * *

“I wonder if I’m twenty-seven yet. You think it’s been a year?” Jo’s voice is a commendable attempt at sounding happy, though both individuals know it is far from truth.

Ivon decides to dabble in the small talk anyways. God knows they both need something to focus on, though for different reasons. They shrug amicably and lean forward on their bar seat, jabbing at gray tack with a finger. “I don’t really… I’m not good at keeping track of time on my own. So. Could be?”

“My birthday is December nineteenth.” Jo rubs her chin. She has long dreadlocks trailing to her chin, each cared for. The only sign of exhaustion lays in the bleak stare of her brown eyes, the bags underneath, and the creases along her dark brown skin. Her cheeks are less filled out. She has not been eating or sleeping well.

Ivon runs a hand through their blond hair. Their hair has also grown out, reaching beyond their chin. Though they attack it with a comb every day, it always seems to tangle and form knots. Though annoying, it seems so much less of a problem when they think about all that Jo has gone through. They rake their head, both for ideas but also to run fingers through the small knots already forming. The person exhales sharply. “—What did you want for your birthday this year?”

“Ha!” It makes Jo throw her head back and laugh. “What could I want _now_ that fucking helps? I can’t… For Christ’s sake, Ivon, I’m stuck on this flying piece of metal. You see the bathrooms they got here? You see them, yeah? The sleep pods? How does anyone adjust to _this?”_

“—There’s a way to make a bed pop out of the… Uh. Floor.” Ivon points out, frowning widely when Jo groans. “I can show you. Or—Louanne. Garcia? Louanne can. She figured it out.”

“That’s not the point! God,” Jo flops unto the bar counter, turning her head to rest against it while maintaining eye contact with the person. “Ivon, I can’t… It doesn’t matter what I _want._ Anything I wanted—It left. That day. When the site _exploded_ and _thousands of people died._ ”

The memory stings, bringing with it a great wave of guilt over their body. Ivon’s shoulders slump. “It isn’t… It’s not your fault.”

“They’re still dead. I’m here. I can’t… I doubt I’ll get to see my family again—Do you know I sometimes have nightmares about them being in the blasts? Screaming at me the way Mark did before that fucking alien monstrosity tore him apart? Or—Or—I’ll dream their eyes melting out—Their bodies riddled in gunshots—Just being fucking _dead._ I don’t even know if they’re still alive. Maybe Stargazer fucked with them personally. People in power do shit to _retaliate_ —”

“They probably think we’re dead,” Ivon tries to intervene, but Jo snaps upright and narrows her eyes at them.

“I know you called your boss a couple times in that batshit show. I doubt we’re completely, uh… What’s the phrase? _Off the grid?_ ” Jo throws her hands into the air. “I doubt we’re off the fucking grid! There, said it.”

“You did.” Ivon says.

“Even if they think we’re dead—It’s not like. I can’t just go back and show up. It’d draw Stargazer to them if they aren’t already under surveillance,” Jo curses under her breath and drops her hands to her lap. She shakes her head. “God, this is all fucked up. So fucked up. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I can’t sleep, Ivon. I can’t. I close my eyes and the number repeats in my head. Sometimes I look at you or Garcia and I just… I have flashbacks to the moments in the research center. The halls. Running from that thing—From the _xenomorph_ —It just fills me with panic. Terror. Fear. I’m not… I’m not doing so good right now. I’m not fucking okay.”

Ivon debates putting a hand on her shoulder. They do not want to cross the lines of being inappropriate, but their chest aches for their friend. Their hands tense into fists and they offer, “If you need to talk, Jo, I’m…”

“Talking makes it worse. Thinking about it makes it… Just… Fuck. I don’t—” She holds her head in her hands. “I don’t want to _talk_ about this anymore. I just—You want to know what I want for my birthday? I want to fucking forget this ever happened. But I can’t.” Jo looks up, tears brimming her eyes.

“Jo…” Ivon purses their lips.

“Neither can you. Neither can Louanne. We’ll be like this until the end.” Jo whispers. When she begins to cry, Ivon instinctively reaches for her, unable to stand the sight. She leans against them and sobs into their shoulder.

* * *

“We need to go shopping.”

 _“Good afternoon_ to you as well, Ivon.” Louanne comments dryly from where she stands next to a metal table. The doctor’s gray eyes sharpen on the Yautja stretching in front of it. She snaps a finger at his legs, “You’re favoring the right again.”

“I am,” Merciless’ bio-mask translates the words in monotone, though the actual clicks sound grotesquely annoyed. “It won’t submit.”

“It’s a leg.” Louanne rubs her forehead. She turns away and waves Ivon over, the electrician temporarily distracted by the sight of Merciless listening to a human. Louanne’s brows rise as she peers at the individual. Ivon has had better nights: they look terribly exhausted, with bloodshot eyes and heavy bags beneath. She hesitates, but her conscious negs her to say something. “Are you… Are you _well,_ Ivon?”

“We need to go shopping.” The electrician repeats. It dawns on the doctor they speak to the alien nearby.

Merciless begins to cackle with laughter. Louanne pinches the bridge of her nose. She already needs to drag his exercises out two hours past the normal end time—For ungodly reasons she wishes she knew nothing about, the Yautja was not ready this morning. In fact, the hunter was not ready until she came knocking, first at his private quarters, then at the cockpit door. Louanne wants to erase the past twenty-four hours from her conscious, subconscious, hell—Even her unconsciousness deserves better. The mere thought brings a different kind of disgust to her stomach.

 _Talking! Does not mean!... God damnit!_ Louanne hisses in her head. She resists the urge to pull her hair out and begin screaming. Instead, the doctor parts her lips and glances from the offending Yautja—she won’t get an apology anytime soon—to Ivon at her side. A thought crosses her mind. “Is… This because of Jo?”

“She’s not. Doing well.” Ivon averts their gaze.

The hatch to one of the medical pods pops open with a loud hiss. Louanne’s shoulders slump while she watches the second Yautja, the one that is supposed to be _recovered,_ climb out of the pod. Dark liquid falls off and leaves a large puddle behind while Maelstrom clicks a greeting at Ivon, “Who is not doing well? Ivon.”

“We are in the middle of _his_ physical therapy—Is this conversation necessary to hold here?” Louanne tries to reel in the bite of her words. She inhales deeply, centers her thoughts, and tries again. “I mean— _Ivon_. Can you wait ten minutes? We’re almost done with the calves. I’ll let Merciless have a break and we can… _discuss_ shopping. Plans. Shopping plans.”

Ivon blinks in surprise, mouth hanging open at the doctor’s words. “Are _you_ feeling okay?”

“No. No, I am not.” Louanne thinks back to the morning and resists the urge to retch. She hears one Yautja begin to laugh and the other click in curiosity, translator switched off. The two Yautja click back-and-forth before the second Yautja keels over in great howls of laughter, joining in Merciless’ raucous behavior. Louanne grimaces. “Ten minutes, Ivon.”

“Alright.” The electrician bites their lip. “Should I ask?”

“For your own wellbeing, no, don’t.” Louanne growls under her breath. “Merciless! I will beat your legs _myself_ if necessary—”

The ten minutes stretches into an hour of primarily laughter and more laughter, all at _her_ expense. Louanne makes a note to never wake the Yautja again. If he’s too busy to stretch his damn legs and regain mobility, that is his problem—Not hers. Her disgust eventually fades to vast irritation, which melts into a tediousness at having to deal with the alien at all. Louanne gives up after the hour, leaves Merciless clicking away in conversation to Maelstrom, and gestures for Ivon to follow her out. She steps away enough for the medical bay door to slide shut. Ivon frowns and looks from her to the door.

“I know you said not to ask—” The electrician begins, but Louanne’s hiss shuts them up. They throw up their hands and wave them in defense. “Okay, okay! Is it that bad?”

She glares and begins tapping one foot. “What is going on with Jo?”

“Oh—Oh, uh,” Ivon rubs the back of their head. They grimace. “She’s… Listen, she’s not doing well. We were talking over lunch—She said some things that made me think she might be depressed. That, and—I think she’s having the same symptoms as me.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from this entire ordeal.” Louanne remarks briskly, tapping her chin in thought. “I’ll need to talk to her. With her permission—”

“Tried that. She doesn’t… Want to talk about it. I worry she’s trying to bottle it all up. Put on a strong front.” Ivon shakes their head. Their brown gaze is full of concern. It would be touching if Louanne wasn’t reeling from the weight of agitation over the actions of a certain hunter in the medical bay.

“So—You think shopping will help? Is that why you asked about it?” The woman tucks a strand of black hair behind one ear. She taps her foot.

“She mentioned her birthday. I thought… Maybe, I don’t know—You and I—We could go find her something _human_ to get. Clothes? A nice watch? What do women your age like?” Ivon frowns and stares intently at her.

Louanne grimaces. “You can’t generalize women my age, Ivon.”

“I don’t have much to go off on!” Ivon exclaims. “No offense, but you aren’t the best person to walk around saying that.”

The doctor’s gaze dims. They aren’t wrong; she has no right to make such remarks when she herself is guilty of the same. She inhales softly and redirects the subject, “You want my opinion? I think clothes would be wonderful. Something colorful, like a bright blue skirt or top—Something that isn’t black-and-gray mesh suits all the time.” Louanne nods after she finishes speaking. She can see the gears turn in Ivon’s head, every bit indicative of their intent to follow through on the idea.

“…Clothes, then. Yeah. That’s a great idea.” The human pauses. “Can you, erm, could you convince Mercy to stop at a human city? I have no idea how to afford any of them, but. It wouldn’t hurt to look.”

“If it’s a city of tourists, or wealthy individuals—You could always steal them.” Louanne remarks.

Ivon gawks at the idea.

The doctor shrugs amicably. “Unless there is an ATM that accesses international bank accounts—You don’t have much of an option.”

“Guess not—But… But _stealing_ them just seems… Fuck. I don’t like it.” The electrician shudders.

“It’s for a good cause?” She offers another shrug. “I can talk to Merciless. There is no guarantee he’ll agree. Though—” The doctor pauses. Her brows furrow at a thought, lips stretched in a thin frown. She knows Ivon stares, but she is too busy deliberating to comment. “—I wonder—Perhaps—If we mention there will be _hats_ to buy—Perhaps… He would be more open to the idea.”

“For Sundew?” Ivon catches on to what she means.

It only makes Louanne’s mind go back to what she heard earlier in the day. She scrunches up her face, grimaces, and turns from Ivon. “Yes, yes, for—For _Sundew._ ”

“That’s a good idea.” They nod, pausing after. For a moment it looks like they might press her for an answer about the morning’s events, but to her relief, Ivon looks away. “Let me know afterward. What he thinks. Says. Yeah. I’ll check on Jo; keep an eye on her.”

* * *

When the room is void of oomans, what had been rowdy and crude laughter gradually dies down into awkward silence. It is not _hostile_ , though even if it were Vayuh’ta doubts the other Yautja could best her in combat at that moment, but it is uncomfortable thick and heavy silence. Vayuh’ta leans against her medical pod, arms crossed. Her bio-mask hums softly; she needs to ask the ooman electrician to look at the ventilation system used to prevent overheating. Vayuh’ta makes a note to seek out Ivon later. She keeps her gaze firmly on the clean metal table protruding from the floor of the medical bay, where one Elite hunter is sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his bio-mask at his side. M-di-H’chak massages his left calf while Vayuh’ta peers at him.

The two have not spoken much outside small talk and discussing H’chak’s practical joke. Despite the time spent since she was brought to the serpentine ship for medical care, something manages to pop up and distract one of the two without fail. Vayuh’ta reckons it is one reason why she and him are at an odd crossroads: the two are not necessarily _enemies,_ but that does not make them allies. Having a kinship through blood does not make her trust him. If anything—It raises questions, and while she has her own theories, she does not know what _he_ thinks. She does not want to make assumptions, and part of her wonders how badly she wants answers.

 _Is staying strangers for the best? Not… engaging further. He is not a Bad Blood. Or—Not yet._ Her gaze narrows behind her bio-mask.

She is lucky—The soak in the medical pod earlier has alleviated much of the pain across her backside. What was terrible and encroaching has since transitioned to a faint throbbing ache. Some days have been _horrendous,_ where not even a medical pod aids in negating the depth of her pain. Her damaged nerves occasionally spike in pain to the point she is debilitated and unable to move. The chronic pain, along with the _mess_ that is scar tissue and grafts of skin across her backside, are permanent. She lives, but she is not the huntress she once knew herself as.

 _Was I right in saving her? That Image?_ The huntress finds herself questioning, gaze averted to the clean metal walls of the room. Her mandibles click together softly. _It would have killed her, but I could have jumped out of the way. Ran. Fought. Why did I let her live?_

Ultimately, the answer forces her to return to the subject of kinship.

_Gahn’tha-cte._

It would be easier to let the subject lay dead, but the only reason she is there now is _because_ of the Elite’s clan. Knowing his clan is the reason behind her intervening on Sundew’s behalf. She did not want to piss off a member of the Ruthless Clan by letting his Im-Gen die. It was all speculation up until the blood transfusion.

Vayuh’ta snarls loudly to get the other Yautja’s attention. She pushes herself upright and walks over, droplets of dark pod liquid falling from her mesh-covered form in the process. _“Spare a minute of your time, kv’var-de.”_

 _“Sei-i?”_ The hunter pauses; his gaze slowly trails up. In comparison, he dons no bio-mask. She can make out every detail across his face, from the gleaming, razor-sharp teeth of his jaws to the firm, battle-chipped tusks of his four mandibles. She notes his face has smaller scales, with the green melding into murky green-brown where his orange eyes sink into his eye sockets. The scales on his cheeks are rounded and tiny, reminding her of ooman freckles.

He does not have dreadlocks the length of hers. His are much shorter, but when she peers closely she notes the presence of thick, bulging scars across locations of large follicles on the side of his skull. It hints at Gahn’tha-cte’s rites and rules, where a warrior may be disgraced and shamed in absence of death. Closer to the individual’s neck and running down the middle of his forehead all the way past his eyes and to his mouth, are dozens of tiny black-and-brown _quills._

Vayuh’ta absentmindedly lifts a gloved hand to her own neck; there, the mesh bodysuit ends, and a short stretch of her neck is visible. Along the side of her neck, closer to but not quite _at_ her nape, she has tiny quills of the same consistency and color. She clicks roughly, attempting to mimic Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s rough and merciless dialect, _“We are related.”_

 _“I didn’t know you wanted to talk about it.”_ The Yautja looks back down, staring where the legging of his suit has been rolled up to expose his poor left calf. There are definite signs of damage to the scales and muscles. Even healed—Vayuh’ta can tell _something_ isn’t right.

The huntress shrugs. She flexes a hand and then pulls her gloves off, letting them dangle where they connect to her own thermal mesh at the top of the wrist. Vayuh’ta extends her fingers and shows the sharp claws. She examines her own—pure black, sharp, but shorter than some are known to be—before she gestures for him to extend his hand. H’chak snorts and shakes his head, but Vayuh’ta is full of determination. She grabs his right hand and pulls the glove off, forcing him to spread his palm and fingers while H’chak begins to growl under his breath at her disrespect. It confirms her thoughts; he has the same short black claws.

 _“That wasn’t necessary,”_ He rips his hand free from her and tenses a fist. _“It’s already been—The transfusion worked, sain’ja.”_

She snorts at the remark and shakes her head, long dreadlocks clinking together where the ringlets and beads bump into each other. Vayuh’ta pauses, then peers at the sporadic, spaced-out dreadlocks of her relative. The color is identical: black. The darkest, most sacred shade of black, a void so perfect she does not know how it slipped her mind before the transfusions in the first place.

 _“Ka’Torag-na Clan calls it the Pride of Cetanu,”_ she clicks and straightens upright, cracking her neck before finagling her gloves back on. _“Dreadlocks holy as the Black Hunter… Said to mark his descendants with his blessing.”_

 _“You believe that?”_ H’chak’s mandibles twitch. His orange eyes stare at the mask, but it feels like they stare directly through the mask at her.

 _“It is one of the… whispers passed down by the Elders. Warnings. Stories. Parables. Tales. Call it what you will, M-di-H’chak,”_ the huntress shrugs. _“Some of them hold merit. Others are… Others do not make sense.”_

She keeps the _whisper_ of _Vekin_ to herself. The little knowledge she possesses on _Vekin_ over a member of Clan _Gahn’tha-cte_ is not something she wants to give up easily.

Her attention shifts to his left leg. She grunts at him and nudges in the direction. H’chak growls curtly, _“It will heal.”_

 _“If it doesn’t?”_ She asks, if only out of curiosity.

The way his mandibles come together in a tight ‘frown’ makes her snort. Vayuh’ta does not comment when the other Yautja cusses under his breath. Ultimately, H’chak gives her a swift, _“I’ll get used to it.”_

_“Spoken like a sain’ja.”_

_“Ki’sei! I am a sain’ja!”_ the cocky laugh that follows comes from H’chak, and it makes the room feel a little less tense between the two. Vayuh’ta relaxes her shoulders and peers down at him. He tilts his head to one side, peering up at her in response. _“I owe you a debt for your blood.”_

 _“We can sort it out later.”_ The huntress dismisses his words. _“How many cycles are you, M-di-H’chak? I am curious to know our relationship.”_

_“Two-One-Five.”_

_“…You are… younger. Than I thought. Two-hundred cycles is early for an Elite—”_

_“By your clan’s standards or mine?”_ H’chak stares pointedly at her bio-mask’s visors. He snorts after a moment and chitters softly in amusement. _“It doesn’t matter. It won’t… Be relevant soon enough.”_

The news gives her pause. She clicks briskly, _“Explain.”_

 _“You are… ic’jit. Bad Blood of Clan Ka’Torag-Na.”_ The hunter chirps, then waits for her objection. When she says nothing, when she does not deny it, he nods once. _“I am disavowing my clan and its rules. I will join you as ic’jit. Bad Blood of Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_

The words make blood drain from her face, hidden under her bio-mask. She imagines it is easy to notice regardless, what with her posture going rigid and her hands slowly tensing into fists. She grabs the Yautja by his bodysuit’s collar, lifts him up, and snarls, _“S’yuit-de! Why does an honorable Elite want to be ic’jit? You have two-hundred-plus cycles to your name—You want to throw it away? Abandon your clan? For what?”_

Her disgust—at herself for conveying being a Bad Blood is acceptable, and at him for wanting such a thing—dissipates when the full spectrum lenses of her optical system catch a strange shift in hue across the Yautja’s face. Vayuh’ta shuts off the helmet and peers out beyond it with her natural thermal vision. With it, she can tell the other Yautja’s blood moves to his face.

The comments of the morning, of the practical joke she laughed at not so long ago, suddenly ring in her head with a completely different context. Vayuh’ta stares at him a long, quiet, painfully awkward moment—Before she lets go of the hunter, recoils backward, and begins laughing and howling _hysterically._ It is all too good to be true, but when she catches her breath and stands upright, the irritated look in the hunter’s eyes tells her everything she needs to know. Vayuh’ta snorts loudly, refusing to let the matter drop no matter how much she _knows_ he wants her to forget it. Her clicks are brief and demanding, _“Which one?”_

She gets a thousand curses of varying volumes and a glare so jarring it might take her aback under _any other circumstances._ It is too funny to let go of in this case, and with the debt he owes her—Vayuh’ta can laugh and chortle as long and often as she likes, at peace with the knowledge he can’t hurl her off the ship forty-thousand-feet above sea level. She begins to tap a foot with _astounding_ impatience when the Elite does not respond.

 _“I wondered why you washed. Came in reeking of soap. But I bet the other one didn’t,”_ she tilts her head to one side, fully intending to give him as much _cjit_ as possible until he confesses. _“I can go around asking to smell each of them. Or you can make this easy on both of us.”_

It is sheer comedy, the _epitome_ of humor, in her eyes when she watches the thermal signature of his face indicate he is blushing furiously.

_“What I do in private is not—”_

_“Garcia.”_ Vayuh’ta begins, peering candidly.

The Elite looks confused.

_“Ivon.”_

_“What are you—”_

_“Jo? No? The only other one on this ship is...”_

It finally clicks. Vayuh’ta derives another long, raucous cackle from the man’s flustered hiss.

Her mandibles clack together in delight. _“I’ve never heard of a kv’var-de mating with an Im-Gen—”_

She ducks when he attempts to leap from the table and unto her. Vayuh’ta’s steps are lighter than air, every bit as energetic as she feels from tormenting her relative. Any concern over him being a Bad Blood is gone in favor of seeing how far she can push him. She snorts at his feint, already moving to block what should have been a terrible uppercut. He snaps at her face, mandibles chittering with rage when she starts to chortle.

Vayuh’ta knows her muscles are far more healed than his. The situation is a fight in her favor; she grapples back-and-forth with him, daring to go shoulder-to-shoulder with the taller warrior. _“That serious about Sun-Dew?”_

 _“Ell-osde’ pauk!”_ H’chak is too enraged to think about where he throws his punches. Vayuh’ta sees this clearly, ducking and weaving around him in her own bemused fashion. She waits until he throws a fist too far, then crams her elbow into the small of his back and throws him to the ground. She wrenches his arm back through his howl of pain, twisting it until he stops thrashing and calms.

Vayuh’ta huffs and sits on his back, _“Rusty. Dishonorable, too. Attacking a huntress without cause.”_

_“Get off.”_

_“I will, soon, after I am through laughing at your expense.”_ She feels incredibly calm giving him _cjit_ , totally free of all worries and obligations. Vayuh’ta makes a note to continue the habit into the future. For now, she only tacks on, _“You developed a softness for an Im-Gen. Curious. How does that happen?”_

H’chak growls something under his breath, mandibles pressed and squashed into the metal floor.

 _“Tell me this,”_ she clicks her mandibles together. _“Was your joke a moment of crude humor at the doctor’s expense? Or did something actually happen?”_

 _“The… morning remarks were a joke.”_ He trills with agitation.

 _“Something did happen, but not in the morning. Ah.”_ Vayuh’ta pauses and, after a moment’s thought, releases him. She stands up, offers a hand, but retracts it when the other Yautja snarls at her with venom. The huntress tilts her head to one side. _“We are relatives now. I will give you cjit for everything.”_

_“Related by blood, not by clan.”_

_“What if we are related by blood and by clan?”_ The huntress can see the thought slowly encroach H’chak’s mind, dissipating his irritation and anger in favor of taking a more cautious approach. Vayuh’ta crosses her arms. _“I have my suspicions—”_ She cuts herself off when the medical bay door slides open and the doctor ooman walks in.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” The ooman— _Garcia_ —strides over to where H’chak remains sprawled out on the floor. She grimaces when he looks up at her. “Merciless—Dare I ask why? No, I think not. Get up; I have a request.”

Vayuh’ta backs away, retreating to her medical pod and popping the hatch open in event the two need privacy. The thought makes her snicker behind her bio-mask—If something as absurd as _that_ happens, she will turn herself in to Ka’Torag-Na on the spot and beg for the final rest!

What comes out is nothing so ludicrous, but it does take Vayuh’ta aback to hear the ooman speak, “We need to dock in a city with an international ATM. I don’t care if you don’t know what those words mean, _I_ do, and Ivon does, question them on it if you must—We need to pick up more medication for Ivon, and several other items—” When H’chak begins to click at her, Garcia stomps her foot. “I don’t _care_ what you say. This is a necessary stop.”

 _“I was going to agree with the soft meat.”_ H’chak clicks over his shoulder at Vayuh’ta, annoyed.

She snorts in response. An opportunity for retribution at his dishonorable attack presents itself. Her mask’s translator boots up and a monotonous voice sounds, “He agrees under the condition you purchase a gift for him to impress Sun-Dew with.”

It is well, well, _well_ worth having to throw herself to the side and roll out of the way when he attempts to grab her a second time. She finds herself laughing. In the background, the ooman doctor sighs as the two Yautja in the room begin to circle each other for a second duel.

* * *

When he unlocks his cabin door and steps inside, the hunter is pleasantly surprised to find the faded magenta outline of a figure inspecting the trophies hanging on the wall of his private quarters. The Yautja pauses when he steps inside and prompts the door to slide shut behind him. His first thought is to wander to the opposite wall, directly behind the sleeping pod, and pop a drawer out from the wall. He fetches his bio-mask from within and keeps it tucked under one arm before he wanders to Sundew’s side and stands next to where she sits.

 _“Do you like them?”_ His voice reverberates in the long clicks and soft hiss. _“I had… more. At my former clanship. Two rooms full of trophies. These are… My favorites, now.”_

On the floor, Sundew sits cross-legged, a skull of a terribly large primate in her grasp. The size alone is at least double her head in height. It comes from a beast that almost tore his arm clean off during the Hunt, a thrilling memory of an honorable battle. The way Sundew holds it is obscenely gentle, with the Image cradling it to her chest and looking up with a calm smile. “Hello, H’chak. I thought Doctor Garcia intended to keep you for the entire day?”

 _“She did, then she didn’t.”_ The Yautja decides to take a seat, opting to sit directly behind her. Because of the difference in the two’s height, it is easy for him to observe the way her hands delicately feel the shape of the skull. She appears enamored with the object, constantly turning it over and tracing the bumps and indentations indicating where he struck it dead. As he watches, he leans forward to her left ear and clicks, _“Vayuh’ta may approach you in the future. She might… ask about me. About you—With me. About us.”_

“Do Yautja clans speak freely about copulation? Or is the act considered taboo?” Sundew answers immediately, gaze transfixed on the skull.

 _“She’s… ‘Giving me cjit.’ Take that how you will. Don’t let her bother you.”_ H’chak crosses his arms and leans back. He stares at Sundew’s back as she hums in acknowledgement, though his mind is _far_ from skulls or the second Yautja onboard. He pulls on his helmet and opts to turn on the optical lenses, giving him a clear picture of the world in a range of color and hues. H’chak returns his sights to the Image’s back. He cannot deny the faint purr of pride that comes when his eyes find the marks he left on her neck, her shoulders, and her back.

It is all visible through the netting of her mesh bodysuit. Though she has the appropriate wrappings on to cover her chest and groin, she has nothing to prevent him from admiring the night’s handiwork. _His_ handiwork. Tiny bite wounds, greedy silver bruises from where he sucked too much—or too little—and the shallow streaks of gray against her impossibly silver skin. He restrained himself, kept his lust in check, but his scratches grazed her skin regardless. It all seemed to provoke greater responses, more enthusiasm, and new iterations of his name from her lips. The longer he looks at the marks, the more he wants to leave a fresh set and devour her skin with his tongue and teeth.

The first time had been a chance to test the waters and see if the two were physically compatible. The following three times were a mess of his body entangling hers, nothing but sheer adoration of an intoxicating degree spread between the two. Though he recalls Sundew fell asleep after, he trills in satisfaction at the knowledge she woke him up for _more_ hours after each act. It is the most sex he has had in cycles, and the only sex he’s had where there is no pressure to procreate. Every second is divine, like Cetanu himself blessed the Yautja’s nerves, and he is forced to acknowledge—again—he is a hopeless mess.

 _Cetanu have mercy,_ is all he thinks when Sundew looks back at him almost expectantly. H’chak half wants to take her again. His hands tense and he stares back. _“Sei-i?”_

“These need to be wiped down and polished. Do you clean them yourself?” Sundew tilts her head to one side.

The hat looks damn good on her, the only thing she needs whenever she’s beneath him.

 _“In the past—Yes. It’s been many cycles.”_ H’chak stiffens when the Image shakes her head at him. He squints at her from behind the bio-mask. _“What?”_

“You have to clean them more often. And the rest of your quarters—I am happy to do so if you have more of the supplies we used for the cockpit.” Sundew states calmly.

He growls loud enough to make her purse her lips. H’chak rises to his feet, swipes the skull from her, and makes to hang it on the wall once more. The hunter looks down at her, admiring her face all over again in the process. _“…You are not a_ _maid._ ”

“I did not claim to be one?” Sundew blinks. “Hygiene standards are imperative for a clean space—Besides,” she pauses a moment, contemplative, before shrugging and adding on. “Your trophy collection is very impressive. I do not want this collection to be ruined by dirt or grease or dust.” She says other things, all of which involve cleaning in some fashion, but it goes over his head. His mind becomes locked unto one specific sentence.

 _Your trophy collection is very impressive._ His eyes become big and bright as he stares down at her. H’chak kneels next to her side and tenses his hands into fists. _“You are impressed by it? My collection? You like them?”_

He purrs in triumph at her swift nod. Sundew’s smile is slight, but it grows into a _grin_ when he reaches for her and pulls her against him. H’chak plops on the ground and wraps his arms around her torso, greedily ensnaring her to him. He breathes in the filtered air of his mask and relaxes underneath the enticing scent, going so far to take his bio-mask off so he can properly enjoy the moment. He feels her inhale deeply and shift to lay her back against him. Her legs, almost _instinctively_ , attempt to entwine with his own. H’chak drops his head to rest on her shoulder. His throat and chest rumble as he begins to purr, the act voicing every moment of pleasure—physical and otherwise.

“I think they are beautiful testaments to your strength,” is Sundew’s response, tightening her grip on him. She exhales sharply when H’chak shifts his mouth to her neck, mandible spreading out to gently tickle other points of her skin.

He lets his tongue flick out between teeth and claim an inch of skin before he presses her for more answers. _“Go on.”_

“They,” Sundew’s breath hitches when the Yautja repeats the action. “—They each—Tell their own story. Their own life. Death. Battle.”

His orange eyes light up when he pulls away and clicks. _“Honorable Hunts. All of them. Jehdin-jehdin.”_

“I do not understand the last—” Sundew’s words are interrupted by her sharp intake of air at his hands shifting to run up and down the sides of her torso.

 _“One kv’var-de. One meat. Prey. An honorable fight. I remember each one…”_ His clicks trail off. The Yautja pauses when Sundew turns around and faces him. She sits on her knees between his legs, peering up with clear eyes and the face of the most thrilling trophy he has ever sought.

“Tell me,” Sundew requests. “I want to know everything about your Hunts.”

If there is one thing he is more enthusiastic about than a Hunt, than _her_ , it is his now meager collection of trophies. H’chak is more than happy to chirp and trill the tales of each one: pointing to them one-by-one, discussing the trophy’s determination and strengths, and explaining what he did to overcome his prey and claim victory. It is different than before, back when he was on the clan ship. There—The trophies were often _looked at_ , but their appeal was never indulged in this manner. Most Yautja come to their own conclusions about how a hunter got a trophy on their own. H’chak discovers divulging the details to an enthusiastic audience is far more satisfying.

Nothing he says is missed or overlooked. He only sees Sundew’s faded magenta outline, but he can tell she is intent to devour every word of his tales. Even the minor details, like him sharpening a _dah’kte_ the morning of a Hunt, or his decisions to forego pieces of equipment to make a Hunt equal if not more of a challenge, are received with as much enthusiasm as everything else he says. He _enjoys_ talking about it all, practically reliving the glory of the kill, basking in pride and mirth whenever Sundew compliments his past decisions.

By the time he is done, he is both out of breath and desperate to go on more Hunts to get more trophies, if only so he has something to talk about and share with the Image nearby. He winds up sitting behind her once more, arms snaked around her torso and tracing shapes across her hips. His delighted trills remain even after he has said everything there is to say about the trophies on the wall.

“H’chak?” Sundew peers over her shoulder at him. He chirps in acknowledgement. The Image inhales deeply, “Thank you for telling me about your trophies.”

 _“I’ll get more. More Hunts, more trophies, more… Plenty more. I’ll have new stories to tell you,”_ he swears on it by Cetanu, leaning down just far enough to breathe against her ear. _“I had more on my… Clan ship. Former clan ship. Two rooms full of them. Two Queens. You would be impressed; I am an established warrior.”_

He clicks in concern when the Image begins laughing, light and airy against him. She leans into his chest and settles there. “You already impress me. You are an astounding individual, H’chak. I was captivated by your duel with the Arbitrator in the rainforest. You made it look like it was nothing—"

 _“It was nothing.”_ The Yautja trills in agreement. _“He was distracted by the loss of the second Arbitrator. Enraged. He did not have the experience to back up the emotional response. Even if he had—He was a Brawler, a disadvantageous specialty against my skills. I have trained extensively with both dah’kte and the ki’cti-pa. My name—Merciless. No mercy. It once meant something in my clan. Before…”_ The Yautja falls quiet, mandibles clicking together lightly with indecision.

Sundew draws back and turns to face him. Her hands rise to his face, cupping his cheeks and slowly running her gloved thumbs over his lower mandibles. “I know.”

His throat and chest rumble at the contact. _“I’m glad those days are behind me. Even if my name means nothing to anyone—”_

“False,” Sundew cuts off his string of chirrups. She tilts her head to one side. Though he struggles to make out the fine details of her face, he can hear her smile. “It means something to me.”

The sentence makes heat bloom inside his abdomen. He relaxes under her touch, willing his body to calm. _“What does it mean to you?”_

“You are strong. Efficient. Thorough.” Her hands drop from his face but stop at his chest. Sundew inhales deeply. “Fearsome. Lethal. Ruthless—”

His purr becomes a husky growl in an instant. H’chak can smell it in the air, wafting through the room and filling his olfactory receptors. He holds her to his chest with one arm while calmly flipping the two’s positions. It feels good and right to see her on the floor beneath him, breathing softly while he nudges her legs open. She parts them and falls silent, only making soft gasps or moans when his hands skirt up her chest to the soft mounds there.

 _“You don’t know what your words do to me,”_ the hunter clicks, both with amusement, with mirth, and a mild degree of frustration. His hands take a breast in each hand and he begins to squeeze and roll them between fingers, eliciting a louder moan from the Image beneath him.

She begins to pant. “Is that—Good? Bad? H’chak— _ah,”_ her hands curl into tiny fists when the Yautja begins to rub the erect nipples through the wrappings and mesh bodysuit.

 _“Good for you. Good for me. Sometimes frustrating—Mostly good,”_ he answers with a low, rumbling purr. He appreciates how fragrant she is, giving him the information he needs to know about how badly she wants him. He may be a Yautja, but she has a beguiling hunger for his touch. H’chak intends to impress her. He lets go of her breasts and puts hands on either side of her head, narrowly missing the brim of her hat as he leans down and growls against her throat. He lowers his chest to hers and rumbles in a gesture of affection, of _lust._

Her response is to wrap arms around his neck, slipping them under his dreadlocks.

 _Cetanu have mercy._ He is lost in the aroma now, his mind spiraling from coherency to the thrill of copulation. H’chak takes a deep breath and reminds himself she is not Yautja. He needs to be gentle, patient, loving…

 _Loving._ He feels the blood rush to his groin and face. Sundew inhales sharply and bumps her hips against his. He unsheathes a little more behind the loincloth, trilling in want the whole way.

“H’chak,” Sundew breathes against him while he presses his forehead to her own, crumpling her hat’s brim in the process. His breathy grunt is all the acknowledgement he can think to give her. “Do you want to _pauk_ me?”

It is said so sweetly, sincerely, calmly, full of warmth for him—And all he can do is groan and grind his hips against her own, letting the growing bulge speak his desires and wants. He hears her laugh again. She puts a hand to his chest and pushes his back just enough for her to sit up and wrestle the mesh suit off. H’chak is keen on helping her. More than that—He is keen on getting her back underneath him, a pent of mess of adoration and attraction. No sooner than the damn mesh is off, H’chak practically tears his off in a similar process. He cannot get the modesty wrappings loose fast enough, both on his body and on hers.

He can barely think as he settles his body over hers, throat reverberating in hoarse need. He spreads her legs lowers his head to her neck. His tongue flicks out over the soft flesh there while one hand finds her clit and begins to re-acquaint itself with the nub of nerves. Hearing the Image go from a panting mess to a writhing song of his name fills him with purpose. He is fully erect now. His groin throbs so badly he might keel over if he doesn’t get relief soon. With a desperation unbecoming a hunter, he rubs the head of his cock between the Image’s wet opening.

 _“I need you,”_ he groans each syllable, clicking frantically for her to respond.

Her body relaxes. She reaches up and cradles his face. “I was hoping you would say that.”

H’chak finds himself thrusting inside her, pressing the head of his cock as far in as he can go. The cool temperature of the Image’s channel is enough to make him garble incoherently. He feels her gasp and hiss as he thrusts in more and more, filling her up and claiming every inch of intimacy for himself. It does not take as long as the first time; Sundew’s hands tense and she breathes shakily, but she nods at him to keep going. He returns a hand to her clit and gingerly rubs it between two fingers, careful not to scratch with his clawtips. Her moans are delicious to hear. He can feel every breath, tremble, shake, curl of toes, tension in hands, the arch of her back and the way her mouth parts or clenches—Nothing escapes him when he pulls out and gyrates his hips into hers.

He plops both hands on either side of her head, keeping her all for himself and him alone as his grunts and her soft cries fill the air. What begins as carefully constrained lust begins to bubble up inside his abdomen as he plunges into the cool opening and smacks his hips into her own. It is perfect, her all around him, receiving and taking his entire length with each new thrust. He hears her pants and wanton cries for more. He trills in desperate mirth, both overwhelmed in ecstasy at the intimacy of the moment while simultaneously vying for more. Sundew’s hands pull his head down and she presses her lips against his lower-right mandible just before a sharp drive of his cock has her crying out his name.

It throws him over the edge. His cock pulses inside her and he holds her still, roaring his victory while his climax explodes out of him. Sundew’s back arches and she loosens a guttural cry of pleasure as she orgasms on him, her muscles strangling him in the tightness. H’chak struggles to catch his breath and not crush her under his body weight while he watches her toes curl and her body ride the high of her climax.

When he goes flaccid and begins to retract, the Yautja pulls himself out and drops to her side. He pulls her into his arms and begins to purr softly, clutching her to his chest and running his mandibles down her neck. Sundew relaxes, breathing heavy and thighs trembling, likely from the intensity of it all.

“We,” the Image shifts her head to look up, no doubt at _him_. “We have to clean this. Too.”

 _“Later,”_ H’chak’s chest rumbles. _“When I’m through with you.”_

He finds great satisfaction in her pressing her lips to his collarbone. “You may never be through with me.”

 _“Then I’ll clean while you rest.”_ He clicks the words, already hearing the exhaustion seeping through Sundew’s voice. It is a common trend afterward; for a species that claims not to sleep, Sundew always falls into the tired states whenever they are done. He doesn’t mind. He likes holding her. He likes having her close. He likes knowing she relies on him to be an adequate pillow.

H’chak leans down and rubs his cheek against her head, the hat getting in the way but him not giving a damn of it all. As far as he is concerned, the only thing that matters is that he and Sundew are safe and together.

Nothing is going to change that.


	25. s'yuit-de

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His decisions? His decisions? Guan stares in shock. The shock melds into disbelief, then to anger, then to a simmering fire brewing in his bones. He cannot speak. Tjau’ke must notice his rigid and tense posture, as she slicks her mandibles together and shakes her head. Guan’s restraint is great, but even he cannot hold his tongue when he blurts out, “M-di-H’chak is dead because of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the world of political conspiracies, everyone. 
> 
> this special chapter takes place immediately after m-di-h'chak wakes up.

In the medical bay of Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship, the tending nurse makes a _tsk_ noise when Guan walks through the open doors and through the common areas, bypassing multiple nurses monitoring healing pods. Two other patients, both Unblooded who bit off more than they could chew, snap their heads up and stare with wide eyes from beyond the glass hatches of their pods. Guan ignores the two teenagers and remains quiet when the tall, lumbering frame of the head nurse waves him over to her. Even at a distance, he sees the surprise sinking into the nurse’s blue-gray eyes. Guan bows his head and gestures from himself to the bright green blood oozing out of multiple, deep lacerations.

 _“I don’t want to impede on your time, Tjau’ke, but…_ ” The Adjutant clears his throat. His mandibles click together briefly. _“I was advised to come here by the Elder overseeing the kehrite.”_

 _“This is from training? Training with whom?”_ The nurse’s mandibles click in response, voice shrill in comparison to his natural pitch.

Tjau’ke is an intimidating figure to walk up to; she has an entire foot over him, topping eight-foot-three when standing. Her dreadlocks are intricately twisted in a manner not common across the clan; where the Yautja of Gahn’tha-cte choose to wear the dreadlocks down, Tjau’ke elects to layer hers in one elaborate, twisting spiral down her back. The length hints at her age, a number just shy of five-hundred cycles. She has many long, hardened quills shaped and tapered to resemble spikes jutting out her nape and sides of her neck. If Guan looks close enough, he can see the faint line of scars running along Tjau’ke’s body, hidden between scales. 

_“Elder Migo oversaw it.”_ Guan answers honestly. He stills while Tjau’ke circles him like a vulture might the dead. He refuses to feel or show fear, maintaining eye contact directly whenever she is in his line of sight.

 _“Ah… And who was your sparring partner? Who succeeded in cutting you down today, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan?”_ The use of his full name makes his mandibles twitch, briefly occupied by the amusing statement.

 _“It was a trade. One blow for another. The trainer overseeing a trio of Unblooded agreed to work with me.”_ Guan retains transparency in his words. He narrows the ridges above his eyes, gaze locked on Tjau’ke when she comes to a sudden stop in front of him. The older nurse nods slowly, satisfied with his words. Guan exhales silently in relief when she gestures for him to step forward and follow her through the medical bay's many halls to a private room.

Tjau’ke pulls a handheld scanner from the thick black robes she dons. She taps her foot against the floor and steps back as a large, clean metal table rises. It stops at five feet. She looks over her shoulder and then back at the table, _“Sit. This will not take long. I want to make sure you haven’t cut anything important. Take off your armor; it is insulting to come to a room of refuge prepared for war. The mask can stay.”_

 _“…Ki’sei.”_ Guan brushes past her and undoes the veritanium armor attached to his shoulders, thighs, and pectoral muscles. He sets it on the table and sits down next to his equipment. When Tjau’ke takes his wrist and pulls it high into the air, Guan keeps his curse to himself and holds the arm up. The other Yautja steps away and gnashes her mandibles together.

 _“You were… training. Overseen by Elder Migo?”_ Tjau’ke asks. She bends down with the handheld scanner in her gloved fist. The device is similar in shape to a plasma pistol, but the barrel is deathly thin and extends to impressive lengths. Guan clenches his teeth when the end pierces the largest wound. Tjau'ke repeats her question.

 _“Yes. Elder Migo.”_ The Adjutant states. He growls when the scanner beeps, hitting the threshold between wound and intact flesh. Tjau’ke clicks her mandibles together and rips the scanner out, surprisingly more painful than when she first put it in.

 _“These are deep.”_ She voices her displeasure. _“What is Daga’s Adjutant doing fighting so recklessly?”_

Guan averts his gaze. The nurse trills softly to get his attention, but when he hesitates, Tjau’ke grabs one mandible in her hand and forces him to look at her. Even if she means well—and she does, one of the few Yautja he is sure about—Tjau’ke’s actons feel patronizing, like how a bearer or sirer might handle a Suckling or an Unblooded.

 _“You will tell me before I drag Elder Migo in here and make him explain.”_ The woman chirps, firm in every syllable.

 _“I have been pushing my body’s limits. This was not the first spar I partook in today.”_ The Adjutant says.

_“How many?”_

Guan’s hands begin to tense. He does not answer.

Tjau’ke snarls in his face. _“Do not push my patience, Adjutant. One of these wounds is an inch from your fourth aorta. This is asinine behavior; had you been a lower-ranked hunter I would have you podded two week-cycles.”_

His orange eyes shut behind his mask. He is grateful to have kept it on; he does not want her to see the bitterness or shame egging at his sides. Guan swallows his nerves. _“I began sparring at six. It is… What time is it now? Nineteenth?”_

 _“Kha’bj-te s’yuit-de!”_ Tjau’ke roars in his face. _“Only an Unblooded fool fights thirteen hours! How can you fight honorably when exhaustion fans your spirit?”_

_“Daga approved my request to train more.”_

_“Daga is a s’yuit-de_!” She curses in an angry screech and raspy growl, repeating several expletives Guan has only ever thought to say in private. Tjau’ke walks to the wall, drums her fingers across glowing dashed script, and enters something into the wall’s keypad. A cabinet extends from the wall and opens automatically.

Guan squares his shoulders and remains calm when Tjau'ke pries a long, empty syringe and bag of thick, colorful paste from the cabinet’s top shelf. Tjau’ke sets the items next to him and smacks his bio-mask upside. The Adjutant growls a warning, but the nurse does not appear to care about formalities as her gaze darkens.

 _“You are not impeding my time, Adjutant, but you will get yourself killed throwing your body to the blades without reason. If you die—Who will lead after Daga steps down? Who will call for justice in the face of Ikthya-de’s dishonor?”_ Tjau’ke hisses the words quietly. She opens the bag of paste, sticks the syringe in, and fills it. Guan steels himself for the pain when she jams the syringe into the first of his wounds and fills it with the cellular regeneration serum. The pain is immense, but he refuses to make any sounds in front of her and the two Unblooded hiding away in their pods.

 _“Ikthya-de,”_ he says only after Tjau’ke finishes filling each of his wounds with the serum, a process that takes a little over seven minutes. Guan bows his head and scans the medical bay, doing a double-take to ensure the Unblooded are still in their _closed_ pods, before he repeats again. _“I am doing it to stop Ikthya-de.”_

 _“How does getting yourself killed stop her?”_ Tjau’ke scolds.

 _“I have grown rusty in hand-to-hand combat. It is her specialty. I beat her in our first mating dance, but in recent times…”_ He growls to himself. _“She derives pleasure off the suffering of others, but she obsesses over those capable of besting her. If I keep her from seeking others out—No more bodies will add to the pile.”_

Tjau’ke falls quiet. She cleans the syringe with a gray cloth, sticks the half-empty bag of serum paste into the cabinet, and disposes of the cloth and syringe into a recycling canister tucked into the corner. The old nurse shakes her head, mandibles clacking together in disproval. _“Throwing yourself into the fire to keep the flames safe does nothing if you are a flame yourself, Guan. Ikthya-de is ice-cold. She will extinguish your spirit if you fail.”_

_“It is better than letting a fourth Blooded die.”_ Guan clicks softly, head bowed. _“I couldn’t… keep her from leaving. Seeking another out. It will not happen again—I will not let her take more under this disgraceful guise. We’ve lost too many. I have… lost too many. No more. No more.”_ The latter words he doesn’t intend to say, but he thinks them aloud in strangled, grieving clicks.

Tjau’ke’s stares at him until he looks back at her. Her eyes are unusually soft, or perhaps _pitied_ would be the accurate description. _“You care too much.”_

The list of wrongs runs through his head, a precise memory of every imperfection spread throughout his two-one-five cycles of life. The Adjutant shakes his head; his deep, dark black locs sway from the movements. He does not allow himself to wear any of the ceremonial or trophy adornments on any of them, preferring them to fall loosely from his head and hang over him like a shroud. He must not forget his failures and shortcomings. He will be better than he was.

 _“You are just like your bearer.”_ Tjau’ke’s top set of mandibles twitch up at the edges, the smile faint and brief.

His blood feels cold despite the thermal bodysuit keeping him at a regulated temperature. Guan freezes and stares at her, his body posture revealing every fiber of emotion he wants to keep under lock and key. _“You said… When the first Blooded was found. When you and your aids came to my residence a twelfth cycle ago. You said I—”_

 _“Have your bearer’s blood? Ki’sei, ki’sei, it is true. Both your allegation and my words.”_ Tjau’ke slowly nods, tucking her hands into her pockets. _“I am offended and amused you do not recognize me, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I have been watching over you since before you were born.”_

 _Tjau’ke._ Guan’s eyes widen at the realization. In the primary Yautja tongue, the name translates to ‘rock made of compressed dust.’ Gahn’tha-cte translates certain words differently from the primary tongue, as do most clans across the cosmos. In Gahn’tha-cte, _tjau’ke_ is often used in reference to any stone that forms through pressure and heat below a melting point.

Her name is not _tjau'ke_ as in a compressed dust rock. It is a play on _diamond,_ a stone Gahn’tha-cte associates with the cosmos, stars, and planetary skies…

 _“Night Sky.”_ He breathes the words. _“You are—Guan-Tjau’ke. Night Sky.”_

She chortles softly to herself, mandibles clicking in mild humor. _“Ki’sei. And you are no longer Guan, but Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

 _“I have not seen you since… Since…”_ He feels guilt wash over his body in waves. His hands begin to shake. He throws himself from the table, falling at the woman’s feet and bowing until his mask crushes into the metal floor. _“Forgive me, Guan-Tjau’ke. I am not worthy of your skills or strength.”_

 _“Stop groveling at my feet, Adjutant. I do not want the Unblooded in their pods to get ideas about what is acceptable. You are no pup.”_ Tjau'ke’s eyes narrow, the gray-blue gaze dangerous and final.

He stands, but the Adjutant does not meet her gaze. Guan stills when she grabs his mask and forces him to look up at her.

 _“I will say this only once,”_ the nurse warns. _“I am the... individual overseeing the medical personnel of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. I am not here as H’chak’s bearer. Do not disrespect my skills because of his decisions.”_

His decisions? _His decisions?_ Guan stares in shock. The shock melds into disbelief, then to anger, then to a simmering fire brewing in his bones. He cannot speak. Tjau’ke must notice his rigid and tense posture, as she slicks her mandibles together and shakes her head. Guan’s restraint is great, but even he cannot hold his tongue when he blurts out, _“M-di-H’chak is dead because of me.”_

Tjau’ke slams a palm down on his head, gripping his mask and dragging him to the doors of the medical bay with it. She does not stop until she opens them and drags both through. It is a humiliating sight, but all Guan dares do is follow her, even after she releases him and continues walking. Tjau'ke says nothing, not even a click or grunt of acknowledgement, as she marches across the clan ship, drops down two levels through the main lift, and arrives at the great _kehrite_ reserved for honorable combat. The _jehdin-jehdin_ permitted on this floor is reserved only for the greatest and most divisive disputes, where only a fight on the lines of Cetanu and mortality can resolve the situation.

She looks over her shoulder as Guan quietly follows her to the start of the raised flooring. He knows from time spent _on_ the kehrite’s grounds the platform will stay put until activated by four levers in each corner of the room. When activated, the grounds rise to a viewing deck on the next level, where the entire clan can root and cheer for the fighters. It was there, in view of all of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, Guan remembers forcing his friend to admit defeat. In front of the Elders, his bearer, and the woman H'chak loved more than the world—Guan had stripped M-di-H’chak of social status, prestige, and reputation. He had forced H’chak to back away from Ikthya-de, and he ensured the political powers ruling over the clan took no interest in the once-heralded Elite.

 _“You remember it well, then. Your challenging with him.”_ Tjau'ke clicks softly.

Guan closes his eyes and growls at himself. _“I defeated him in honorable combat. Revoked Ikthya-de’s blessing to let him court her for a… long-standing partnership. A lifetime together. I took that from him. Stripped him of it and everything else he could offer her.”_

_“He gave it to you. By virtue of honorable combat. You challenged, and he lost. He did not have to accept.”_

_“He loved that woman! He fought to prove himself worthy of her approval, Guan-Tjau'ke—For fifty cycles! Fifty cycles Ikthya-de dragged on the process—Had him coming back for more, pushing him for every last scrap of value and worth in his blood,”_ The memories of his dead _mei-hswei_ burn in his head. _“The day we fought—He informed me she gave him her blessing to pursue her.”_

 _“He did not have to share that.”_ Tjau'ke remarks.

 _“But he did—He did because he trusted me!”_ Guan roars the words at the otherwise empty chamber, the _kehrite_ echoing his bellows. He hisses and curses at the air.

 _“Adjutant. Adjutant!”_ Tjau'ke clicks in a low, harsh pitch. She walks to him and shoves his mask to make him look at her again. _“You are still a ranked member of this clan—Hold yourself with the respect you deserve. Do not let others see you crack as I have.”_

 _“I am not worthy of respect! I took everything from him! Everything,”_ Guan screeches. _“His love, his honor, his prestige, his trust—How can you stand there and deny that, Tjau'ke? How can you stand to look at me? Your son would not have pursued the path of Arbitrator if I had not forced him down it! Your son would not have died hunting ic’jit across Terra if I did not remove all other options!”_

 _“He did not have to choose that path. Do not fool yourself into thinking he had no choice.”_ Tjau'ke snarls. _“He wanted to redeem himself. He died honorably, hunting to prove himself of his honor once again.”_

 _“Is dying honorably better than living in shame?”_ Guan’s eyes dim behind his mask. His arms drop limply to his sides.

 _“Would it have been better if you never challenged him for Ikthya-de’s blessing?”_ The nurse asks, surprisingly calm. _“You did not show an interest in her before, Adjutant. You never have. Not then. Not now. Do I lie?”_

When he hesitates, the woman growls lowly.

_“Do I lie, Adjutant?”_

_“No.”_ Guan breathes.

_“Why did you challenge my son over his blessing?”_

_“I—”_

_“Why did you strip him of everything but his life?”_

Guan falls silent.

Tjau'ke shakes her head. She releases him and steps back. _“It is the same reason you seek the position of Clan Leader, Adjutant. You are too empathetic for a warrior, yet you walk among us with the Pride of Cetanu hanging from your head. You challenged him because you knew what Ikthya-de was, just as you know now. What a foolish thing to do. But you were desperate. You panicked. You knew he would not listen to you. He would believe her. He was… incapable of seeing her for herself. And once the challenge was accepted—You had to follow through on it.”_

There is nothing to say in response. It is true, all of it. 

_“Why would I blame you, Adjutant? After what Daga did to your fallen mei-hswei.”_ Tjau'ke clicks softly. _“You know the nature of the politics poisoning our clan. It has been this way since your bearer’s death. You saw the lengths poison will go to to have its way."  
_

She does not say the name, but Guan has never forgotten Chirp or the trial and his execution.

 _“I do not blame you, Adjutant. In stripping my son’s prestige and reputation—You kept him safe from the political powers poisoning our clan.”_ Tjau'ke turns away. _“Ikthya-de and Daga… would have given him a fate worse than death. But as Arbitrator—He fought honorably to the end. He died on Terra an honorable man. What more could I have asked for, Adjutant? You spared my pup from that which lurks in our clan’s foulest corners.”_

The Adjutant feels his hands begin to tense. His teeth clench. _“I robbed him of his honor—”_

 _“You took his place! You let Ikthya-de have you. S’yuit-de, you and your bearer. My sister hunts with Cetanu, and you follow her path. But you have done so out of a love for your mei-hswei, your mei-jadhi, for every honorable life in this clan. You will throw yourself into the final rest to keep others safe. What can I say but thank you?”_ Tjau'ke exhales softly. _“S’yuit-de, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, and thank you. I pray I live to see the day you lead this clan into an honorable era.”_


	26. our twentieth cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to find a hole, stick his head in it, and scream. When he agreed to Arnold Escrow’s strange propositions, the man didn’t anticipate it involving listening to two adults suck each other’s lips off and make disgusting remarks back-and-forth like the two are high schoolers. Tucker does not even know the man sitting on the loveseat at the other end of the room! He doesn’t know shit about Blake Kingston and no matter how many times he texts Arnold about the random guy, he gets no response besides a brief, “Alma has many friends. Don’t worry about her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arc 4 is well underway now! whoo. kind of happy with this chapter because I can finally talk about Yautja and gender in the Ka'Torag-Na clan. here at sweetindulgence LGBT+ Yautja's are loved. happy pride month!! 
> 
> TW:  
> -rape is discussed, not in a graphic way but in a "what if XYZ happens" kind of way  
> -mention of stillbirths / loss of children  
> -talk of infertility  
> -misgendering toward the end (which I should have been putting up more TW's for in earlier chapters, I apologize for that)  
> -mention of suicide

The air of Viña del Mar is surprisingly dry while the two humans stroll through the streets looking _incredibly_ out of place. Neither try to cover up the fact they don the thermal mesh suits and modesty wrappings, with Louanne having a large pouch slung over one shoulder. Ivon tries to walk with confidence, but the stares makes them nervous; they slow their pace to trail after Louanne while she follows a map on what Ivon affectionately dubs the _tablet._

“We’re drawing looks,” Louanne remarks gingerly as she glances at locals watching the two with big eyes. “We look like poorly-dressed tourists from the US, or Europe.”

“Then we’ll have to play it off like we are one. Err, two.” The electrician runs a hand through their hair. “You have the list on there, right?”

Louanne ignores the question, addressing other matters as the two continue bypassing cars and other people on the side of the street. “—I will pretend to be a rich corporate executive of a phone company should authorities approach. You can be my secretary. We wear these clothes because we have fair skin and sunburn easily, which _I do—_ ”

“Should you be talking like this? So… loudly?” Ivon picks up walking speed and trots alongside her. They frown and look around. “What if someone hears?”

“—The majority of Chileans speak Chilean Spanish. Only a handful know English, and you expect to see them in areas with heavy tourism.” The doctor brushes off their concerns with a huff.

“How is this city not a tourist destination?!” Ivon throws their hands into the air, baffled. “Didn’t—Isn’t this place called… Uh… What did the wiki page say? _The Garden City?_ That sounds like a prime tourist location to me.”

 _“La Ciudad Jardín,”_ Louanne nods her head. “The Garden City. Fourth largest city in the country. But this is a residential neighborhood, not the beach. Context is critical, Ivon.”

Looking around, they can see the number of homes is nowhere near the extravagance of the townhouses, apartment complexes, and vineyards Mercy’s ship flew over on the way to the coast. Most of the homes the two pass by are small, with some containing only two or three rooms for what looks to be entire families. In the distance, high-rise buildings tower over the neighborhood and streets like a domineering teacher ready to scold at the slightest mistake. Ivon wonders what the rate of poverty is for the residents of the Garden City.

“We’ll find a bank—I’ll do the talking. Then—pharmacy first, birthday presents after,” the way Louanne speaks _birthday presents_ is comical given the serious of her voice. The doctor stops and looks back when Ivon stops walking. She sighs. “What is it?”

“We should get food, too. Real food. Not just—Things for Jo. For all of us. We’re here, aren’t we?” The electrician frowns.

Louanne snorts. “We can only get what we can carry, Ivon. It’s a long trek back—We need to get money first, at any rate. I don’t know if my bank account has been closed since the trip to Manuas. I’m not keen on using Yautja technology to log into it online. That would raise a lot of red flags if I worked in banking.”

“I really think we should’ve printed a map instead of carrying that thing around,” Ivon says.

“Did you see a printer on the ship? No.” Louanne shakes her black bangs out of her eyes. Her hair is much longer than when the two first ran into each other with Jo at the Research Center. She has her hair braided today, crude but efficient.

Ivon frowns. “Let’s also buy brushes. Actual _brushes_ , not just… Combs. I can’t get this,” they gesture at their head. “To cooperate! At all! It’s—It’s bugging me, a lot.”

“Money first, shopping second.” Louanne begins walking away, leaving Ivon no choice but to follow her.

* * *

He wants to find a hole, stick his head in it, and scream. When he agreed to Arnold Escrow’s strange propositions, the man didn’t anticipate it involving listening to two adults suck each other’s lips off and make disgusting remarks back-and-forth like the two are high schoolers. Tucker does not even know the man sitting on the loveseat at the other end of the room! He doesn’t know shit about _Blake Kingston_ and no matter how many times he texts Arnold about the random guy, he gets no response besides a brief, _“Alma has many friends. Don’t worry about her.”_

Billionaires don’t give two shits about their business partners. It disturbs Tucker. He does not understand, he does not like it, and he does not want to hear anything else about what _Blake Kingston_ is going to do to his boss when the two are alone. It is a wretched mental image; even if Alma is _gorgeous_ , she is something he does not understand, and that makes her incredibly dangerous. He recalls how effortlessly she murdered his brother, how her hand did _things_ to turn to and from a claw-talon- _thing_.

Now his boss, the _President_ of the company, sits in the lap of Blake Kingston and alternates between laughing lightly and leaving hickeys on the bastard’s neck. Tucker knows he ought to leave—and if the glares _Blake Kingston_ gives him are anything to go off—the other man wants him to leave the two alone for at least thirty minutes. He is a stubborn but loyal employee, staring _Blake Kingston_ down with an annoyed and disgruntled look on his own rounded features. He is not letting _Blake Kingston_ try anything while he’s around.

“Señorita… Tu amigo me esta molestando.” Blake growls, hands wandering in a way Tucker does _not_ want to see again.

It is unholy to see and hear his boss laugh playfully. Alma drums fingers up and down the man’s chest, right between his unbuttoned shirt, “Si, si, por favor disculpa a mi amigo; él es mi compañero y guardia—”

Blake snorts, throwing his head back. He has stubble along his chin and pink scars across his face, the latter especially noticeable. His dark hair contrasts against the tanned white skin. On a second look, Tucker reckons he could easily pass for a stereotypical northern Italian.

“El quiere polla también?” Though Tucker does not know Spanish, he understands the pitch and tone, the _frustration_ seeping through Blake Kingston’s voice. He squares his shoulders. Blake laughs at him and shakes his head.

“Le hago salir,” Alma pushes Blake’s hands off her and stands. The impeccably tall woman has her sunglasses on when she walks across the foyer and to Tucker’s side. Tucker swallows nervously as he trains his eyes up. 

It is very difficult to keep his eyes off the woman when she wears a thin two-piece swimsuit and semi-transparent skirt-like garment around her waist. Nothing is hidden. Tucker’s hands tense as Alma looks down at him, her hands rising to pull off the dark sunglasses. Tucker steels himself for the horrifying visage of empty eye sockets, but to his bewilderment—She looks back at his blue eyes with her own. Her lips contort into a smile that is far too natural to be real or fake. Tucker doesn’t know what to believe when the woman puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him to the door, hips swaying calmly the whole time.

“Miss—M’am—President—” Tucker sputters. “Your eyes—”

“Are blue, yes,” she laughs again, light and airy. Almost sincere. He can’t tell. Alma goes on, “I am an albino, Tucker, don’t worry about it. Call Arnold if you’re _that_ worried—"

“I don’t think—I’m not—Why are we going to the door? Why are you, and me, going? This is an entire suite—There are other rooms—We don’t have to go out to the hall—Not—”

“Step out for a moment, mm?” Alma instructs, following him out the door and shutting it behind her. When the two are alone in the hall of the resort, her demeanor drastically shifts: any reflection of her playful behavior melts into nothing. She puts her sunglasses back on and stares at him, rigid and upright. “That man is Blake Kingston. Do you know of him?”

“…No?” Tucker rubs his head, annoyed at himself for not remembering sunscreen on his bald spot.

“Almost two years ago—He was involved with a mercenary group called _Voodoo._ A fireteam of specialists whose objectives are no longer relevant. This team was selected as the target of a …” The last word comes out as terrible clicks and screeches. Alma remains still as stone, perfectly poised, while Tucker gawks at the horrible noises.

“What the fuck was that?” He blurts out.

“It is a tongue you do not know of, belonging to the species humanity calls _Predators,_ ” Alma tilts her head to one side. Her long, platinum hair is starkly _white_ against her silver skin. She easily passes for an albino human, albeit a tall one.

Tucker forces his eyes back _up_. He bites his lip. “What do… _aliens_ have to do with… This guy?”

“He has a connection to an individual working with an old friend of mine. It is my reason for being here, Tucker Mason, and for bringing him to this country.” The woman straightens back upright. “He agreed to work with me in exchange for—”

“Sex?” Tucker can’t resist blurting out the word.

Alma purses her lips. “Currency. Acts of physical stimulation are to ensure he cooperates, and I do not have to depose of him until necessary.”

“…Depose as in—”

“When this is over, I will take the steps necessary to ensure there is no trace of his life on this planet. We are a corporation, Tucker Mason. We have a reputation to uphold and secrets to keep.” Alma speaks calmly, as if discussing the future, _premeditated_ murder of a man is a normal conversation topic.

Tucker swallows again. He finds his eyes wandering down, and he forces himself to look away from the woman’s body. “You a’right with this, m’am? This situation? This is… It’s fucked up.”

The woman bends down to Tucker’s eye level. “Your concern is noted but misplaced.”

His entire body grows hunt. He struggles to look at her eyes, or hair, or _something_ other than the voluptuous breasts held back by thin fabric.

“Do you have something you care about, Tucker Mason?” Her question halts the increasingly erratic and lewd thoughts springing to his mind. Tucker grimaces and nods. Alma purses her lips at him. “Something you are willing to face expiration to protect?”

“That’s a—Strange way to say _die_ —” Tucker sweats where he stands. He shuts up when Alma draws back and straightens upright.

She reaches for her hair and pulls it free of the loose bun it was held back in. The thin blond strands fall to frame her face. “I am willing to face expiration to preserve the future of mankind and of the Vekin.”

 _Vekin?_ Tucker sounds the word in his head. He does not know what it means or stands for, but he is captivated by the woman’s words.

“Preservation is my objective,” Alma slowly tucks hair behind one ear. She looks back at the door to their suite. “Preservation at any cost. What is Blake Kingston in the face of longevity?”

“I ain’t got a clue.” The man bites his lip.

“He is nothing. I will ensure he does not cross unnecessary lines.” Alma taps in the code for the room into the door’s keypad. She looks over her shoulder at Tucker as the door unlocks. “Keep an eye on the news covering Chile and Argentina. If something comes up, knock. Do not interrupt until then.”

“Something comes up—What is something? Alma—President! M’am!” Tucker grimaces when the door shuts behind Alma, the woman disappearing inside the room. He sighs and hangs his head. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

* * *

Her helmet’s full-spectrum optics are acting up again. Vayuh’ta grimaces as she pulls it off her face and inhales the air. She catches a whiff of multiple individuals spread across the ship: the Elite _kv’var-de_ in the cockpit, the Image in the _kehrite_ , and one of the _oomans…_ in her room. Vayuh’ta’s mandibles click as she exits the medical bay and hears the door shut behind her. She identifies the smell of soft meat coming from the cabin occupied by the ooman _Jo._ The huntress pauses at the door. Beyond it comes the faintest trace of salt and mucus.

 _Ooman tears?_ Vayuh’ta has spent long enough on _Terra_ to understand humans cry, sob, and weep. In fact—It is incredibly common, a popular way for them to show emotions like sorrow or to indicate pain or periods of mourning. In comparison, Yautja do not _weep_ willingly. It is possible, but only when the pain is so severe it crosses the threshold of pride and blocks out all other thoughts. Such occasions often coincide with honorable suicide in failed Hunts.

 _Does this mean the ooman is in great pain? Feels sorrow?_ As she peruses her memory, Vayuh’ta recalls _Jo_ being an ooman with immense understanding of herself and her own flaws. She is an honorable woman who knows grief well. Vayuh’ta stares at the circular door of Jo’s cabin, lost in her thoughts. _Do you feel pain? What makes an honorable human pained?_

Supposedly, the doctor ooman left this morning with Ivon to go _shopping._ It seems unlikely the doctor could have said something cruel to the honorable woman in that time.

 _The two avoid each other like a Suckling does discipline._ Vayuh’ta’s mandibles tense, drawn together over her jaws. She pauses and looks at her hands, just as tense as the rest of her body. _Why does this bother me?_

The door slides open and the huntress freezes where she stands. Her orange eyes slowly drift down, locking unto the brown gaze of a startled woman. Jo’s mouth hangs ajar; both individuals stare at the other without saying a word. After a moment, Jo hurriedly wipes her eyes and cheeks. She exhales sharply and looks back at Vayuh’ta. “Do—Do you need something?”

Vayuh’ta tries to think of something to say. She blurts out in sudden clicks, _“Passing through.”_

“I have no idea what you just—Fuck, it all sounds like screeching to me,” the woman grimaces and averts her gaze. “You gonna put on your mask?”

The huntress does so, ridges above her eyes furrowing. Her vision remains the same—she desperately needs to speak with Ivon—but the translating software boots up after another drawn out, awkward pause. Vayuh’ta’s mandibles click in irritation at it to turn on _faster._ She ignores the pain that comes when the mask’s sensors dig through the top of her skull. The monotonous voice of the robotic translator slowly intones, “I was passing through.”

“This is my room. Cabin. Space. Could you move?” Jo crosses her arms and looks up. Her thermal signature remains bright red.

“It was coincidence. I walked by when you opened the door.” The huntress elects to leave out the part where she stopped and speculated on the ooman’s wellbeing. Vayuh’ta stills as a different thought creeps through her head. _Why am I defending myself? Her opinion is irrelevant to me._

Amid her thoughts, the huntress finds she temporarily zones out of the ‘conversation.’ She becomes aware of the lack of smells coming from the human. Specifically, the absence of _fear._ For a soft, squishy species, most humans rightfully fear Yautja. In the past, Vayuh’ta is certain she has heard Jo talk about her fear of her species, or at the very least smelled a sliver of fear on the woman’s body. Right now—It is absent. The honorable woman is not afraid of her. It reminds her how Ivon requested her assistance in donating blood to H’chak. Though Ivon was afraid and Jo is not currently afraid, the ability to look her in the eye and remain standing is almost impressive.

 _But she is an honorable woman. I should expect nothing less from her…_ Vayuh’ta’s thoughts drift away at the realization Jo is staring at her dreadlocks, seemingly enamored by them. The Yautja stills as Jo’s hand slowly rises. For a moment, Vayuh’ta questions if the human is going to try and touch them without permission. To her relief—she would not tolerate such offensive behavior—Jo simply points at her dreadlocks and the ringlets adorning them, then gestures at her own head. The huntress lets out a breath.

“I didn’t know you… I mean. I thought they were similar, but—Up close—These are locs, right?” Jo inquires, brown eyes flickering with something Vayuh’ta cannot identify.

The huntress clicks once in acknowledgement. _“Sei-i.”_

The helmet translates it as _yes_ a moment later.

The human in front of her exhales sharply. “Wow. That… Wow. Really? You aren’t—You’re not joshing me, right? Not fucking around?”

Vayuh’ta does not know what _joshing me_ means. She tilts her head to one side, puzzled.

“This is—That—Holy shit,” Jo holds rubs her forehead with one hand and looks away. “This makes—This makes no sense to you, I’m sure, but—Listen—Black hair on _Earth_ is a big deal. Like—There’s been all kinds of oppressive shit against hair— _Black hair!_ Black afros, locs, braids, fuck—To find out—This alien species—This powerful, deadly, technologically advanced alien species—Has locs too? That’s…”

For a moment, Vayuh’ta watches the woman’s brown eyes light up. There is a gleam of sincerity in them, of a moment of awe and delight. It coincides with the corner of Jo’s pale brown lips tugging up. Then—the moment passes, Jo clears her throat, and looks away.

“Sorry, I just,” Jo shakes her head. “I think it’s… cool.”

 _“Cool? The temperature?”_ The helmet translates the dissonant clicks a moment later.

Jo purses her lips. She cracks a half-grin and shakes her head again. “Not the temperature—Do you not have expressions on your planet? Err… Wherever the fuck you come from? Things like—Like—Fuck you! Or—Oh my god! Or… You scratch my back, I scratch yours?”

“Do not touch my back.” Vayuh’ta intones through the helmet’s translator, refusing to risk messing the grafts her body has worked hard to heal.

“No—It’s an expression! It’s… Nevermind.” Jo rubs her head again. She stills, hands tensing tightly, when Vayuh’ta leans down to eye-level and lifts a hand to _her_ dreadlocks. The huntress takes care not to touch the ooman’s hair, not wishing to offend on any level, but also seeking to mimic Jo’s behavior in pointing to her dreadlocks and then gesturing to her own.

 _“Longer is more impressive,”_ Vayuh’ta’s mask translates everything she says immediately after. _“Sirers with long hair are more likely to have a successful mating season. It attracts more bearers. We have a saying in my clan—Good hair, good trophies, good night.”_

“You do have expressions. Huh.” Jo stays still when Vayuh’ta tilts her head to the right and looks at the side of her locs.

“Yours are not… twisted as tightly.” The huntress’ bio-mask voices.

“I don’t have much to twist them with. I think there’s one comb on the ship, and… And… I haven’t seen much besides… body soap. I wouldn’t mind, you know. Actual shampoo. The kind made for _my_ hair. I don’t have the fine, thin hair Louanne and Ivon got,” Jo sighs. “I don’t have anyone to do it with, either. Back home my sister Tonya and I—We would—We would…” The human falls quiet. Her hands tense; she looks to the side.

“You have a sister?” The helmet voices. Vayuh’ta does not like the silence. She doesn’t want it to return. She prefers the conversation the two were just having.

Jo inhales deeply. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Or—I did. A brother, too. Tonya and Devon. It was the three of us against the world and now I… Fuck. I don’t fucking know if they even… Are they alive? Did Stargazer do something with them? Were they in range of the blast when the facility detonated? Christ, I don’t—I don’t know _shit_. I don’t even know if it matters when… When I’m here, now. I’m here and I can’t fucking leave. Can’t walk out of this new intergalactic carnival ride.”

“You cannot. You possess information on my species.” Vayuh’ta confirms, her bio-mask translating everything seamlessly. Behind the mask, her orange eyes dim. Her arms drop to her sides and she steps back.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Jo whispers softly.

“I have lost my family,” Vayuh’ta knows better than to indulge an ooman with tales of her clan, but she finds her chest aches in pain for the honorable woman. The huntress clicks her mandibles together, picking through the right words for her bio-mask to voice. “It is not the same. We are not the same, you and I. But I know the grief of mourning siblings. A sister. A brother. You are not lesser for your pain.”

* * *

Jo’s eyes water. She freezes and snaps her head up, staring at the metal mask hiding a monstrosity of a killer behind it. She knows just how dangerous the Yautja are, how _easily_ Mercy and Maelstrom can crush her underfoot, rip out her spine, tear her brain from its skull and squash her remains like a bug—It is _clear_ humanity is far from the top of the food chain in comparison to such lethal individuals like the one in front of her.

But this one is trying to comfort her.

She wipes her eyes. “You and Tall Alien— _Mercy_ —Are… Confusing.”

“Confusing?” The metal mask speaks to her.

“You two are tall and strong and _tough_ —You live through things that would kill a human ten times over! And yet,” Jo’s eyes fall to her feet. She can hear her pulse in her head, heart speeding up briefly. “Mercy does… interesting things. Gives Flower Power a hat—”

“…Flower Power?”

“Sundew,” the woman feels absurd saying it aloud. She scratches her cheek absentmindedly. “This tall, powerful, lumbering giant of a warrior goes and gets a _hat_ for his girlfriend. And I mean—I know jack shit about you—But you’re here—Trying to cheer me up. Being… nice, I guess. Being nice. Even though you are just as deadly and capable of killing me on the spot—You’re nice. Considerate. You tried to relate to _me,_ ” she jabs a finger at her chest. “This chick you barely know from a planet that’s nowhere near as advanced as your clan. That’s… Confusing.”

“The call of Key-On-Yew is universal.” The mask responds, the side of it briefly flickering blue in the process. The huntress turns away. “It is honorable, but it does not negate the pain of loss. You are not immune to it. Even a huntress grieves on occasion.”

The Yautja elects to end the conversation, as Jo watches her suddenly continue down the corridor to the cockpit. The human frowns and turns the warrior’s words over in her head. It is not _exactly_ applicable, but it helps. It makes her feel better. She is far from good, but for a moment—She feels okay.

* * *

“Got a minute, hunter?” The helmet voices immediately after her clicks, causing Vayuh’ta to growls and shut the bio-mask off. She unhooks it from her head and holds it under one arm while the cockpit door slides shut behind her.

The Yautja looks up from where he sits in the pilot seat. His thermal signature is bright red against the cooler hues of the cockpit’s dashboards and metal floor, though some of the heat reflects off the metal. H’chak greets her with an annoyed, _“Sei-i. Speak.”_

 _“Watch your tongue. I am not here to receive orders from you.”_ Vayuh’ta scoffs. Her mandibles click together in amusement at H’chak’s low growl. The huntress walks up to the left dashboard and leans against it, turning to face the other Yautja. She crosses her arms. _“When are the two oomans due back? I need to speak with Ivon about this bio-mask. It is malfunctioning.”_

 _“Why would I know what oomans are up to?”_ The Elite trills roughly, shutting his eyes.

There are shapes reflecting metal adorning the Elite’s body. Vayuh’ta pauses and peers at him. She clicks at him, _“Why the awu’asa?”_

_“The oomans have a ‘tablet’ with them for land navigation. They are incapable of discerning north from south on their own. It has an alert feature, should they require emergency assistance—”_

_“Like a bearer with their pups.”_ Vayuh’ta begins to click and cackle with laughter.

 _“I am indebted to them. Their safety is my responsibility until I pay what is due.”_ The Elite sounds convincing enough, but Vayuh’ta laughs a moment longer. She enjoys having someone to mess with, a _relative_. It may be a recent development, but it helps with the ship’s atmosphere. It reminds her of the _good_ parts of Ka’Torag-Na, where her _mei-jadhi_ and _mei-hswei_ trained her, fought with her, pushed her to become better, stronger, and more efficient. Without their encouragement, she doubts she could prove herself capable of the transition to _lou-dte kale._ It is simply ‘pup bearer’ in the primary Yautja language, but it more than that in the Ka’Torag-Na Clan.

The Lurking Clan allows individuals to prove themselves worthy of shifting from the gender given at birth. It comes in the form of religious tests, trials, and great tribulations far exceeding the dangers of a regular _chiva_ or common Hunt. To transition is not simply taking up a new _gender_ , it is embracing the true self of the Yautja pursuing it; it is proving to all the _Paya_ one is worthy of receiving and wielding the blessing of the gods.

She is one with the role _lou-dte kale,_ not a ‘pup bearer’ but a guardian approved by Cetanu himself to look over the bearers of Ka’Torag-Na when they are most vulnerable. She is the guard when one enters labor, the _dteinou_ , messenger of final rites, when a bearer or pup enters _u’sl-kwe_ and walks with Cetanu. It is a duty that puts her beyond mere _kv’var-de_ of the clan. It is a sworn and sacred duty blessed by the divines, proof she is not _mei-hswei_ but _meh-jadhi_ to her fellow Yautja.

Even as a Bad Blood, as _ic’jit_ , she carries the honor of the title, the role, the _blessing_ on her shoulders. It lingers there, reminding her of who she truly is, of what she has fought so hard to prove and embody. It is honorable, and it is her duty to carry out no matter what bearer crosses her path.

She likes to reflect on it. The role, the title, the memories, they give her _purpose_ and fill her with peace. To have some way of reminding herself of it, to be able to engage with another as she once did at Ka’Torag-Na, it aids her mind and spirit.

In that way—She is happy to have H’chak there now. To have a _relative_. An unconventional relative, but one all the same.

 _“Vayuh’ta,”_ H’chak clicks the name clearly, snapping her attention back to him. The huntress clicks in acknowledgement, prompting the other Yautja to rise to his feet and turn to face her. _“The other day—You acted dishonorably toward me. Questioning me on a matter you were not privy to.”_

 _“You want to speak about dishonorable behavior, kv’var-de?”_ Vayuh’ta pauses, her mandibles twitching briefly.

_“I am aware I owe you a debt. But you do not disrespect my mate and I—”_

_“By Cetanu, you’re calling her your mate?”_ Vayuh’ta trills in humor, unable to help herself. She hears the angry growl that comes from the pilot’s chair, but the huntress is too full of herself to care. She laughs for a time, chittering at the thought. _“I should have seen it coming—You would not pauk an Im-Gen unless your hearts were in it—”_

She ducks the swing that comes, taking advantage of his off-center strike to drop her mask, dive forward, and come up behind him. Vayuh’ta finds it is far too easy to grab him from behind and pin his arms at his sides with her own, taking care to be mindful of his hair and skull. She growls at his attempt to headbutt her and shoves him forward until his face impacts the wall. It is not enough to cause serious damage, but it splits the skin and prompts green blood to ooze. H’chak begins cussing her out and she holds him in place with her knee shoved into his back until he stops thrashing.

 _“Second time you attack a huntress dishonorably,”_ Vayuh’ta chirrups, annoyed. _“Do you not have siblings in your clan? Where are your mei-jadhi? Mei-hswei?”_

The Elite squirms for thirty-seconds before he stops. He catches his breath. _“…My bearer had trouble producing pups. They met u’sl-kwe shortly after birth. I am my bearer’s only living pup. My clan mates are mei-hswei by clan, none by blood.”_

Vayuh’ta’s eyes widen. She did not consider he was an only child. Being a lone Suckling, even with clan siblings, sounds terribly isolating. She releases him and steps away, uncertain of what to say. It takes a long minute for H’chak to finish cursing and rubbing his left leg. The Elite slowly rises to his feet and turns to face her. He hisses, almost expectantly. The huntress clicks softly. _“You are not used to relatives giving you cjit. Are you?”_

 _“It is not how Gahn’tha-cte operates as a clan.”_ Is the agitated set of rough, hoarse chirps and growls. _“I know we are from different clans. Backgrounds. I will not challenge you over this… misunderstanding. This is a… warning.”_

Her eyes narrow. She tilts her head to one side, curious but careful as she eyes the Elite. _“By Cetanu, I will not act against her with dishonor. You have my word as a lou-dte kale. I forgive your debt as an offering of my remorse for my behavior.”_

H’chak pauses. Her words must be unexpected, as she leaves him taken aback.

Vayuh’ta huffs and clicks quickly, _“I am an honorable huntress, M-di-H’chak. I made an incorrect assumption of your background. I am not here to oppose you. Much less now that we are kin. The thwei—It runs through our veins, a link between our spirits. I have no desire to strike that down.”_

 _“I am not Ka’Torag-Na. Not your mei-hswei or meh-jadhi or sibling by clan. Perhaps by thwei. I do not know what you are to me, but I am not what you expect,”_ H’chak snarls and steps toward her, the quills lining hi body briefly flaring in anger. _“I will not condone dishonor toward my mate. Let this be the final conversation we hold on the matter.”_

 _“Let it.”_ Vayuh’ta agrees, one foot slowly tapping against the metal floor. _“Perhaps you will consider, kv’var-de, extending an apology to the ooman doctor. Your practical joke reeks of dishonor. Most oomans do not take kindly to the crude humor of your remarks, if they are truly what you made them out to be.”_

 _“I am not interested in having further conversation about honor with ic’jit.”_ H’chak pushes past her and returns to the pilot’s chair.

The huntress stills a moment before anger begins to boil in her bones. She spins on her heels, hands tensing into fists at her sides while she hisses at the hunter’s hypocrisy. _“You—Intend to become ic’jit! Disavowing your clan! Throwing away your honor! Cetanu and the Paya have h’chak on your soul, kv’var-de. I was branded ic’jit by a traitor. You seek the path of a Bad Blood by choice, but it does not mean you must act dishonorably like the ic’jit who come before us. You are still Yautja! Kv’var-de! Elite! Where is your code?”_

_“It died the day Guan stripped it from me.”_ H’chak spits out the name, far from familiar yet ringing in her head nonetheless. Vayuh’ta draws back and watches the hunter hold his head in his hands. She falls quiet as he begins to curse over and over under his breath. He snaps his head up just long enough to snarl, _“You are not the only one forced into cruel circumstances, Vayuh’ta. My mei-hswei forced me to live after defeating me in honorable combat. I lost everything important to me.”_

_“My mei-jadhi murdered Ka’Torag-Na’s matriarch and framed me as the mar’cte; killer. I walk with the false title of pup slayer on my shoulders, murderer of Kiande-Dekna and traitor to all who call themselves Ka’Torag-Na. Why do your circumstances permit you to act dishonorably, kv’var-de?”_

_“Why does a false crime permit you to lecture me, Vayuh’ta, lou-dte kale? We are not the same! You come from Ka’Torag-Na! Clan who lurks in the shadows!”_ H’chak spits out, venomous and full of hate. _“I am from Gahn’tha-cte! We are not alike! We are not comparable—”_

 _“Are we?”_ Vayuh’ta falls quiet, clicking softly and turning away. She shuts her eyes, pondering just how ironic the statement is.

She hears H’chak growl at her to elaborate.

The huntress snorts. _“Betrayed by clans, taken down the path of ic’jit. Linked in blood. Are we that opposite one another, M-di-H’chak? We walk with the Pride of Cetanu. Why are we,”_ she pauses and blinks. Vayuh’ta strides back to the pilot chair, stopping at its side and looking down at the seated hunter inside it. _“Are we fighting, kv’var-de? Are we lashing out at what we can control? Anger seeks an outlet. But I hold no bloodlust toward you. You are not my enemy.”_

The Elite’s mandibles draw together, closing over his jaws. His throat rumbles with irritation. _“…You are not mine, either. Vayuh’ta.”_ He hisses at nobody and goes back to holding his head in his hands. _“I… cannot let go of what Guan did to me.”_

_“Guan?”_

_“My mei-hswei. The one who defeated me in the kehrite. Jehdin-jehdin, honorable combat, with the entire clan watching. I was given a fate no honorable warrior seeks. He let me live,”_ H’chak’s hands tense to the point his clawtips begin to dig into his forehead. _“And then he ripped everything from me. He made me nothing. There is no man more worthy of Cetanu’s call in my eyes than him.”_

It is a deep and sincere hate, a terribly powerful and wretched thing Vayuh’ta knows all too well. It is how she feels toward Zabin, toward her former _mei-jadhi_ who stole three lives in one the day she murdered Kiande-Dekna, her pup, and framed it on the huntress.

 _“How long did you know him, M-di-H’chak?”_ Vayuh’ta returns to where she initially stood earlier in the discussion: against the left dashboard, leaning on it with her arms crossed. Her head cocks to one side.

The Elite hesitates and, for a moment, the huntress is certain he intends to keep it to himself. To her surprise, H’chak growls softly and looks up at her. _“We grew up together. Trained together. Friends since pups, with a third—Chirp. The three of us were put together for our first chiva.”_

_“A deep and scathing blow from one you trusted deeply.”_

_“I called him mei-hswei by clan, but I saw him as a mei-hswei by blood.”_ H’chak shakes his head. _“After Chirp died—Our twentieth cycle—Guan made a vow to look out for me. He did not need to, but he swore on it. Our fallen mei-hswei’s death rattled him. Perhaps… That is the moment he changed for worse. I know things were never the same after the execution.”_

 _“The…execution?”_ Vayuh’ta’s hands tense.

H’chak hisses at the air. _“Enough of that. Another thing to haunt me for nights to come. I would like privacy, if you are done.”_

The huntress doesn’t hesitate in pushing herself upright. She gives him a click of acknowledgement and walks to the cockpit door, stopping to pick up her mask where it fell earlier. Vayuh’ta puts her palm on the door and watches the cool hues of the metal slide into the wall of the ship. She looks over her shoulder one last time, trilling softly to get the hunter’s attention. He growls in response. Vayuh’ta clicks her mandibles together, _“You are not as big an asshole as other Elites I have met.”_

 _“Is that a compliment?”_ He remains facing forward.

Vayuh’ta shrugs anyways. _“You are my relative now. If I cannot give you cjit, I will lift your spirit.”_

* * *

“Oh my _god_ , look, Skyler—” the voice of the teenage girl in front of them in the store rings out loudly. She squeals and shoves her smartphone at another teenage girl, just as white as the first, when she comes running up to the register where a lone clerk slowly works through the pile of clothes at the till.

 _Skyler_ gasps and snatches the phone from the first girl. The teenager shoves her blond hair out of her face and gawks at a video playing across it. “This is it! _Exactly_ what I saw circulating on my I-G today! Who is this loser? Why would anyone believe him?”

“Like I know! But he’s _hot_ —Look at his face!” The first teenager squeals again, giggling with Skyler when the latter nods vigorously. “I don’t care about UFO’s, but I’d totally be down for him to tell me all about aliens!”

“Aliens?” Ivon blinks. They speak the words too loudly, as the two tourists jump and glare over their shoulders at them. They frown and look to the side. “Sorry.”

“Don’t fucking eavesdrop, asshole! God, what a prick, Amanda,” Skyler jabs her friend in the side and the two step a few inches away from Ivon.

Amanda smiles coyly. “I mean… That one is _kinda_ cute—”

“Are you fucking ridiculous? Girl, he’s like—Older than my dad!” Skyler kicks her friend’s leg lightly.

Ivon grimaces. If there is one thing more annoying than pretentious, spoiled rich people, it is being misgendered by pretentious, spoiled rich people. They hold their tongue and wait patiently as the lone clerk continues slowly checking one—both, maybe? They don’t know—girl’s clothes out. The number on the register grows higher and higher the longer it takes. The pile of clothes on the counter never seems to end.

“Okay, okay… I get it…” Amanda grumbles and takes her phone back from her friend. “But, really, alien guy—He’s hot, right?”

“Oh, definitely hot. Like a twelve out of ten. But I don’t know if I could date him—What if he starts yelling about invisible aliens in front of my parents? What if he has family that expects me to be as quirky and batshit about aliens, too? I don’t think I could _fake_ believing in this for a second,” Skyler sighs loudly. “I’m bored. How long is this going to take?”

The clerk hesitates, before he mumbles something in broken English and continues scanning pants and shirts. Only half the items look like they fit either of the teenagers. While the two girls continue to squabble on and on about the video of an alien fanatic, Ivon decides to put the clothes picked out back and find a different store. They quietly exit the shop and wander to Louanne, the latter of which already has multiple paper bags full of different goods _including_ fresh fruit. The aroma is delicious, but Ivon makes their stomach hold out a bit longer.

“Nothing?” Louanne raises both brows and peers at them.

Ivon shrugs. “Two kids in the line were… Um. Hogging it. Taking awhile. Talking about invisible aliens. Being loud. I left.”

“I don’t blame you—” the doctor pauses and squints in their direction. _“Invisible aliens?”_

“Apparently a video of a guy yapping about aliens has gone viral on social media?” Ivon purses their lips. They run a hand through their unkempt blond hair. “It’s—Probably nothing. Usually is—Nothing.”

“What if it’s something?” Louanne frowns. “Most hoaxes involve gray aliens. Green martians. _Invisible_ aliens are… Not without cause.”

“You really think so?” The electrician stills. An uneasy feeling flips in their stomach. “That’s—If that’s true—”

“Let’s wrap up here and return to the ship. You tell Merciless about it. If he doesn’t care, I don’t care.” The doctor grunts. “And let’s _hurry,_ my arms are falling off.”


	27. yours to command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter there is:  
> -lots of politics  
> -implications of attempted rape  
> -implications of torture  
> -talk about assassination 
> 
> also there is a flashback is one of h'chak's memories, but sundew is viewing it from his perspective. hope that part isn't too confusing! My work has picked back up so. I am trying to wrap up arc 4 when I can. 
> 
> Shout-out to friggy for inadvertently making me want to write a birthday party. Next chapter is going to be fun.

It is daylight where the ship is docked off the coast directly north of Viña del Mar’s beaches. To avoid any hint of the ultraviolet rays emitted by the _Milky Way’s_ yellow dwarf, the Synthetic seeks shelter in the lower level of the _Kukulkan._ She opts to find a nice, cozy corner of the _kehrite_ to sit in and relax. Between the cockpit and H’chak’s private quarters, the ship is in dire need of new cleaning supplies, so trying to tidy up the dusty _kehrite_ is not an option. It is her time to rest, Sundew decides, to ‘rest’ as much as an alien lifeform perusing memories can afford.

She finds something in Miranda Escrow’s memories constantly irks at her. There is another Synthetic somewhere in the world. Or—There _was_ , and the dead woman’s statement was merely to put her in her place back at the containment facility. It has come up before, briefly scouring her consciousness and snagging her attention, but Sundew returns to it with greater interest in the present.

 _Does Synthetic refer to GHOST? Is that what Miranda Escrow meant by her statement? Does someone higher up at Stargazer Corporation know what happened to my hive member?_ The Synthetic grips the brim of her hat, adjusting how it sits on her head. She stares at the _kehrite_ floor, perplexed. _Those at the top… The executive branch members. I need a list of names. It is why I came here. Is it? To return the Cassini-Hyugens and… And to find GHOST? I must find GHOST._

She finds a headache settles when she dwells on the intricacies of Miranda Escrow’s memories too long. Out of habit, the Synthetic begins to sift through the collection of knowledge she has stored across her liquid state, the latter of which is tucked safely within the depths of her physical composition. She does not have as many as she should. The original mass composing her consciousness is infinitely smaller than it should be when compared to the proportions of her current physical composition. She understands why; her landing on Earth was catastrophic, nearly forcing expiration on her.

She lives because of Monet Esme Garcia. She exists because the human woman attempted to find survivors across the impact site. She will not forget Monet Garcia, or that she stole Louanne Garcia’s sister from her.

But the crash left other impacts on her state of being, on her system’s stability and functions. She knows there is a great absence across her system, where her abilities should _differentiate_ than what she has seen herself capable of. Perhaps part of it can be attributed to the drastic shift in atmosphere—Saturn and Earth are two different planets—but most of it comes from what she is _now._ She is less Synthetic than she is human, a fraction of what she encompassed when she departed her hive planet for Earth.

 _Do I remember what my hive is like? What I am supposed to be? I require knowledge. I need to take it to the hive. What am I missing?_ She does not know. It pains her to admit. Sundew frowns at the shadows of the _kehrite_ and decides to think of something nicer.

H’chak is nice. Nice to her, at any rate. She likes having him around, constantly close or checking on her throughout the hours of the day. She likes every single part of him, from his head to his toes, learning something new when the two have a moment alone. It fills her with a sense of peace to be at his side, to feel the scales of differing sizes stretch across his skin, to listen to the four thuds of his hearts racing under her touch—She likes H’chak. She likes him a lot.

She turns to the memories received in the recent offering of blood. He gave it to her to prove a point, to prove he could be trusted, but other memories came in the delicious, savory liquid. Sundew catches herself salivating at the thought of more; there is no denying how much his _taste_ calls to her. His memories are just as satisfying. She finds herself delving deeper into the memories taken, becoming more and more engaged in the events and emotions until it is no longer an act of looking through them. Sundew freezes and her body goes limp in the _kehrite_ , the silver figure slumped against the corner as her consciousness drops into the memory of a trial almost two-hundred years ago.

* * *

_She runs. The two Yautja nearby run with her, a trio of warriors attempting to navigate thick tree roots of a planet whose name escapes this portion of the memory._

_“Ki’cte! Ki’cte! It’s gaining--!” A voice she heard long ago trills in fear. He sounds young—Young and afraid. Very unlike what she knows of Yautja. She curses under her breath, H’chak’s voice sounding the syllables in place her own._

_“Calm yourself! We don’t know if it can smell fear,” the tallest of the young Yautja chides the other. He is someone she knows from other memories taken from H’chak in early feedings. The dusky-scaled warrior with tight locs is none other than Guan, a hunter who lives to one day challenge H’chak over another. But this is not a memory of hate—It is from a time the two are allies, brothers, mei-hswei, and friends. In this memory, she—H’chak—looks to Guan for guidance._

_The other Yautja, the shortest of the trio, is without armor or equipment. She realizes she is without equipment as well, only the bio-mask strapped to her head and a loincloth. Guan has armor and weapons, but if this is a chase—She needs something to fight with! She needs to defend herself and her mei-hswei._

_“Guan!” She trills the name in H’chak’s voice, loud and demanding as the three climb great hills of snarling roots that snake out and shift the second any of them speak or push off one. “Dah’kte! Hand me your dah’kte!”_

_“S’yuit-de! I need them!” Guan snaps, but he stops to help pull the shortest, green-scaled Yautja free of grasping tree roots. “Pauk, H’chak, help us—He’s stuck!”_

_“Cjit,” She leaps down to the two and grabs hold of the green Yautja by the torso. Her—H’chak’s—locs whip around her head as she clicks. “One, two, three—”_

_With a great heave, the two Yautja rip the green one free. He trills and chirps, a clicking mess, “Pauk, pauk—I can’t—My ankle—Cjit, that hurts—”_

_“Can you walk? Chirp! Answer me!” Guan growls._

_Chirp slinks backward. His yellow eyes are pained. He tries to stand upright and take a step, but she and Guan both snarl and curse when the Yautja staggers and shakes his head. “Pauk, it’s no good—Cjit, cjit, they’ll catch up—Leave me, run! I will die with honor—"_

_“S’yuit-de! This chiva is a failure! There is no honor in dying before your real trial—” Guan looks from Chirp to her and she nods in unspoken agreement. “H’chak, carry him—I will protect you!”_

_Guan hefts his short sword up, the Elder Blade gleaming in the soft light. His dah’kte extends and he looks down the hill, where one silver shape greets the trio silently. She snaps her head to look, and her bio-mask flickers wildly between full spectrum color and thermal heat signatures. In the thermal vision, the outline is a cold outline of purple against the warmer hues of the planet’s surface. It is close to a blob, amorphous and with no definite structure, almost a liquid._

_Sundew kneels next to Chirp, the younger Yautja bemoaning the decision but climbing unto her back all the same. Her—H’chak’s—dreadlocks slam into Chirp’s face as she turns and makes a running leap up the hill. She hears Guan roar behind her. Fifty yards higher than the Yautja, she stops, panting, with Chirp on her back. The two look down as the silvery shape lunges with disgusting speed and soars at Guan._

_The Yautja brings up his sword in an arc and slices through a tendril. He ducks under another forming and plunges his wristblades into the main mass of the entity. He spins on his heels when it attempts to engulf him, dropping under a root and tucking himself out of reach and out of view. The silver shape pauses. She holds her breath. Chirp begins to curse silently._

_Guan erupts from behind the silver shape, swinging around a vertical root gracefully. He cleaves the silver mass in two. He hisses as a glob lands on his torso, clinging at first but falling to the ground moments later. He does not hesitate to repeat the action, dicing the shape until it is a sea of shimmering silver cubes sprawled across the tree roots and soil. The Yautja pants and looks up, roaring a call of success to his mei-hswei. She—H’chak—bellows a roar of triumph, pride lining her mandibles and quills. Even the injured Yautja on her back trills in victory. It all comes to a stop when Guan stills, looking at the ground._

_The Yautja freezes in place._

_“What’s he doing? Guan! Guan, pauk, stop being s’yuit-de and get up here!” Chirp chirps over her shoulder._

_Her eyes narrow behind her bio-mask. Something isn’t right. She balks as Guan suddenly curses and leaps away from the mess of silver chunks, scrambling to climb higher. As soon as he comes within range of hearing, Guan belts out with audible fear, “Ui’stbi! Run—It’s an abomination! It’s rebuilding itself!”_

* * *

Warm hands shake her by her shoulders; Sundew snaps her eyes open, staring into the wide-eyed, concerned brown irises of one Joan Mackenzie. The Synthetic slowly blinks. Her thoughts come rushing back in a wave of strange sensations that circle and swarm her head. She does not know what to call them, assigning the word _dizzy_ for now. Out of habit, the Synthetic utters calmly, “Greetings, Jo.”

“You… good?” The woman asks, her dark locs falling over her face as she stares.

“I am good. Am I good?” Sundew purses her lips. “You do not usually approach me in the _kehrite._ Is something the matter?”

Jo bites her lip and releases her. “Sorry—I thought—Thought you had died. Fuck. You were sleeping. Right, right…”

“I was perusing one of H’chak’s memories,” she takes care in saying his name, never growing tired of how it rolls off her tongue. The Synthetic smiles to herself at the thought. She likes M-di-H’chak; she likes him a lot.

“…I don’t know what to say to that, so,” Jo exhales sharply and stands up. She tenses her hands. “You look _really_ dead when you do that. You don’t… Breathe. Do you?”

“My kind mimics the actions of circulating oxygen, but we do not have a need for it. We are able to sustain our natural states on varying elements.”

“What the fuck do you eat, then? If you just… Gas? What?” Jo rubs her forehead and shakes her head. “I don’t…”

“My physical composition can digest certain flesh as long as it is not acidic or overheated. I do not enjoy heat. I am hiding from the yellow dwarf of this star system as we speak,” Sundew nods once to her words, blinking slowly again. She maintains the cool, calm, composed tone. “Do you hide from the stars, Jo?”

“No. I can definitely say that has never crossed my mind. At least—Not until all _this,_ ” the woman shakes her head. “I’m going to go shove gruel-colored hard tack down my throat and pretend it’s peach cobbler.”

“Peach cobbler. I do not recall my hive possessing knowledge on peach cobbler.” Sundew’s eyes grow big and she peers at Jo. She rises to her feet and looks up at the taller individual.

“…I’m not breakin’ down peach cobbler for you today. Maybe if we get peaches sometime. And an oven. A _working_ oven—Working human oven! Not an alien one, I don’t get a thing on these machines.” Jo says, huffing.

“I will ask H’chak about purchasing an oven manufactured by homosapiens,” Sundew says. “I give you my word!”

Jo cracks a faint smile. She shakes her head. “’Kay, I’ll… take your word for it. Sure. Yeah. Ya mind if I dip out, now? I am, in fact, hungry.”

Though Sundew does not understand the use of the phrase _dip out_ , she smiles politely and shakes her head. “Sustenance is imperative for the continued prosperity of your physical composition. Your system requires nutrients.”

“…Yeah.” Jo takes a step back. The woman gives her a wave before turning and walking into the next segment of the ship’s fuselage.

 _I have an excuse to see H’chak._ Sundew feels her face warm at the thought. She knows he is busy, and though she recalls him _explicitly_ telling her she is welcome to see him at any time, it feels nice to have a reason to see him more than she already does. If it wasn’t daylight and he had less things to do, the two could sit and she could hold unto him and listen to all the stories he carries in his head. Hearing tales of his Hunts and exploits, of the life-and-death circumstances he overcame, of all the little things and then some, it is one of her favorite things to do with him. It is almost as satisfying as when the two are intimate— _almost._

She does not remember if she ever pursued a sexual relationship with another prior to visiting Earth. Sundew’s memories hold many gaps—the loss of critical mass contributes heavily to that—but she knows the Synthetics of Saturn do not reproduce. In fact, they do not ‘produce’ at all. On occasion, a new one is created from the unusual circumstances surrounding charged ions, but she cannot recall the specifics. It is certainly not the same as the reproductive habits of organic life, where a species may have a season to mate, or may plan a specific time for procreation. Sex for pleasure is equally out of the picture for her species, or so she recalls: the physical and liquid states of her hive mates on Saturn are not suited for _pleasure._ They lack the appropriate genitalia, the organs, the _nerves._

Looking back, she understands why H’chak held worries over her desire to initiate physical intimacy with him. If there is no need for her species to experience sex beyond the pursuit of new information, what other reason can she have for it? Sundew’s gaze narrows as she goes up the lift, being ejected back unto the upper level of the _Kukulkan,_ into the corridor dividing the living quarters straight down the middle.

She does not know if she would express the same concerns if her and H’chak swapped lives and experiences. She hopes she would trust him enough at his word alone, but Sundew cannot say it in certainty. Understanding where he comes from, addressing the concern, correcting what he knows and clarifying where she stands on the matter, it all plays into why she does not—cannot—hold anything against him. Grudges seem meaningless, even if it had hurt her at the time. She does not hurt _now_ , and she does not believe he will hurt her in that way again.

She hopes he does not hurt, worry, or feel concern over the matter. She hopes it is put to rest, that he understands her species is more complicated that it sounds, that _she_ is more three-dimensional than those she imitates. Sundew may not know everything, but she knows her physical composition _right_ _now_ expresses a strong attraction to M-di-H’chak, Merciless. She knows she enjoys the times the two connect in both feelings and in flesh. She knows she adores having his bare chest underneath her ear, where she can make his breath hitch and his four hearts thud wildly. She likes sharing those moments with him. The information is good, but H’chak is _better_ , and Sundew might go so far to say he is the _best_.

She is in an eager mood when the cockpit door slides open and she strolls in, greeting the Yautja in the pilot seat a smile but pausing at the realization his back is to her. It doesn’t matter, he is in mid-conversation with Vayuh’ta, Ivon, and Doctor Louanne Garcia, the latter two of which hold large paper bags underneath their combined four arms. Sundew blinks and looks across the cockpit. Vayuh’ta clicks in greeting, Ivon’s eyes light up, and Louanne stills.

“—Sun-Dew,” H’chak stands, his bio-mask’s translator automatically intoning the words. He turns to face her. “I was about to send one of the humans here to bring you up.”

“That is unnecessary—I am here,” Sundew replies without pause, voice warm. She nods at Ivon. “Greetings, Ivon, Doctor Louanne Garcia, Vayuh’ta. Hello, H’chak.” She feels _very_ content when she looks at the hunter next to the pilot’s chair. “Jo asked me to pass along a request. She would like an oven made by a homosapien _for_ homosapiens, capable of cooking the dish ‘peach cobbler.’”

“Fuck! We should’ve got more fruit,” Ivon turns to the doctor and frowns.

Louanne shakes her head. “They weren’t selling peaches, Ivon.”

“We didn’t look!”

 _“You_ didn’t.” The doctor remarks dryly. “You’re aware how long you spent in that clothing outlet, yes? No?”

“You said we _had_ to make sure H’chak got a hat for—” Ivon cuts themself off when the aforementioned Yautja _growls_ in a low warning. The electrician winces and clears their throat. “Never mind! Forget I said anything—”

“Did you get a hat, H’chak?” Sundew tilts her head to one side, lips slowly curving upward.

The green-scaled Yautja freezes. Nearby, Sundew hears Vayuh’ta _snort_ behind her mask, the sound distinct due to being based on vocal cords and throat muscles versus expelling air through outer nostrils. When she turns her clear gaze back to H’chak, she finds he shifts to face away from her. The Yautja hisses at Vayuh’ta, _“This is your fault.”_

 _“I graced you with an opportunity. It’s not the same as giving you cjit!...”_ The two click back and forth in their primary tongue for a time, H’chak growing increasingly more frustrated while Vayuh’ta begins to trill and click with laughter.

Sundew blinks and turns to the two humans. “I do not understand why possessing a hat is a matter of debate.”

“Are they debating? It all sounds like screeching to me,” Ivon says. They hesitate a moment before crossing to Sundew’s side and peering at her, “Hey, could you help us carry all this to my cabin? We’re, uh,” the electrician flashes a small smile. “We’re gonna have a surprise party for Jo. She’s been feeling shit lately, so.”

“What is a surprise party in human culture? I do not remember if my hive possesses information on a… ‘surprise party.’” Sundew takes some of the bags, most of which are laden with interesting-shaped objects otherwise seen in every-day life. A fish-shaped hairbrush with clear bristles, a small, stick-like brush that has bristles only on _one side_ of one end, human garments Sundew estimates is likely Jo’s size only with extravagant, colorful patterns across them, and more buried beneath the things at the top. She does not know how the two obtained all the items, but Sundew follows Ivon and Louanne Garcia regardless while the two Yautja in the background continue to squabble about a hat that may or may not actually exist with an opportunity?

It confuses her. She helps Ivon separate the non-edible items from the edible fruits and vegetables Louanne and them picked up. Sundew holds up a pile of marigold-yellow fruit encased in thin pods. She points at them, “I know these. Aguaymanto. Cape gooseberry.”

“Uh—I don’t want to doubt you—But how can you tell that? They have it on… Saturn?” Ivon asks, retrieving a small handbag with vivid beading of abstract shapes across the front. They set it on the floor-bed of their cabin.

“I do not know.” Sundew confesses, staring at the yellow fruit. “I think it belongs to a memory I copied from someone.”

Louanne’s gaze softens. She looks to the side.

Sundew blinks at her before returning to the fruit. “I think Jo will like it.”

“I think anyone who’s spent a billion months with hard tack as the only means of nourishment will like it.” The doctor remarks dryly. “I couldn’t resist eating some on the way back.”

“How did you afford this, Ivon? Doctor Louanne Garcia?” The Synthetic looks over at Ivon first. They hesitate. She purses her lips and shifts her attention to Louanne, who sighs.

“I have an… international bank account. I withdrew enough in pesos. We won’t be here long enough for Stargazer to notice—And it is the only way I can afford to bribe individuals to give me medicine for _them_ ,” Louanne utters the last bit while she glances at Ivon. The latter squints at her; Louanne looks away. “We will be out of Chile soon enough.”

“We will?” Sundew tilts her head to one side.

“Yeah. Probably.” Ivon admits.

Sundew watches them. They wince under her gaze. She continues to stare.

Ivon rubs the back of their head and confesses. “So—There’s a viral video—Online— _Right now_ —About a man—Human man—Yelling his head off about _invisible aliens._ Could be considered a weird hoax, internet prank, that rabbit hole goes deep—Except Mercy said…”

“—It is the last remaining member of the fireteam hunted by the ‘Bad Blood’ Merciless came to Earth for.” Louanne clarifies. “He identified the man from the Hunt leading to his capture and containment.”

Sundew’s eyes would dim if she were able to do so. She reaches up to her hat and adjusts the crumpled beige brim to shield her eyes from view. Her gaze moves to her feet, voice polite but threatening to reveal her disappointment at the revelation. “…Ah. Of course. I understand.”

“I actually agreed to help him figure out how social media works. Which is not what I anticipated this morning, but I’m kinda roped into it now,” Ivon cuts the conversation short. “Sundew, if you and Louanne could… Um. Make sure Jo doesn’t come in here and see stuff before everything’s ready—When I’m done with Mercy, I’m gonna see if I can find something to wrap her presents in.”

No sooner has the electrician left the room does Louanne exhale sharply and set her bags on the floor by the cabin’s sleeping pod. She looks down at Sundew, who has since taken a very comfortable seat on the floor-bed while picking at the purchases. Louanne opens her mouth to say something but shuts it immediately after.

Sundew tilts her head to one side. “Yes?”

“Why do you want to stay in Chile?” The doctor’s voice is strange. It is not dry like she usually is. On the contrary—It reflects something like concern. Not quite concern, but _something_ like it.

“I want to walk on the beach at night. With the stars overhead,” the thought makes Sundew’s lip twitch up. She imitates a human inhaling deeply. “—I do not know why I want this. But it… It floats through my mind now. I want to walk barefoot where the land meets the ocean.”

“Monet,” Louanne stares at her. “She wanted to… She liked to talk about her bucket list. Walk the beach at night was one of them.”

“I am not your sister, Doctor Louanne Garcia.” Sundew reminds the woman.

“No. You are not Monet,” the doctor walks to the edge of the floor bed and peers at Sundew. The Synthetic stares back. For a long moment, neither speak, until Louanne’s gaze dims and she turns away, “But Monet is now… you. And I have to accept that.”

“I am sorry I took her from you.” It is sincere. Sundew wonders if the doctor believes her.

She does not get a reply as Louanne returns to the door of Ivon’s cabin, swipes a hand over the surface, and prompts it to unlock and open. “I’ll keep an eye on Jo.”

“She’s on the lower level.” Sundew clarifies, though the Synthetic is uncertain if the woman has since moved rooms or changed floors. She stands and stretches as Louanne departs. The Synthetic’s shoulders slump, not by conscious mimicry but a subconscious need to express her disappointment.

She may not get to spend time with H’chak after all.

* * *

The old man lays sprawled out on a table, the masseuse at his side pouring warm oil over his bare back and slowly working it in. Gabriel has a divine touch, one worth every penny Arnold throws at the man, and as time slowly ticks by there is nothing but bliss on his mind—Until his smart-phone begins to vibrate on the table next to his head. Arnold grimaces, lifts his head up, and rests his head on his arm while his free hand reaches forward and taps the screen. He unlocks it and hits speaker.

“My dear, you _know_ what day it is—” Arnold exhales in delight as the masseuse resumes working his upper back.

_“Do you want me to hang up, Arnold?”_

“Far from it. I want you to listen to every sound coming from this end of the line. That’s what you’re missing out on this trip to South America!” the old man laughs to himself.

Alma does not voice displeasure or irritation. She merely waits, silent as stone, until Arnold calms. Her voice is especially neutral today, but if _Blake Kingston_ is anything to go off, the billionaire imagines she has made her fair share of unusual noises in the hours past. It is truly a shame he cannot be there, both to witness and partake. Even if he cannot engage in intimacy the way he once did, Arnold cannot help but admit her absence at his side makes him _ravenous_ for her. It is her draw, her allure, her _pull_ , and he is a man hooked on her high. He makes a note to book an entire week with just the two of them in a private room the second she boards the flight home.

 _“The bodies arrived today.”_ Alma continues as if he is not there, talking to the wall, the air, to nothing and nobody yet captivating him all the same. Arnold finds her voice detached, disconnected from everything in a way only Alma can surmise.

“Is their condition satisfactory?” Arnold quirks two brows and looks over his shoulder. Gabriel and his godly hands have retracted from his back and moved down to his legs. The masseuse nods at the unspoken request and leaves to fetch a burner and more oil.

 _“They will suffice.”_ Alma says. _“I require janitorial service in the hotel room.”_

“A cleaner? My, my,” Arnold laughs heartily. He aches for a glass of wine at that moment. “Do tell, my dear, what have you gotten yourself into?”

_“Blake Kingston is a man with no use to me.”_

“I saw the video online. Very clever. Shouldn’t you let him live so he can film _more?_ I want to see his face across television screens and streaming services for years to come! The hoax that shook the world!”

_“His face remains intact. I removed four fingers and a molar for his behavior.”_

“Oh, my dear, wonderful, sweet Alma—You speak lovely things to me and then keep to yourself! Teasing me, teasing me. You know what I’ll do after this, don’t you? The strings I’ll pull? You have started something I want to grind for all its worth.” Arnold groans loudly with no shame when searing hot oil drips over his lower thighs and back of the knees.

_“What you do in your spare time is not relevant to my objective, Arnold Escrow.”_

“I wish I was.” The elderly man sighs into the phone, wistful. “You are as cruel as you are beautiful, Alma. My dear, dear Alma. My sweet g—”

_“I will notify you when the specimen is ready for extraction.”_

“Ah, ah, yes, yes, do that, _do it_ ,” Arnold barks at the masseuse and the phone. He stops when the phone line goes dead. The billionaire puts his phone on the table, lays his head down, and settles his arms at his sides. He huffs loudly, “She hung up on me.”

“Rude,” Gabriel remarks briskly. 

* * *

  
In Ka’Torag-Na, the ranking system is not clear cut into Elders, Elites, Blooded, and Unblooded. There are certain positions raising an individual over another, forcing Yautja to acknowledge—even if begrudgingly—the respect another deserves regardless of combat experience or trophies. There are the ranks of sheer might, of prestige, of religious sanctimony and harsh trials, and then there is the clan leader, the one imposing their will from the throne of the Ka’Torag-Na clanship. Challengers may come, but only those who swear by the leader’s will. Outsiders are invaders, not challengers, and as such only one of Ka’Torag-Na may become the next leader of the Lurking Clan, thus keeping loyalty throughout cycles and discouraging insurrection across members.

Within these ranks, at the call and beckoning of the current leader, there is one who is sworn to the darkness which lurks across the clan. There may be only one _Shadow_ at a time, _jehdin-Halkrath_ , and it is a title as ceremonious as it is feared. The role extends to the end of a lifespan. It is not taken up easily, with cycles passing between the death of one Shadow and rise of the next, but when there is a Shadow—It is the wrath of Ka’Torag-Na’s leader, the blessed emissary of the clan leader’s bloodlust and will.

The _Shadow_ is an embrace into subservience and sacrifice, sworn to the leader of Ka’Torag-Na and no one else. They will never rise or fall in rank, never step outside the code of honor, and they cannot challenge the leader of the clan regardless the circumstances. They will always have two-hundred cycles to their name, two lone queen hunts behind the title, and they must be capable of fending off a group of Elite Berserkers or Brawlers without the use of plasma weaponry. They are trained in the dual forms of Ka’Torag-Na, in both the low form of the _mei-hswei_ and the high form of the _mei-jadhi_ , but a Shadow abides by neither male nor female. They are beyond such terms, a tool to cut the throats of Ka’Torag-Na’s enemies when called upon.

In the present, the _Shadow_ is a former sniper from Ka’Torag-Na’s Military Force. At seven-foot-two, they are the average height of most men in the clan, yet they creep on the shortest of women, fitting somewhere between two worlds yet carving their own niche all the same. Their name is Dto-Bhu’ja, the jungle spirit, and they are the _Shadow_ of matriarch N’Ritja-Zabin, the _mantis_. Their duties as _Shadow_ extend past the thirty-four cycles of Zabin’s reign. They have been Shadow for approximately four-one-four cycles, back in the days of dhi-ki’de-Gkinmara, Watcher of Death, before the man took his own life in grief. Though their age is much higher, past the six-zero-zero mark, they cannot be Elder, for they are Shadow.

As the Shadow of the _mantis,_ they perform many tasks others see mundane. It is not. It can never be. Dto holds their duty as honorable regardless of what Zabin seeks of them. It is not in their place to question her wishes or commands, merely to follow, and when she requests the footage of the fallen Arbitrators to be extracted and reviewed from the returning spacecraft, Dto does what is necessary to ensure her wishes are met. They are a _Shadow_ after all—The darkness behind Zabin’s light.

 _“Matriarch.”_ Their voice is muffled by the great, heavy armor adorning their figure when they step into the court of Ka’Torag-Na’s clanship. It is lavished in deep, brooding tapestries and accentuated tiling and pillars. Their sandals make no sound as they cross the court and kneel, head bowed, at the foot of their queen.

She is as beautiful as she is wretched: the epitome of her name, the _mantis_ of whom Ka’Torag-Na rallies behind. N’Ritja-Zabin is a huntress with distinctive coloration: a vivid, lush forest-green tapering into pink and red highlights across her forearms, legs, and neck. She has eyes that are almost luminous in their intensity, a yellow-green the likes the _Shadow_ has never seen on another. In the present moment, she lounges on her throne with her claw-tips drumming the armrest slowly. Her locs, long and boisterous, are a sheer white contrast against her toned, scaled body. She is bathed in colorful robes, not suited for combat yet far from a hindrance if the matter ever arises.

They do not lift their head until Zabin clicks at them to rise. The Shadow complies, arms falling at their side obediently. Dto’s armor, though resilient and thick, is made to suppress sound and heat signatures. Their bio-mask sees all beyond their one good white eye, making up for the scarred flesh over their left one. No noise comes from their form when Zabin gestures them to bring up the footage.

It comes in the form of a hologram, projected by their right _dah’kte’s_ computer. The technology is a revolutionary loophole in compaction of multiple devices into one singular entity, performing as Gauntlet Knives, cloaking, computational processes, and possessing an intricate self-destruct sequence with a range far beyond common _akrei-non._ The other clans do not—will not—know, it is one of Ka’Torag-Na’s tricks, a means to keep certain political powers in check and to protect the Ka’Torag-Na Elder seated at the Council of Ancients. The clan has sacrificed much over a thousand cycles in its claw to power; it will not be taken easily.

Dto, if they were any other Yautja, knows the matriarch possesses concerns over the usurpation of her throne. It is the cause behind her obsession over Ka’Torag-Na’s Bad Blood, the _icjit Vayuh’ta_. But they are Zabin’s _Shadow,_ and as the _Shadow_ such thoughts are beyond passing glances. Their loyalty is resolute.

When Zabin clicks at them to begin playing the footage, Dto complies.

The scenes are simple, easily flicked through or skipped as necessary, until Kwei-Luar-Ke’s recorded feed suddenly shifts to the middle of _Terra_ , amidst the rainforest known as the _Amazon._ She is laying down, in appropriate position to take the shot requested of her by Zabin. Dto has already seen the scene play out once while retrieving the recording for her; they watch Zabin’s mandibles pull taut across her jaws as the huntress observes a green force smash into Kwei-Luar-Ke’s view. The former sniper’s pained sputters ring as great hands haul Kwei-Luar-Ke up and she stares into the face of an unfamiliar mask.

 _“Who is this?”_ Zabin clicks sharply. _“This is not Vayuh’ta.”_

 _“He is an Elite from Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Dto’s mask breathes out silently, cycling breathable air through their lungs.

The footage continues playing. The hologram provides a rounded sphere of view into what Kwei-Luar-Ke saw that day. Sly Moon is strong, but Dto recalls the training of snipers in the Military Force subpar and lacking versatile hand-to-hand combat experience. A _p’ky’uha_ should always remain at a distance and use cover to confuse and disorient prey. Kwei-Luar-Ke does not stand a chance. The huntress is speared through with a combistick; the Ruthless Elite has her by the throat. He rips the spear out and green blood sprays across the air before the Elite _throws_ Kwei-Luar-Ke backward.

The two briefly spar. Zabin’s eyes track each of the Elite’s movements. Knowing their matriarch, Zabin will not miss anything in the fighter’s style. Dto themself recalls a brief fascination with the Elite’s mixed use of combistick and dual _dah’kte_ , enabling the Elite to effortlessly alternate between short- and long-range strikes. It is brutal and bloody. Kwei-Luar-Ke is defeated in minutes.

In her dying gasps, Kwei-Luar-Ke breathes, _“Who are you?”_

Dto’s eyes return to the Elite’s form as the holographic image lifts his combistick over Kwei-Luar-Ke’s head.

The Elite of Gahn’tha-cte growls, _“M-di-H’chak.”_

_“Merciless.”_

The combistick comes down and the feed cuts out.

 _“He’s one of Setg’in’s pups.”_ Zabin identifies with a howl. Her fingers, once drumming the armrest of her throne, tenses into a fist tight enough to draw blood. _“Disgusting vermin! Does he not know the fate of the huntress? Does he seek the wrath of Ka’Torag-Na on his back as she did? He insults this clan by existence alone, much less aiding an ic’jit!”_

Dto says nothing. They know of _Setg’in-bpide_ , the Yautja’s recorded death one-eight-zero cycles past. They were not responsible for her death, but they know deceased Leader _Gkinmara_ briefly considered sending them to do the deed. It is not surprising one of the legendary huntress’ offspring lives. Setg’in was bearer to many pups in her time, including healthy groups of twins and triplets. But the woman’s legacy is gone. Too many cycles have passed for any but Elders and a handful of Elites to know her name.

Zabin stands, the eight-foot huntress and queen a force of destruction. The embroidered, vibrant garments cascading down her form hide the raw power of the huntress behind them. She eyes her _Shadow_ with a narrowed gaze. _“Dto-Bhu’ja.”_

They kneel. _“I am yours to command, matriarch.”_

_“I am sending you to Gahn’tha-cte. You are to inform Akrei-non-Daga one of his Elites is aiding ic’jit of Ka’Torag-Na. He will not seek advice from a member of Ka’Torag-Na. Let him turn you away, but remind him of who he crosses. The poison of Gahn’tha-cte will bend him to our will.”_

_“You do not seek his head?”_

The queen trills with laughter, amused by their inquiry. _“Not yet.”_


	28. brazo de gitano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The former guard’s eyes twitch. Jo takes her sunglasses off her shirt and puts them on. “I’m not opposed—But—I mean—This is already… It’s good. Nice. You know? I feel like a fucking peacock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I first began writing the story, I never thought I would be writing about a bunch of humans on a spacecraft throwing a surprise birthday party. But here we are. I was going to include drunk shenanigans in this chapter, but I think it'll fit better in the next chapter, something (hopefully funny) (and hopefully sad) (and hopefully sweet) to look forward to but this chapter is remaining wholesome and happy. WHOLESOME. AND. HAPPY. 
> 
> TW  
> -alcohol

“Just come out when you’re ready!” Ivon calls to the cabin doors. Their gaze softens and they turn to Louanne, the two humans standing in the corridor of the living quarters in surprisingly human clothes for the first time in what feels like forever.

They are happy they got to shop. Though the clothes are thin, their t-shirt is blue with a red-and-white variation of the logo of the Chilean national fútbol team displayed on the front. They have comfortable briefs and a pair of cargo shorts with deep pockets. Their hair is brushed, they have deodorant on, and their teeth have never been cleaner. Right now, they wear a pair of green flip-flops, but they have a pair of hiking boots back in their room. They have _things_ , things they can use, things they’re familiar with—Things, things, things! They _like_ human things; it makes the experience of being stuck on an alien spacecraft far less disconcerting than it initially was.

To the side, Louanne looks equally relaxed in fresh _Earth_ clothes. She has bought herself a pair of sunglasses with dark, tinted lenses and a white frame. She has colorful elastic bands to pull her long black hair up into a tight ponytail. Her outfit is less casual than Ivon’s. The doctor wears a short, flowing skirt in a tropical yellow color, with a white blouse that dips _down_ at the neckline. It has crimped white sleeves, stopping just shy her forearms. Though Ivon recalls there being a _number_ of shoe outlets available, they are surprised to see Louanne does not don heels; the doctor wears short socks and slip-ons that resemble semi-thick sneakers without the laces.

“Flip-flops would have worked. I think.” Ivon manages a minor smile and nods encouragingly at the doctor.

Louanne rolls her eyes and slips her sunglasses on. “If an alien attacks this ship and we have to sneak around, those _flip-flops_ will smack the floor with every step.”

“Ah, yes, the age-old debate of being sneaky in a short skirt.” The electrician can’t resist the snark in their voice. They can feel the doctor’s glare. Ivon smiles in amusement and they shake their head. “I’m not—Um. Not being serious. By the way. Louanne.”

“Oh.” The doctor blinks and looks away. “Right—"

“A’ight, I’m coming out—” The circular cabin door begins to slide into the wall. Both Ivon and Louanne shut up as the woman comes into view.

Almost immediately, Ivon can feel blood rush into their face. They don’t mean to, but part of them stands and stares like a kid seeing a magic trick for the first time. They cannot shift their gaze, much less their _attention,_ anywhere else as Jo walks out and her cabin door shuts behind her. The woman frowns and looks from them to Louanne, then at them again. “…Is it… bad? Tell me it ain’t bad—”

“Not bad,” The doctor at Ivon’s right sounds far from composed. Ivon can barely manage to tear their gaze off Jo long enough to catch sight of Garcia’s big, rounded eyes behind her sunglasses. The woman’s gray eyes are locked on Jo’s form, looking her up and down with a vivid dusting of red across her cheeks.

“Ivon?” Jo looks at them. They freeze in place, panicking at being put on the spot.

Jo looks _gorgeous._ She _is_ gorgeous. When Ivon’s brown gaze meets her own, the person struggles to comprehend anything but _beautiful_ over-and-over in their head.

She’s wearing the outfit Louanne and them picked out for her. Ivon is not inclined to propagate color coordination, but on her? It works. The shorts are an eye-catching teal, halting at the mid-thigh but maintaining respectable pocket depths. The shirts Louanne convinced them to get are a two-piece set, with one being a darker blue cami underneath a transparent aqua-blue t-shirt that hangs off the shoulders. The colors are jaw-droppingly beautiful on Jo’s dark brown skin. Ivon finds their eyes refuse to move anywhere else once they begin to process just how gorgeous their friend is.

Ivon can tell Jo’s locs are longer than when the two first met. In present time, her locs hang freely at the sides of her head. She has a set of sunglasses identical to Louanne, but hers are folded over her shirt’s collar instead of on her head.

Ivon tries to look at the floor instead of her eyes or the tiny freckles sprawling her face. All they find is her sandals, a pair of yellow shoes with bright flowers attached to the sides, and they look good on her.

“They forgot how to speak.” Louanne clears her throat. She swallows, no doubt as nervous as they are, and grabs Ivon by the arm. “We are—We have other things for you, too—Things for you. Tonight. Surprises.”

The former guard’s eyes twitch. Jo takes her sunglasses off her shirt and puts them on. “I’m not opposed—But—I mean—This is already… It’s good. Nice. You know? I feel like a fucking peacock.”

“Do you like peacocks?” Ivon sputters.

“They’re my favorite bird, actually,” Jo scratches her cheek with one hand, lips curving up at the edges. “I like it. I do. It feels _normal_ compared to… Wearing fishnet suits all the time."

“So, you—You _do_ like it?” The electrician pauses.

“Yeah—”

“Good, good! Let’s _go,”_ Ivon gestures for her to follow, worried about becoming distracted by their beautiful friend if they spend one more second looking at her. They drag Louanne along as they go; if they are distracted, they know Louanne is _well_ beyond distracted.

* * *

_“Sit. I would ask you to take off awu’asa but that is already done.”_ Tjau’ke clicks with mild irritation while the woman gestures for him to get on the metal table. It feels like routine at this point, he’s been in the medical bay so many times, but it extra painful as Guan hauls himself up and drops unto the table, hissing all the while.

The other Yautja grimaces at the mess of green blood splayed across his form. Guan sees—and _feels_ —why: his left arm dangles uselessly at his side, twisted at angles beyond even a Yautja’s natural flexibility. When Tjau’ke strides to his side and leans down to peer closer at it, Guan instinctively tenses. He clenches his teeth and flares his quills flat against his skin, holding back the cry of pain when Tjau’ke’s hands lift the arm up. Higher, higher, higher…

 _“Cetanu grant me strength—”_ the Adjutant curses loudly. Tjau’ke slowly lowers the arm.

 _“You broke and dislocated your arm—The same arm. I have not seen this in many cycles yet here you are. Should I look at the rest of you? Or assume you are the same state?”_ She does not sound happy as she chirps and growls each word. Guan imagines the look behind her eyes is far less than pleased, somewhere between a scathing glare and irritated leer.

Tjau’ke’s locs sway as she turns and wanders to the corner. She prompts a cabinet to eject from the wall, opening it quickly and scavenging inside for things Guan cannot stand to think of at that second. It is worth it—he keeps telling himself that—even if Tjau’ke remains aghast and disappointed in him for a week. For two weeks, even. For all time! Nothing the nurse says can dissuade him from the tiny speck of pride puffed up in his chest.

His actual chest remains shaky from his erratic breathing, the pain leeching through his body. By Cetanu, it _hurts_. Guan hadn’t expected his life mate to be so vicious _after_ the mating dance. He thought victory entailed the end of a bearer’s wrath, but the woman crossed him the second he turned his back. He knows he pays for his foolishness now in blood and bruises, broken bones, and a pissed-off Elder nurse, but to know she _lost_ means the world. He is not simply a rusty _kv’var-de_ who bears the weight of his friends deaths on his shoulders. He is Guan, an Elite rank at a mere two-one-five cycles, Adjutant under Leader Daga and contender to be named Leader when Daga steps down. He is so close to doing something right, to dragging Ikthya’De to justice.

For the first time in a while—He has hope. Painful, painful hope, but hope all the same. Guan’s mandibles twitch up at the thought, but the action immediately prompts him to begin a new set of curses. Tjau’ke walks back to him, unclasps his helm, and takes it off only to curse under her breath. She growls from beyond her own bio-mask, clearly displeased at the broken mandibles on his right side. _“How? This isn’t from training—”_

 _“Stopped her.”_ Guan hisses, unable to raise his voice when the pain kicks him at every angle.

 _“Adjutant—You are in no condition to repeat this,”_ Tjau’ke clicks sharply and sets his bio-mask at his side. _“You cannot expect to run to me every time this happens. What if I am not here? What if the Elders see you in this state? You expect to fend off challenges like this? Adjutant is a sought-after position. If you were not so respected—”_ The lecture continues a moment, the old nurse snarling by the time her words cease.

The Adjutant clenches his eyes shut. He growls, the rough dialect of Clan Gahn’tha-cte painful on his vocal cords. _“I will not let her dishonor stain more lives.”_

 _“She will continue to do so until you are Leader. You throw yourself over fire to protect it from a flood,”_ the nurse leaves his side, striding to-and-from the open cabinet repeatedly as she ferries over old clamps and a splint. The cellular regeneration serum is last; the substance comes in a liquid-like paste. It does not escape Guan’s notice the nurse retrieves multiple, long syringes. Tjau’ke walks to him, grabs his broken arm with her gloved hands, and snaps. _“I have to pop the joint back into place. Then I can set and splint the broken bones. You will not enjoy it, but I cannot inject any of the serum until it is done, lest your arm heal as it is, incorrectly.”_

 _“Ki’sei!”_ Guan forces out, body tensing on the table. _“Ki’cte, ki’cte—”_

The nurse lifts and forces his arm in a way that prods bone against flesh, felt all the way up his arm and into his chest with every nerve on _fire._ Guan cannot contain the howl of agony that comes. When Tjau’ke clicks and tries again, the Adjutant cannot stop himself from blacking out in a myriad of excruciating pain.

* * *

Sundew feels the engines of the ship kick on. She hears the ship’s landing gear retract and the divine serpent lift into the air. The Synthetic purses her lips, questioning where the _Kukulkan_ might go, before it dawns on her: H’chak has likely tracked down a location to investigate related to _Blake Kingston._ He intends to continue his Hunt, which leaves her at a surprising loss of words.

 _He said he would disavow his clan. For… me._ Her cheeks burn, both emboldened by the thought and left a fluttery, silent Synthetic at the words. It is true; she recalls him speaking truth by the blood he offered her. She trusts him again; he will not leave her for his clan.

For some reason—it is likely a human reaction to overwhelming warmth taking over the body—her next thought is to cover her cheeks and look away from the door. There is no one else in the cabin—yet. Ivon and Doctor Louanne Garcia are busy getting Jo ready, H’chak must be in the cockpit, and Vayuh’ta is… somewhere. She does not know.

She is in Ivon’s cabin, surrounded by varying objects wrapped in mesh suits in place of paper. Though part of the cabin’s living space can be altered to lift a bed from the floor or extend a table from the wall, the table protruding from the far side of the room is barely big enough to hold the nourishing foods and _snacks_ Ivon and Doctor Louanne Garcia picked up on their outing. As such, the ‘presents’ for Jo are tucked underneath the table, with small flashes of color peeking through the transparent sections of the unused thermal mesh.

There are bottles of intoxicants next to the presents. Sundew recognizes them only out of memories belonging to Doctor James Heinreich and Miranda Escrow. One of the alcohol bottles has a fancy ribbon tied to its stem, making her wonder if it is an additional present. She tilts her head to one side and ponders. _I do not know how my system’s natural state would react to exposure to alcohol. Does my hive have knowledge on this? Or… Is it lacking? I do not remember. I do not…_

The door opens and Doctor Louanne Garcia slips in, wearing an outfit that is _nothing_ Sundew has seen on her before. She looks comfortable in it, with a cozy blouse and skirt that moves with the doctor’s every step. The shoes look cute, but not necessarily the style Sundew finds herself fancying. She nods politely at the doctor, offering a calm, “Greetings, Doctor Louanne Garcia—” Sundew pauses when the door slides shut. Louanne spins on her heels and Sundew meets her gray eyes and sunglasses. “Is something the matter?”

“You’re still in that—You stay _right there_ ,” Louanne bites her lip and looks around. She runs to the cabin’s washroom, ducking out of sight a moment. The sound of paper bags being sifted through and turned upside down comes. After a long minute, she huffs in triumph and reemerges. The woman extends a paper bag to Sundew and gestures at it. “Change, quickly, I’ll make Ivon stall.”

“Change…?” Sundew opens the bag and looks in. Her eyes grow big. 

* * *

It is beyond a little weird to have adults hounding her like she’s a child. It’s kind of annoying. Jo narrows her brown eyes as she stares at Ivon, watching the human fumble over their words while they make a _mess_ of their fluffing their hair. The electrician has not stopped blabbing on about aliens and the hypothetical prospect of aliens wearing Earth fashion for several minutes. Jo has patience, but her patience has a finely drawn line in the sand.

Just as she opens her mouth to thank them for the clothes and to end the conversation, one of the cabin doors slides open. The doctor pokes her head out, small strands of black hair falling over her face while screeches, “Okay! We’re ready! Bring her in!”

“Ready for what?” Jo stares, perplexed.

“So—So—” She hears Ivon begin, fumbling over their words with more nervousness than usual. The electrician gestures for her to follow them as they stride to their cabin and step inside. Jo frowns and follows.

 _“Surprise!”_ The voices of two humans ring out loudly.

“Greetings, Jo. I have been advised to tell you ‘surprise’ upon entry to this cabin.” Sundew’s voice is the last to register, and Jo can’t help but smile faintly. “Surprise, Jo.”

“That is not how I told her to say it,” Louanne grimaces and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Jo’s smile grows and she shakes her head. It is ridiculous, out of place, and far from anything she expected: in front of her, each dressed in _Earth_ clothes of their own, Sundew, Ivon, and Louanne stand with cone-shaped party hats on. Part of Ivon’s cabin has sacrificed space in lieu of a table extending from the wall, where trays of regular, everyday _Earth_ food sits waiting. Fruits she has seen only in travel blogs or food websites are stacked neatly in small piles. Wrapped goods with what looks like Spanish—though not exactly the Spanish she took years back in high school—labels call to her. Her eyes slowly widen when she realizes there is a delicious fragrance in the air coming from the table of food. On a plate, slightly squished, is a large cake rolled into a spiral.

It reminds her of a swiss roll. Jo cannot help her stomach growling when she walks past the others and stops at the food table. She peers at the cake: it is made of sponge, rolled into what was once a beautiful, tight spiral, but has since been dented and squished in places from handling. It is a soft yellow color with a distinct light-brown frosting-like filling. Dollops of melting cream adorn the top and cut pieces of colorful fruit linger at the sides.

“Brazo de gitano,” Louanne explains. “It’s—The sponge should be lemon. The frosting is _supposed_ to be a mild chocolate flavor, but when they got me a sample, I thought it was bitter. Like—A dark chocolate.”

“Dark chocolate is the best,” Jo quirks an eyebrow and looks over her shoulder. “I bet you dump cream and milk in your coffee, Louanne.”

The doctors blinks, as if taken aback Jo responds to _her_. Louanne’s face flushes red and she averts her eyes. “—That—You are not wrong, no, but I’m not much of a coffee drinker in the first place—”

“What kind of fruit is this?” Jo turns to the edible selection, peering closely. The first thing to catch her eye are vibrant, marigold-yellow pods within intricate, thin husks. “Did you guys really go out and buy random food for me?”

“It’s a birthday party!” Ivon declares, striding forward to her side. “Well—A _surprise_ birthday party, I guess, but still—It’s not random food, it has purpose.”

“And I don’t think any of us want to spend another minute eating gruel tack.” Louanne grimaces. “We got—You have _presents_ to unwrap. So. We need to cut the cake—Ivon, do you have a knife?”

“I could ask … for one of his …” Sundew offers, head tilt to the side.

“We are not—You are not using those _wrist things_ to cut this—This was _very_ expensive!” Louanne shoves herself between Sundew and the table of food, arms stretched out. “I doubt—I doubt either of the Yautja want to clean frosting off their weapons—”

As comical as it is to watch Louanne go back and forth with Sundew, especially when the latter seems perfectly content with using the horrifying knife gauntlet contraptions to cut a cake, Jo’s mind is occupied with something else. Her brown eyes are soft as she stares at the table, the assortment of fresh fruit and baked goods smelling more and more divine by the second. She cannot help when her eyes start to water; the woman’s hands rise to wipe them. She hears Ivon’s exhale from the side, but before they can say a word, she holds up a hand. “You—This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Well. Everyone helped. By everyone I mean—Louanne and I—We did stuff. Shopping stuff.” The electrician begins to wring their wrists, slightly nervous.

Jo purses her lips. Her voice is soft. “Because of our conversation. Because of…”

“Yeah.” Ivon nods, frowning. “Is that—Was that okay?”

“…That’s…” Jo bites her lip. She will not cry in front of them or the others, even if it stings to hold in her tears. Her response is a mix of emotions, everything from jubilance to grief that yearns to come undone. In the same breath she wants to thank everyone while also weeping into the floor, mourning all she knows is lost, but grateful at what she has come to have.

The entire room is silent. Jo realizes everyone waits for her response, the tension rising like a bread dough in the warm afternoon. She looks around at everyone and inhales deeply, trying to calm herself.

“Thanks, everyone,” Jo smiles. “I don’t know what to say—This is…” Her eyes water. She wipes them quickly and gulps another breath down. “Truthfully, this entire experience’s been a—Goddamn load of shit. Really. Fuck this ship. Fuck Stargazer for putting us here. Fuck,” she tenses her fists. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think any of this was possible. I mean—I’m s’posed to be a guard. Yeah? Just a—Regular, run-of-the-mill guard. Guarding stuff. That’s me. But… Life’s got a way, I guess. A way to force people apart, but also bring them together.”

She takes a moment to flick her gaze from one individual to the next, making eye contact with everyone—she thinks she has made eye contact with Sundew, but it is hard to say—before Jo continues.

“I know we’re all… We’re stuck here, now. Together. Fun times. Can’t go back to our old lives, right?” Jo shakes her head, locs swaying faintly. “God, I suck at speeches. I’m sorry. I just… I’m really happy. Happy at this. Everything’s been _shit_ for weeks and weeks and _weeks_ and I don’t even know what fucking month it is, if it’s the same year, if my siblings think I’m missing or dead—” Jo catches herself and grits her teeth. She clenches her eyes shut in hopes to catch the tears before they fall. “I _really_ appreciate this. I don’t—I ain’t got a clue how to convey how much—How much this means. To me. That you all tried to… Bring some normalcy to this very not-normal life we all live. I…”

She begins to cry, turning away and trying to wipe her eyes. It takes a moment for her to calm and have the courage to face everyone again.

“I don’t remember ever wanting something with lemon so much,” she half-jokes, coughing and clearing her throat before Jo smiles and nods. “Thank you. Everyone. Ivon. Sundew. Louanne,” she meets the doctor’s gaze and her brown eyes soften. The grey eyes peering back at her look just as soft. “Thank you. I’ll eat this whole thing with my fingers if you don’t get me a knife.”

Louanne snorts and Ivon balks. “I—I’ll be right back—I’ll get one, hold on!” The electrician bolts from the cabin, their steps fading once the door shuts.

Jo inhales deeply. She feels composed again. Not perfect, but alright. She turns to Sundew and Louanne, looking from one to the other before inquiring, “So—I get presents?”

 _“After_ the cake.” Louanne interjects, waving off her words. “We may be in Chile, but my sister always made me wait to open gifts until _after_ the cake was cut.”

“Did she really?” Jo laughs at the thought. “I can’t see you taking orders like that from no one.”

“It is true.” Sundew’s voice is pleasant and calm, her hands clasped behind her back.

Jo blinks. “Oh—Shit. You have a new dress. Look at you!”

“It is orange,” the Synthetic smiles and looks at her dress’ skirt.

It is orange, with yellow, jagging zig-zag stripes running up and down its length. It has small straps to keep it up, and the hem stops at Sundew’s knee. The skirt is especially flowy, rippling with the slightest movement as if nothing more than water.

“Look at you,” Jo repeats again, grinning this time. “It looks comfy.”

“It better be. It cost a pretty penny.” Louanne mutters under her breath, prompting Jo to laugh again.

She does not know what has changed in the doctor, but when Louanne walks to the table and grabs something underneath, Jo’s attention is piped. She pauses and peers down at the woman while Louanne straightens upright, a bottle in her hands. She can’t read the label, but she notes a bright red ribbon tied around the bottle’s stem. She squints when Louanne extends it, but Jo takes it and holds it up. It dawns on her immediately after: it is alcohol.

“It was Ivon’s idea to do most of this, but—I wanted to contribute in my own way,” Louanne clears her throat, gaze slowly rising to meet Jo’s eyes. “This is _pisco_ , it comes from… I don’t remember, something to do with distilling grape juice, but—I thought it would be fun to have for a birthday party.”

“You bought me booze for my party.” The woman chuckles. “The uptight, pretentious doctor bought _booze_ for a _party._ ”

“I—I thought—” Louanne begins to sputter.

Jo shakes her head, a friendly grin on her lips. “This is good. No, this is great. You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink? Did you get more of this? How we divvying this up?”

“I did happen to buy two more bottles—” The doctor fiddles with the neckline of her blouse. It has a low cut, something Jo did not realize until that moment. “They don’t have the bows on them.”

“What would I do with the bows, anyways?” Jo huffs.

“Wear them?”

“I don’t have an outfit to wear them with!” The former guard holds herself and laughs. She feels better now. A lot better, actually. She calms down after a moment and looks at Louanne. “You know. That’s a good look for you.”

“I would have preferred a longer skirt but—”

“I’m not talking about your outfit.” Jo leans forward and flicks the woman in the forehead. She huffs when she draws back. “You’re less… Doctor Garcia. What changed?”

Louanne looks to the side, where Sundew stands with her hands still clasped behind her back. The doctor’s gaze dims. She bites her lip. “A lot has changed. Or maybe—Very little, but I’ve only come to understand the circumstances recently. I,” she hesitates a moment before meeting Jo’s line of sight, looking up at the taller lady. “I thought a lot about what you said. About what… What one of the aliens said to me, too. About who I want to be. About… How I treat others. And I… I don’t want to be that person anymore. Doctor Garcia.”

“You actually reflected on your actions and thought about them? For real?” Jo doesn’t mean to sound so _surprised,_ but she is. She stares.

The doctor slowly nods. “I know you don’t—You don’t owe me anything, Joan. Any of your time, your concern, your friendship, any of it. But—I’m sorry. I am sorry for dragging you and the others through the mud with me. I know those are just words—” Louanne swallows. “—So I hope—In time—I can demonstrate through _actions_ —That I mean what I say. That I am someone who isn’t… who I’ve been. Who I still am.”

“I won’t hold your hand.” Jo states quickly, pausing to look at the bottle of _pisco_ in her hands. “You need to fix yourself.”

“I know—I will.” It sounds sincere.

Jo smiles. “But this is a good start. Or—An _okay_ start. Maybe I’ll call it a good one after I get a couple shots in. You up for drinking?” She voices the question just as the cabin door slides open and Ivon comes walking in. Jo laughs at the electrician begrudgingly holding up a broken gauntlet blade.

“Closest thing I could find to a knife,” the electrician looks apologetic as they walk to the table of food.

“It’ll do. Hey, you drink, Ivon?” Jo quirks an eyebrow. “Louanne and I were thinking of doing some shots.”

“Um.” The electrician stammers at first, but calms once they get the cake roll sliced. They look at everyone, “I mean. I don’t _usually_ —But this would be considered a special occasion, right?”

“It better fucking be—It’s my birthday party!” Jo scoffs.

“I will take a few. For the—For the spirit of celebration.” Louanne says.

“Which leaves,” the woman turns to Sundew, who blinks and—she thinks—peers back at her. Jo walks to the Synthetic and grins. “Hey, does your kind ever get drunk? Or drink? Do you do that?”

“I do not remember,” the Synthetic purses her lips. She looks surprisingly human when she does it.

Jo smiles. “You want to try it? New knowledge and all that?”

“I possess an interest in participating in the consumption of this intoxicant. I would like to engage in this activity,” Sundew nods, smiling politely.

“That’s the spirit! Now—Uh,” Jo pauses and looks at the bottle in her hands. She looks at Ivon. “You got a cork popper?”


	29. jupiter eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The huntress slowly, steadily, breathes out. She calms her nerves and finds composure. It is not the time to interpret the other Yautja’s tone and statement as a challenge. Vayuh’ta cracks her knuckles as she trills softly, “I did not have the privilege of choice in becoming ic’jit. I was framed for the murder of a huntress and her pup. My clan turned on me, but I cannot choose to go back. Perhaps yours turned on you, but you do not have the brand of ic’jit on your shoulders. Not yet,” The huntress turns away and walks to the door of the cockpit. “I’m envious, M-di-H’chak. Envious of your choice. Your ability to choose—”
> 
> Both Yautja still when someone knocks at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw  
> -talk about pregnancy  
> -not graphic talk about genitalia / organs  
> -some statements ivon makes could be interpreted as talking about infertility / impotency  
> -drunk humans and drunk sundew, alcohol
> 
> disclaimer I don't drink. If you drink, do it responsibly.  
> Thanks for reading, everyone. I think we're 50-60% the way through arc 4. Exciting!!!!

Not having a functioning bio-mask irks her the longer she goes without it. According to Ivon, they—the oomans—are off having a _birthday party_ for the honorable woman, Jo. Though Vayuh’ta knows of such instances occurring during the cycles spent hiding on _Terra,_ she does not understand why some oomans insist on celebrating the day of birth. In her mind, she desires recognition on basis of her strength, not by virtue of a single day of birth. Vayuh’ta will have to live without a working bio-mask a little longer.

She decides to settle in the cockpit, uninterested in the festivities of the oomans. She is slightly surprised to learn Sundew takes part in the party for Jo. If Vayuh’ta were a softer meat and not a Yautja huntress, she might go so far to call it endearing. The Yautja elects not to care, at least not _yet._

She waits for H’chak to finish explaining where the ship heads off to when Vayuh’ta feels the ship lift off the ground and begin flight. The huntress stares at his heat signature, annoyed she cannot tell more details beyond it, while she waits for a moment to interject. He is oddly enthused in the subject, as if the call of the Hunt once more sings to his blood. Vayuh’ta keeps her broken bio-mask tucked under one arm; only the optical system is broken, she figures it is best kept on hand if communication with the oomans is necessary.

 _“—If the ic’jit had been on his own—I would have killed him on the spot. But he was hunting a group of oomans. Well-trained, heavily armed. Sundew confirmed three of four were killed in the fight,”_ H’chak leans back in the pilot’s seat, claws drumming over one armrest. _“the fourth—Blake Kingston. His video places him in Buenos Aires, capital of the ooman region ‘Argentina.’ The ic'jit will hunt him down once word spreads."  
_

It does not take long for him to input the autopilot and turn it on. The _Kukulkan_ lifts from the ground; Vayuh’ta can only imagine what it looks like: a great, majestic snake reaching for heaven.

 _“What if there is no Bad Blood?”_ Vayuh’ta clicks quickly, eyes narrowed on his thermal signature. _“No ic’jit to slay?”_

_“Then I have failed my Hunt. My clan will label me dishonorable—”_

_“You’re pursuing the path of a Bad Blood. Their opinion is worthless.”_ The Yautja huntress growls lightly and scans the cockpit. She misses the full spectrum view of the Kukulkan.

She can hear the other Yautja click at her. _“I want the reason behind disavowing my clan to be clear, and I must finish my Hunt to ensure that.”_

 _“She matters a lot to you.”_ Vayuh’ta observes. She emits a snort-like noise when H’chak turns and hisses her direction. She clicks softly, _“Not here to start cjit; stating fact. You have a soft spot, M-di-H’chak. That could be dangerous once Arbitrators and Enforcers get involved.”_

 _“I know.”_ The Elite exhales loudly, sound partially muffled behind his mask. _“They won’t lay a finger on her.”_

 _“What about you, H’chak? What happens if they get you and leave her? It’s a likely outcome. You’re always on the run, or you’re strung up by the warriors sent by your clan.”_ Vayuh’ta speaks from experience, recalling the cycles of time spent traversing star systems, moving from place-to-place, and hiding her existence from the world. She tilts her head to one side, eying H’chak’s thermal signature. _“You can protect her. Can she protect you? Can she protect herself? Sun-Dew is not… She is interesting. But not… identical to us. To our kind. To Yautja.”_

_“What is the point of these hypotheticals?”_

_“Small talk, boredom, and a desire to see my relative live and find zazin within himself. I have been ic’jit for three-four cycles. Do not ignore my advice because of ego,”_ the huntress is brisk and curt, blunt and unforgiving in her delivery of clicks and dissonant screeches. She straightens upright and shakes out her arms, annoyed at a brief phantom pain wringing the nerves along the back of her arms and torso. Vayuh’ta holds back the pain and uses it as motivation for her shrill hiss, _“If you are hunted by Gahn’tha-cte, if you are killed in honorable combat by Gahn’tha-cte’s Arbitrators—”_ At H’chak’s snarl Vayuh’ta roars at him, _“If you die—She will be alone in this universe. Can she fend for herself? Can she navigate the depths of cosmic void? Operate spacecraft? What is she capable of, H’chak?”_

 _“A lot more than we know.”_ H’chak utters quietly, the clicks reluctant.

 _“Perhaps,”_ Vayuh’ta is careful how she picks through the words, enunciating each click and raspy growl with growing vigor. _“You should consider returning to Gahn’tha-cte with her.”_

H’chak snaps his head to look at her. He is out of his seat and in her face in a fraction of a second, mandibles visibly flaring behind his mask. Vayuh’ta sees the man’s many quills rise in agitation; the anger seeps through the Elite’s body. _“I won’t let them lay a finger on her.”_

 _“Cut the cjit,”_ The huntress _shoves_ H’chak backward, lowering her hands to her sides with her broken bio-mask clutched in one. _“It’s a thought, not a pauking command, s’yuit-de kv’var-de. Gahn’tha-cte has Elders; it abides by the word of the Council of Ancients. Make an appeal to the Elders to reverse or allow exemption of—"_

 _“Don’t talk like you’re one of us.”_ The Elite cuts himself off and begins cursing, hands tensing into tight fists.

The huntress tilts her head to one side. _“Who is ‘us,’ kv’var-de?”_

 _“Pauk.”_ H’chak takes a moment to breathe, inhaling filtered air and gradually calming down. _“I—I am not one of them—”_

 _“Hmph. Maybe ic’jit is not the path you should take.”_ It aches her chest in a way to click the words, though Vayuh’ta is keen to sound each one with indifference. She does not want any relative of hers to pursue the path of _ic’jit._ She does not want this headstrong, lovesick Elite to turn from his honor if it is not necessary. Perhaps Gahn’tha-cte is more reasonable than her clan. Maybe Gahn’tha-cte’s Leader will permit the Elite’s choice of life mate.

There must be something off in her voice, because H’chak’s demeanor shifts drastically. He lowers himself to her eye level and steps to face her, light reflecting off his ridge-covered bio-mask. A series of faint clicks comes beyond it, _“You don’t approve.”_

Vayuh’ta stomps a foot. _“Why would I?”_

_“Why does it matter?”_

_“Your honor—”_

_“No,”_ H’chak snaps. “ _I lost my honor when my mei-hswei challenged me in the kehrite of Gahn’tha-cte. My clan looks at me with scorn. I am good as dishonorable already. Tell me why it matters.”_

The huntress slowly, steadily, breathes out. She calms her nerves and finds composure. It is not the time to interpret the other Yautja’s tone and statement as a challenge. Vayuh’ta cracks her knuckles as she trills softly, _“I did not have the privilege of choice in becoming ic’jit. I was framed for the murder of a huntress and her pup. My clan turned on me, but I cannot choose to go back. Perhaps yours turned on you, but you do not have the brand of ic’jit on your shoulders. Not yet,”_ The huntress turns away and walks to the door of the cockpit. _“I’m envious, M-di-H’chak. Envious of your choice. Your ability to choose—”_

Both Yautja still when someone knocks at the door. Vayuh’ta is first to respond, already inhaling the identifying the smell belonging to the ooman electrician. She taps the door and watches as Ivon’s thermal signature comes into view, and with it—The very pungent smell of alcohol. She hears H’chak utter something too quietly to make out.

“There, there is, this is, there’s a something. A something. I need _you_ ,” Ivon begins to drawl on, hands weakly grabbing unto her arms and making Vayuh’ta’s eye twitch. She is about to tear the ooman off her when Ivon drops their arms to her chest and hugs her. The electrician’s words are muffled against the mesh of her thermal bodysuit. “— _I need you_ —To help— _Me._ Help them. Help them. The something is. I need help.”

 _“Why is this one drunk?”_ Vayuh’ta hisses over her shoulder. She growls when the other Yautja begins to click with humor.

“I savor the irony of this moment.” Is the response that voices from the translation software in H’chak’s bio-mask.

* * *

The laughter is heard long before Ivon’s sluggish body ‘drags’ the two Yautja to their cabin. It is very feminine and high-pitched, closer to a _giggle_ than a laugh, but the sounds cannot prepare H’chak for what he sees when the cabin door slides open. Somehow, likely due to his own inefficiency in vetting _what the pauk_ the oomans bought, the oomans have acquired intoxicants of a high enough alcohol content to leave them moderately _smashed._

Which includes the doctor. Which includes the doctor sprawled out on the ground, laughing hysterically with those giggle-like squeals of humor. Louanne has never looked so unprofessional before; H’chak narrows his orange gaze on her as she continues to roll with laughter and glee at some unspoken joke. Directly next to her, chugging directly out of a bottle, Jo looks more than pleased and more than drunk. The human has a giddy, bright glow to her face and her eyes; she can barely speak two words before Louanne begins laughing and she joins in. When he glances at Vayuh’ta, he sees her mandibles are drawn taut together over her inner jaws.

 _“Helmet,”_ H’chak clicks at her. She nods and puts her bio-mask on. _“Translation software will help. Have you handled intoxicated oomans before?”_

 _“Observed but not handled. I do not go out of my way to harass…”_ Vayuh’ta trails off, freezing and looking down at the electrician still latched to her side. She begins to hiss and click at Ivon, but the electrician does not budge and continues to babble about someone needing something. They make no sense to H’chak.

“Humans. Where is Sun-Dew?” H’chak asks, but by the time the translation software voices the words he has already caught a whiff of her from the washroom. His quills flatten against his pelt and he slowly strides to the washroom door, waving a hand and prompting it to open.

It complies, unlocked, and from beyond he hears the soft, weak sobs of someone on the floor. His four hearts suddenly speed up and he lurches forward to Sundew’s side, instinctively reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. She offers no resistance, not even acknowledging him in favor of weeping louder against his chest. It is drastically different than what he’s seen of her before, far more exaggerated but gutturally real. H’chak leans down and ignores the pain shooting through his back and neck as he begins to purr softly. It does not work at first, but the Elite is too focused on the Image in his arms to think anything else.

He ignores when Vayuh’ta calls for him in a loud bellow. The Yautja leans his back against the washroom wall and continues to produce the deep, vibrating rumble in his throat and chest. He does not care how long it takes; he intends to sit there the entire flight from Chile to Argentina if that is what she needs. He will sit, he will purr, and he will do everything in his power to remind her she is not alone.

At one point, the Yautja inhales deeply, seeking the calming scent in hopes some of that calmness might transfer to her. He pauses a moment at the realization the alcohol is just as strong here with Sundew as it is in the main cabin.

 _Pauk._ He curses internally, but the man levels his voice and trills at the sobbing Image. _“Sun-Dew. Sun-Dew. Look at me.”_

She does not, burying her head into his chest again and wailing. The noise is like nails on chalkboard to the hunter; he tenses but remains where he is, unwilling to leave her. The Yautja lifts a hand to touch the strange hat atop her head. It is shaped like a cone, with a band of elastic keeping it strapped to the Image’s head. The Elite does not understand the importance of cone-shaped hats when it comes to _parties_ , but with it poking and jabbing into his chest over-and-over he eventually cuts the elastic and pulls it from Sundew’s head. She does not seem to notice or stir from the weeping stupor she is in.

 _This is how your species reacts to alcohol. This isn’t common knowledge._ He grimaces internally, scoops her up with both hands, and makes to stand. He favors his right leg as he walks, his left retaining a permanent throbbing weakness in his calf’s muscle.

He takes her to the cabin’s living space, where Jo and Louanne remain sprawled together across the floor, with half the two’s bodies on the raised bed and the other half slouching off. The two are in the middle of a passionate affair of giggles and discussion when he stops and looks down at them.

“—I have never met anyone else who is like you are. Like you are… you. You are. You know?” Jo waves a hand at the air. “How do I tell my sister I know a d _octor?_ She’s gonna be like… Woah. Jo. Woah, Jo! Joan! Joey! You know a _doctor_. And then— _and then_ —” By this point the woman is on the verge of laughing hysterically, forcing each new word out in a strained breath. _“I’ll tell her I know the doctor!”_

“I’m a doctor!” Louanne whops Jo lightly on the arm.

“Hey… Hey… Could we… You think we could be doctors? All of us. We could be… doctors… Doctors doing doctor things…”

“So many doctor things. Many things.”

 _“So_ many…!”

The conversation circles like that, both individuals wholly oblivious and not able to care about the weeping silver figure nearby. H’chak’s growl is too faint to be noticed by anyone other than Vayuh’ta, who has successfully coaxed or convinced Ivon to let her go for the time being, though the latter remains very, very close by.

Vayuh’ta taps H’chak on the arm and clicks sharply to get his attention, _“You should take her out of the room. Loud noises won’t help. Kehrite, maybe?”_

 _“Ki’sei, good idea.”_ H’chak agrees wholeheartedly. He gives her a quick glance before striding to the door and grunting over his shoulder, _“Don’t kill them.”_

* * *

To ensure none of the drunk oomans wanders out, Vayuh’ta initially stands by the door of Ivon’s cabin. Her orange eyes constantly scan the three heat signatures in the room, looking for any sign of biological processes taking a drastic turn for the worse. In her time—hundreds of cycles—she has seen Unblooded and Blooded Yautja alike succumb to excessive alcohol consumption. Granted, ooman drinks are far less concentrated than Yautja _cn’tlip,_ but the concern remains over alcohol poisoning.

The ship is on autopilot, ensuring a calm flight to the city matching the background of the viral video _Blake Kingston_ is in. Vayuh’ta questions what happens after. If H’chak finds him, then what? She questions if he intends to let seek his assistance or keep him involuntarily as bait, perhaps add a fourth duckling to the ooman collection he’s accumulated. If his Hunt’s original target lives, surely the Bad Blood will possess interest in seeking Blake out and eliminating him.

Criminal Yautja often forsake their codes of Honor, but there are many Bad Bloods who hold unto favorable aspects of it. She recalls the Bad Blood who gave her a ride to _Terra_ many cycles ago, Ag’do-Daga. He was a Bad Blood yet his actions towards her reflected the honorable traditions instilled in him by his clan. It was shortly after she was forced to abandon her ship in the Cassowary system, the hull sustaining too much damage from Ka’Torag-Na’s first attempt to execute her. Ag’do-Daga wanted scrap from her ship, she needed a ride, and the trade was made and honored with no strings attached. Perhaps the Bad Blood H’chak hunts possesses the honor to finish the original hunt or die trying. It leaves her pondering a long while, ignoring the increasingly slurred, slow words of Jo and the doctor laying on the ground.

She is tired. Yautja may not need rest the same rate as oomans, but she has not slept in three day-cycles on _Terra._ She knows she can push herself to stay conscious a while longer, but her eyelids grow heavy regardless. She continues to stand upright, back pressing against the door. She crosses her arms and clicks softly. If the door opens, whether it be from H’chak or one of the oomans, she will fall backward and _that_ will wake her up.

“Want some?” The words come from her left, from the floor. The ooman electrician is hard at work not passing out. Ivon may not be as drunk as Jo or the doctor, but they are still _drunk_. She can tell in their thermal signature’s movements and posture: slouched more than usual, relaxed, swaying side-to-side and occasionally leaning their head against her leg.

Vayuh’ta grimaces. Her helmet’s translation software voices far nicer than she would have been, “No. I do not indulge.”

“What?... Why? Why not?” The electrician mumbles against her leg. They sigh deeply. “What’s point of being alien if you don’t enjoy yourself?”

“My role at my former clan did not permit the consumption of alcoholic beverages or other intoxicants barring medical supplements.” Vayuh’ta lets the helmet speak for her. She hisses softly when the bio-mask’s sensors dig deeper through the flesh of her skull.

“Really?” Ivon shifts against her leg, not letting go but looking up at her. “What you do there? Did you do… Alien things? _Important_ alien things?”

Vayuh’ta glances at Jo and Louanne, assessing their physical states before returning her focus to the electrician resting against her. She hesitates answering, briefly contemplating how much is appropriate to share, before she begins to click softly and the bio-mask’s monotonous voice picks up, “Certain human cultures possess roles seeking to aid and assist expecting bearers in the birth of progeny. Doulas. Midwives. My role kept me at the side of bearers during the labor and birthing process. Those with my role protected them alongside me. It was—Is—Considered a sacred duty dictated by the gods.”

The Yautja stills when she spies Ivon’s heat signature using her to pull themself up and to their feet. She is taller than them by almost one-third _nok_ , or four-point-three-three inches. Ivon says nothing for a long minute, standing at her side close enough to bump into her on occasion. They begin to smile and half-laugh when they try to speak, fumbling over words in a jovial manner, “What if—If— _If_ —What if one of—One of _us_ —Gets pregnant? Will you—Protect?”

“…It is my duty,” The helmet intones after a pause. “I am sworn to guard bearers during labor and birth. It does not extend beyond those times.”

“Wow. Wow. Wow…” Ivon repeats over-and-over, amazed.

Vayuh’ta stares. The Yautja finds her attention locked on the ooman, partially out of amusement and partially out of concern. 

“I should be pregnant,” Ivon mumbles from the side. “Then you can _protect_. I will be… protected. Protected by you.”

“I,” the helmet’s voice is monotonous but it pauses when she does. “I would be obligated to protect you if… Those circumstances arose.”

“I don’t think I can be. Be. _Pregnant,_ ” the electrician sighs, voice wavering between morose and disgruntled. “I don’t have what they got. What I think they have. What I think. I don’t… I don’t have it. I wish I did.”

“…This is a topic best suited for sober discussions.” Vayuh’ta’s helmet says. She—far too gently—pushes them away with one hand. Their response is to grab her hand in both of theirs. The action makes all four of the huntress’ hearts begin to thump in her head. She can feel her blood rush across her body, bringing with it warmth that is neither familiar nor unwelcome.

“Sorry. I’m not… Not good. Talking to—Ladies.”

“Most aren’t.” The huntress is grateful for her bio-mask’s translator, as the robotic voice hides the crack in her own clicks.

“No. No, not… That…” Ivon releases her hand, only to move their own up at a speed she does not expect for a drunken ooman. The electrician’s hands land on her bio-mask and Vayuh’ta freezes, mind blocking out all but the location of their hands and the jolt of—electricity? _Pauk—_ that shoots through her body. Against better judgement, against what should be instinct to rip spine from flesh for _daring_ to touch the huntress without permission again, she does not separate Ivon’s head from their body when the latter unclasps her bio-mask and pulls it free from her head.

The huntress does not speak. She refuses to, partially out of concern of what she might say. It is not like Ivon can understand her, but _she_ can understand herself and the meaning behind her own words. Vayuh’ta remains quiet, arms tense at her sides. She hears Ivon messing with her mask; the Yautja relaxes when the thought sinks in. _They wanted to fix my mask. That is… all._

“You have Jupiter. In. Your eyes.” Ivon drawls as they turn the mask over and grab wires along the underside. Their fingers move rapidly, never quite settling in one place. “Jupiter eyes. That’s—You. And—And Tall Alien. Mercy. _Mercy._ But his are… Scary. Yours are—They also scare me. But not as much. Not so much. I like them. Jupiter eyes. I…”

Something clicks inside the mask. Ivon holds it out, though the thermal signature stands in a way indicating they are watching her. Vayuh’ta carefully takes the bio-mask. She stops when Ivon’s free hand lays over one of her own. For a moment, she forgets the two speak different languages, clicking out in a voice more— _something_ —than she wants it to be, _“You’re… drunk. Intoxicated—”_

“I like your eyes,” The electrician says softly. “I like you.”

 _“You don’t,”_ Vayuh’ta finds herself feeling _something_ , a combination of frustrated and flustered if the heat caressing her cheeks is anything to go off. She takes the bio-mask from them and puts it on, hissing when the sensors dig into her skull. To her surprise and relief, the optical system comes online, and the world erupts in color as she shifts from her thermal vision to the full spectrum of color visible to humans. Her mind takes a moment to catch up and process the information, but the second it does she clicks in satisfaction. Her helmet translates, “You fixed it.”

“I had to plug it back in. Plug in. Plug in…” The electrician mumbles, yawning widely.

“Plug what back in?” The huntress clicks with surprise, helmet translating accordingly.

“It. The… It. It. It. I did it.” Ivon exhales, shoulders slumping. Their face is _very_ red, a sheer contrast against their pale skin. Vayuh’ta’s eyes start to trail but she snaps her gaze back to their face immediately upon realizing. When the electrician steps forward, she begins to click in warning, but those sounds die away when Ivon reaches for her neck. The _akrei-non_ collar is a heavy weight against her skin and on her shoulders. “This is… It’s in the way.”

She’s left speechless when the electrician’s hands gently push past her long, hanging locs, and pluck at the back of the collar on her neck. Vayuh’ta’s face explodes with heat when she realizes just how close the electrician is to do any of this in the first place. Ivon’s chest is flush to her own, the human standing on tiptoes to get as much room as possible for their hands to work. Vayuh’ta doesn’t dare breathe until she hears a distinct _clink_ and the collar unlocks. Ivon draws back and holds it up to her face.

“Tada.” They sway where they stand, yawning and waving the _akrei-non_ around like it is a Suckling’s toy.

Vayuh’ta’s focus snaps back and she plucks it from their grasp. Her helmet does not voice the urgency in her clicks when it translates her demands, “How? How are you doing this? You are a… Ooman.”

“I wanted to make you happy. So, I—I did it. I did it. Did it work?” The electrician’s eyes widen. “Did you—Happy?”

“Iv… Ivon… Get me more…” From the floor, half-flopped unto the floor-bed, Jo waves her bottle around. She hiccups and laughs. “More. More…”

Vayuh’ta lets out a breath when Ivon’s attention shifts to the woman and they meander to take Jo’s bottle. She calms her racing heartbeats, the noise furiously loud in her skull. The Yautja sits down and leans her back against the door of the cabin. She keeps the _akrei-non_ collar at her side, adamant about not letting the drunk oomans blow themselves up. She chides herself immediately for ever letting Ivon mess with it in the first place. Vayuh’ta wants to rip out her locs for her lack of hindsight.

 _It won’t happen again._ Her gaze narrows behind her bio-mask.

* * *

The _kehrite_ of the _Kukulkan_ is dimmer than the upper level of the ship. It holds a special place in his four hearts, with cycles of memories spent training and practicing in its depths at the back of his mind when he takes Sundew down there. Since he first picked her up, she has not ceased crying, but the loud wails have stopped the longer he purrs at her. Though the sound is typically used for soothing violent mates on Yautja Prime, it seems to possess the same calming qualities on her. It is not identical, and it doesn’t seem as efficient, but it helps, and right now he is desperate for anything that helps her.

He recalls finding her in the corner of the _kehrite_ many times before, her smaller form wrapped up and comfortable in the shadows of the room. H’chak opts to settle in one such corner, back pressed against the wall while he holds Sundew to his chest. His mesh is far past damp, but he can get a new one later. He inhales slowly and continues to purr. The sound reverberates from his throat to his chest. He relaxes when he feels Sundew’s cool hands hold him tighter, gripping the netting of his bodysuit with vigor. Her eyes are currently shut, but she does not seem to be _asleep_. 

The two stay like that for many hours. The _Kukulkan_ flies on autopilot. H’chak knows there are many things to come when the ship reaches its destination, but he doesn’t dwell on those thoughts. He sits, listening to the sound of his heartbeats in his head, occasionally stopping in the purring to trace small shapes on Sundew’s arm or shoulder. He wishes he had seen her sooner, _before_ she consumed alcohol. The dress she wears is very _Sundew_ , as if Sundew is a type of ooman fashion opposed to his beautiful partner.

 _I’ll protect you. From Gahn’tha-cte. Stargazer. All of them._ His chest rumbles at the thought, tucking it—and every thought of her—away for safekeeping. He stays awake as long as possible, a sentinel purring softly. When sleep finally come, it arrives with the awareness Sundew has ceased in her tears, the Image silent against his chest. H’chak waits only to ensure she sleeps—she is, leaning into his touch, holding him tightly with the not-quite-ooman hands—before he succumbs to a bout of a slumber and a merciful, dreamless sleep of his own.


	30. xxx (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No doubt—The matriarch wants something of him, wants him to act, to bend and conform and follow her orders, but he does not need to act on their behalf. He won’t let them interfere. He won’t let N’Ritja-Zabin control all of him. She cannot play her game of cat and mouse with information forever. There will come a point where the younger Yautja slips in her reign, where the clan is ripe for devastation, and when that time comes, he will squash the vermin of Ka’Torag-Na and ensure secrets are kept secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -implied strangulation / choking / torture  
> -bruises  
> -corpses

“Mierda! _La madre que te parió!”_ The man curses Tucker out when he leaves the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

In the foyer of the suite, Tucker’s blue gaze falls on the tall silver figure leaning over a large silver casket. The man’s eyes drift toward her neck; he finds himself at a loss for words when he sees no bruises. The markings evident just a day ago, a terrible gray peppering her throat, appear to have healed. He is speechless even when Alma looks over her shoulder and narrows her clear gaze on him. Tucker swallows and nervously strides forward, hands tensing. The heavy-set man stops at his boss’ side, peering at her neck again.

 _How the fuck..._ Is all he can stand to think, eyes wide and bulging in disbelief.

“First contact is expected within forty-eight, Tucker Mason. Rest is advisable.” Alma’s calm, neutral voice floats through one ear and out the other. Tucker struggles to make himself nod, flabbergasted all the same. His expression is _very_ noticeable; Alma tilts her head to one side and voices her observation, “You are surprised to see me standing.”

“Yeah,” Tucker slowly nods, stomach already doing flips. He feels nauseous.

“If you hesitate when contact is made—You will die.” The woman says it plainly. She turns back to the casket. Her long, platinum-blond hair is out and shielding part of her face from his gaze. Tucker watches Alma drum fingers down the side of it. Her lips purse; she lowers her head to the surface, turning away at the last second to press one ear against the gleaming metal. She shuts her eyes. “Do you know what these contain, Tucker Mason? The bodies lining these caskets?”

“No?” The man offers quietly.

Alma pauses. She lifts herself up off the casket and makes to sit on it. She folds one leg over the other and tilts her head, clear gaze hiding no details of the eye sockets beyond them. She rests her hands on her lap. “They are Yautja. Two of the few specimens preserved by Stargazer Corporation. Arnold Escrow agreed to transport them here.”

The way she speaks of the Vice President gives Tucker reason for concern. His brows furrow; he opens his mouth to speak but shuts it. The man bites his lip and nods instead.

Alma looks at the suite ceiling. “I am President in name only. This company belongs to Arnold Escrow. His respect for me and my objectives is reason for my current position. I cannot operate across this planet without him. He cannot maintain his corporate empire without my knowledge and abilities. We are locked in a mutual partnership, but we do not see the other as equals. We are not true partners. We use each other like tools.”

Tucker runs a hand over his balding head. “That’s… Uh… Fuck. Most of this goes over my head, ya know?”

“I expect it to.” Alma nods stiffly. She opens her eyes again. “Humans are not meant to know the children of the stars. The universe is a void of cosmic terrors and grief unfurled. You will not find comfort there. The galaxies are full of creatures with misaligned goals, looking for conflict. Their technology could wipe out _Earth’s_ organic life in seconds.”

“Depressing.” The human whistles softly. He frowns and approaches the silver-lined casket, looking it up and down. He isn’t sure what his intentions are when he starts to talk. “What are you looking for, again? You’re all for… Preservation?”

“The continued existence of humanity and the Vekin. Preservation of our two species.” Alma pats the spot next to her.

Against better judgement, Tucker decides to sit down. It is bitterly cold, but he holds back the curse that threatens to slip out. “So… You… You are… _Vekin?”_ He tests out the word, uncertain of how it sounds in his mouth.

“Vekin. Correct. You are a human, but I am Vekin.” Alma says.

“What are Vekin looking for? You aren’t—You don’t got a million others of your kind here. So. You the only one available for this job? Or…” Tucker trails off. He stares.

The Vekin stills, her silvery figure akin to a beautiful piece of metalwork. Her lips twitch up at the corner briefly. Alma meets his gaze, or he thinks she does. The Vekin extends a human hand to Tucker, who reluctantly takes it. Tucker recoils and snaps his hand away _immediately._ He begins to curse. Alma tilts her head to one side. “Vekin are often cold creatures. By your laws of thermodynamics, we sap heat— _energy_ —out of our surroundings. But the notion of sapping from others—It is a universal statement to the Vekin species. No matter where you go, Tucker Mason, you will find us. We are a leech. We prey on the knowledge of others, gorging ourselves to get a fill of lifetimes we cannot experience ourselves. We bring it to our hive, deposit the information in our banks, and repeat the process. For as long as there is new information discovered—There will be Vekin.”

“Why are—Why tell me this, m’am? President?” He stares at her, lost in the bizarre and mortifying sight of her eye sockets.

“You asked what the Vekin look for. We look for… information. We will obtain it at any cost. We will fight to expiration. In the past it made us worthy prey to others,” she purses her lips and stands. The woman straightens upright after a moment of stretching her arms. “Even now—I salivate at the thought of what I will discover when I consume the Yautja bodies. New information is a flavor only the Vekin are capable of appreciating to the fullest.”

“You’re—You plan to fucking _eat_ them?” The man blurts out, unable to help himself. He recoils from the casket he sits on, stumbling backward and landing on his ass. Tucker curses a storm and backs away from Alma and the casket. “President Alma—”

“Your reaction is noted.” She is calm in her response. “I will consume them and use the mass to build a physical composition capable of combating the Yautja traveling with my… friend.”

“—You’re going to eat _corpses_ —Fuck.” Tucker whispers. He struggles to get up, nearly falling over twice. The man grabs at the wall to keep himself steady while his stomach does queasy backflips and churns like an angry sea. “Why—Can’t you—Is that _necessary,_ m’am—"

“Arnold would not give me permission to engulf them if it was not necessary.” The woman replies immediately.

“But—You just—You said—Fuck, the aliens are—Aren’t they your friend? Friends? You said one of them is?” Tucker continues to blab and sputter, cold sweat falling down his forehead. He cannot deny the horror of it all; it seeps through his body slowly.

“She was,” Alma nods. The woman walks to the door connecting the foyer of the suite to a balcony outside. Buenos Aires is a colorful, lit-up city in the early morning hours. Alma lifts a hand to the glass, prompting the door to frost over immediately. “It was before she crashed on Earth. Before she was reduced to a synthetic Vekin. I do not know how she will react when she sees me again. I am taking the precautions necessary to guarantee success.”

“Which involves eating corpses.”

“If you perceive it that way, I will not stop you.” The Vekin’s smile is fake. “My objective is preservation, Tucker Mason. Preservation of humanity and the Vekin in a universe where Yautja view us as prey.”

Tucker shudders. “Y—Yes, m’am. Got it.”

* * *

_Warm._ She enjoys leaning into the touch, already aware of who it belongs to before her eyes ever open. The Synthetic doesn’t bother to rise, far more relaxed in the grasp of the sleeping Yautja than she would be on her own. Her clear eyes shift and scan the surroundings, a vague awareness the past night is a mess of flashing colors and oscillating triangles. She does not recall what happened in the same way she perceives memories _now_. As she soaks in the sight of the dark, shadowy _kehrite_ , she finds it empty beyond herself and the Yautja holding her.

The Synthetic blinks slowly. Her last memory—beyond the triangles, the endless shapes, and gleams of hues beyond humanity’s visible spectrum—is of Ivon’s cabin, where three humans and herself were drinking a strange, amber-colored liquid that burnt her throat on the way down. Jo called it _shots_. She matches the description with memories belonging to Doctor James Heinrich and Miranda Escrow, the two at different bars or gatherings respectively. Sundew finds herself perplexed by the loss of time and shift of surroundings. She doesn’t know when H’chak got involved, but the fact he _is_ here makes her ponder.

 _Something made him worry. What did I do? Do those memories have something to do with it?_ She knows the flashing colors and three-dimensional triangles belong to her species, the basis of communication between the Synthetics of Saturn. The language is conveyed through electrical charges, but she knows she lacks crucial information on the language due to the mass expired after she landed on Earth. Her clear eyes narrow at the thought. _More human than Synthetic… How do I become more Synthetic than human? Can I reverse this?_

She doesn’t know the answer, and that makes her shiver with uncertainty. The movement prompts the Yautja holding her to stir. Sundew hears a soft click, but it is H’chak’s bio-mask that booms loudly, “Sun-Dew.”

“Hi,” she tilts her head to one side, lips twitching up at the corner. “I do not know why we are here.”

The Yautja leans down, shadows dancing wildly around the metal bio-mask in the process. She hears his clicks clearly this time, _“You were… weeping.”_

“Weeping.” The Synthetic repeats. She purses her lips and traces her thoughts back to the mess of colors and triangles. She remembers seeing the color known by humans as _blue._ She remembers enough to know green is hatred. Red is passion, both in fury and in zeal. Sundew pauses in her thoughts when she feels H’chak shift one of his arms, bringing a hand to her cheek and slowly caressing it. It makes heat jump into her face, warm but not unwelcome.

“You don’t remember?” The bio-mask voices. “Sun-Dew. You wept for hours.”

“I remember things that do not make sense to me right now. I will figure it out in…” She quiets when the Yautja inhales deeply near her neck. His body feels hot and tense against hers. Things are quiet for a moment, only the sound of the ship’s engines as ambience.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ H’chak clicks at her, the noises quiet and somber. _“Do you remember what I said our first time together?”_

It takes a moment to recant the memory, shuffling through her recent ones and looking for the one of the cockpit. Her face flushes a faint gray as she recalls the words. They were sudden, far from expected, and even now they leave her feeling a sheer thrill of something close to euphoria. Sundew mimics the sound of someone inhaling deeply. She nods at him and repeats his words from that night, “I think I love you.”

 _“Yautja do not… It is not common for many of us to… Express affection. In this way,_ ” just the sounds of the chirps make it obvious the hunter has a difficult time conveying his current train of thought. Sundew’s gaze softens as she watches him. _“In my clan… Outside—Outside private chambers—Life partners—It is not… Many perceive it as weakness. It is… Not entirely untrue. Having attachments to others is… It can be used against you. It will be used against you. Against me.”_

She frowns and waits for him to finish.

 _“I… Pauk. I—I am… I acknowledge you’re… like that… for me. Not unwelcome, but I—I’m weak for you.”_ H’chak growls the last statement, frustration creeping through the words.

“That is not very romantic.” Sundew blinks. “I do not know if I should take offense to your words. I am under the impression most Yautja clans despise the idea of appearing weak. Do you despise me?”

 _“No, that is not, pauk,”_ He chitters in irritation, but Sundew gets the impression it is directed at himself than at her. She feels him shift his hand from her face to his bio-mask. He unclasps it and takes it off, looking down at her with the bold orange eyes that remind her of Jupiter. They are full of irrevocable depth, a dozen different emotions visible in them. H’chak sets his bio-mask on the side before his other arm draws back. She sits upright on his lap, peering at him with curiosity and confusion, until the Yautja cups her face and hisses softly. _“I am weak for you—Only you—I would… I will hunt in your name. Fight for your honor. Kill to prove myself worthy of you. You are… You have an unfathomable grip on me. I’ve chosen to be weak because you exist. Because you’re… Sun-Dew.”_ He growls softly at no one.

Before she can say anything, before she can interject, the Yautja has taken her and pulled her back to him, snarling all the while with thoughts she knows she cannot fully understand. Her head presses against his chest and heat floods her face at the realization she can hear his four hearts beating wildly in his chest. He is nervous. More than nervous—Part of him is _panicked_ over her. Her gaze slowly drifts up, just in time for her forehead to bump against his as he lowers his head down.

 _“It’s taken me cycles to realize I am not the hunter I thought I was.”_ His voice trills softly, full of unease and a deep, imploring plead she cannot decipher. _“I am not… Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I am not the Elite kv’var-de he is. I tried to be him. Cold. Detached. Merciless. But I’m not… Not strong like him. I can’t keep pretending to be him. Who I am with you—That’s—That is me. Sun-Dew. H’chak. Mercy. Not… Merciless.”_ He exhales.

She lifts a hand to his face, mimicking what he did earlier. Her fingers gently caress his cheek just past his lower left mandible. “You can be Mercy with me.”

 _“I know,”_ he moves his head to her neck and gulps in air. _“That’s why—I don’t think I love you. I know I do. Sun-Dew,”_ the way he speaks her name makes her stomach flip with butterflies. _“I love you.”_

Her fake heart begins to thud in her head. The Synthetic’s hands drop to his chest and she clings to him, hands grabbing fistfuls of the mesh bodysuit. Her mind flashes back to the times in the cockpit, and to the times in his cabin, and to just how explicitly she wanted him back then. It reflects in the present; her breathing hitches and she finds herself at a loss of what to say or do, cheeks burning wildly to the point it feels painful.

“I,” she hiccups, voice failing her. Sundew lets go of the Yautja long enough to climb up and straddle him. She cannot clutch him tightly enough, both hands cradling his face while she leans forward and kisses the edge of one mandible.

His hands move to her hips, grip slowly tightening but not to the point of tearing through her lovely dress or silver flesh.

She exhales against him and rests her head in the crook of his neck, composure lost in his warmth as she mumbles, “I—I need you—H’chak—Please—”

He picks up on the meaning of her words, on the urgency she intones in them, and his throat and chest rumble in delight. His hands begin to roam, every bit adoring as they are longing. When one hand starts pulling the straps of her dress off her shoulders and down her arms, she holds still and helps him. When he rides her dress up and shifts to pull it off her, she lifts her arms to make it faster. The rest of her clothes, and _his_ clothes, come off with the same amount of lust. She is desperate for every inch of his flesh, running her hands down his body, feeling his muscles, pressing her lips to every corner she can reach. More than once she hears his strangled groan of pleasure. More than once she falls into the stupor of attempting to convey just how much he means to her in return, her chest pressed against his and her lips on his neck.

She wants him. She wants him more than she has wanted anything before. She does not know if it is because she is more human than Synthetic, if one side influences her more than the other, but what she knows is that she needs him. She craves him at her side, she longs for his touch, and she wants to connect with him over and over until expiration comes for either the two.

She moans against his flesh when she feels his erection against her hips. Her body is on fire, and he is the only way to put it out. There is no hesitation when he begins to purr at her. She holds still for him while he finds her opening. His shaft is terribly, wonderfully hot, and when the head of his cock rubs against her she loses herself in a long, breathless cry.

“Please—” She begs, back arching when he pushes inside. Sundew pants heavily as the Yautja pulls her hips over his, slowly impaling her on his cock and stretching her to the brim. She cannot think of anything but him as he fills her and then fills her beyond that. She whimpers and clutches him, hands shaking as her body struggles to adjust.

When she looks up, she can tell just how restrained he is. H’chak clenches his teeth, mandibles twitching and eyes clenched shut, as he waits for her to be ready. Sundew cannot help tightening her muscles around him, eliciting a string of growls and trills.

She nuzzles his chest, seeking and receiving comfort in him being there. “You can… Move, H’chak.”

It opens the floodgates, the Yautja growling as he bucks his hips upward and pulls out. The brief second before he plunges back in pries a gasp from her lips. She shakes against him, not able to bring herself to move as the Yautja thrusts into her with growing vigor. Her body convulses from the heat and friction, every second a new wave of pleasure jolting her and leaving her breathless. She feels one of his hands drift to her groin and the Yautja begins to rub her clit with the pad of his thumb, the gesture making her toes curl. She whimpers into him, hands clawing into his torso as the pressure builds. She yowls loudly when he thrusts upward and hits a sweet point deep inside.

H’chak picks up on the noise immediately, repeating the action over and over until she is a sopping mess of his name and his alone. She cannot think of anything else, nor is anything worth thinking of when he begins to tense and growl her name. He angles his hips in one thrust and she clamps down on him tight enough for him to hiss. The _kehrite_ rings with the sound of wet hips smacking louder, louder, louder, until it hits a point where the Yautja thrusts and throws his head back. He roars at the air as his climax hits. His hand on her clit picks up and continues while he humps every spurt of seed into her.

Sundew cannot stop her shaking. She sings his name against him, whimpering and whining when it becomes too much to focus. When he orgasms beneath her, she gasps and doubles over on his hips, filled by his cock. Her muscles contract and squeeze him. Pleasure jolts through her body as the orgasm floods her form. She begins to throb while he continues to thrust. Her body slacks against his and she mumbles incoherently as the overly stimulated nerves sing a second time.

The Yautja’s muscular arms rise and wrap around her, keeping her to him. One hand rises to caress her back. She hears the undeniable purr from the man; she feels his chest and throat reverberate with noise. It relaxes her into a sleepy lull, nothing but warmth to greet her when she drifts into the post-sex stupor. She does not dream, but her mind flashes through memories of her original ship flying past the great gas giant Jupiter, the orange color filling her thoughts with peace amid an otherwise chaotic existence.

When she wakes next, she is not in the _kehrite._ She is in a sleeping pod, partially submerged in light-colored liquid illuminated by the cabin light outside. It is relaxing; she feels weightless as she floats in the liquid. She lacks her clothes, but upon opening the glass hatch at the top and climbing out she finds a folded mesh thermal suit and modesty wrappings on a shelf extending from the wall. Judging by the number of trophies hanging across the other walls, she is in H’chak’s quarters. It is considerably larger than the other cabins, and it reminds her of H’chak, automatically making it more appealing than her small, H’chak-less cabin.

Sundew changes quickly. She feels the mesh suit automatically shrink and contour to her size. When she is dressed—and clean, though she suspects the sleeping pod’s liquid helps filter and decontaminate microbials found in body fluids—Sundew exits the cabin, looking up and down the living quarters’ main hall. She sees the cockpit door open, with Ivon in their shorts and t-shirt kneeling next to the pilot’s seat with a cast of strange tools piled on the floor next to them. She spots Jo standing to the side, once more dressed in her bright party clothes, but she finds Doctor Louanne Garcia absent. 

The Synthetic pauses and looks back at the other cabins. None of the doors have moved, the medical bay is shut… _Where is H’chak? Vayuh’ta?_

She approaches Ivon and Jo, giving each a calm, composed smile and a nod, “Greetings, Jo. Greetings, Ivon. Do you know where H’chak and Vayuh’ta are?”

“…Wait—Wait—I know this—I know one of those screeches,” Jo blurts out, her brown eyes lighting up at the possibility. “You—You’re looking for _Tall Alien_ , right? Mercy? Merciless? Which means—The other—You’re looking for Tall Strom! Maelstrom! Hey,” the woman grins cheekily, turning to Ivon. The latter stiffens and ducks their head into their work, which Sundew now makes out to be an open panel on the left dashboard. She spots the human’s cheeks dust pink before their head moves out to view. Jo continues with a laugh, “Yeah, so. Last night? Ton of fun. You wouldn’t believe how it turned out! A shame you can’t handle your booze, but that’s fine. Most on Earth can’t.”

“H’chak says I wept for a long time.” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “Do you know the cause of it, Jo?”

“—I mean—It just seems like you’re a sad kind of drunk. People react differently to alcohol.” Jo shrugs.

“Oh. I did not consider the answer could be that simple.” She taps her chin slowly. “Perhaps I am a… ‘sad drunk.’ I would not know unless I consumed alcohol again.”

“Eh. If you do, you should do it in a controlled setting. If you cried the entire time—That’s… It is a little extreme, maybe. How long is a long time?” the woman frowns at her.

“Up until I passed out. I need to ask him the exact time—"

“Well,” Jo frowns. “I mean—I saw him—He came out of his cabin, yapped about everyone staying out of the lower level. That was… this morning? But… We had food for... Well, Ivon and I have been up here since lunch. Mercy asked them to try and fix alien internet. It’s not called alien internet, but that’s my name for it.”

“…Since lunch… I have been asleep for several hours.” Sundew pauses and lowers her arms to her sides. Part of her feels something like guilt. She does not mean to impose on H’chak, much less make him clean up after the two. She wonders if he put her in the sleeping pod to be out of the way. The thought is disheartening, but she reminds herself not to accept it so easily. It appears taking on more and more human attributes includes humanity’s tendency to ridicule themselves.

It does concern her, sleeping for so long. She briefly considers asking Jo and Ivon if it is normal for humans to enter a miniature state of hibernation post-intercourse, but the question comes off as crossing one of the humans’ boundaries. She seeks knowledge, but she restrains her curiosity and impulses. For now.

“Where is Vayuh’ta? Maelstrom.” The Synthetic peers at Jo, who grins and nudges in Ivon’s direction. Sundew blinks slowly, uncertain how to interpret the gesture.

“So,” the woman says, voice far louder than it needs to be. “I think—Last night—Something happened with those two, ‘cause both of them are going out of their way to avoid each other. Kind of funny shit.”

“I told you,” Ivon backs out of the crawlspace and huffs at Jo. “ _Nothing_ happened! I just…”

“See, Ivon, _that_ is where you’re wrong. You think I mean something physical happened. We were stuck in the same room all night, equally drunk, I don’t think anything physical went on, sure. But something changed with you both,” Jo blows a loc hanging over her eyes out of the way and snorts. She looks at Sundew. “This morning, they were trying to walk past her in the hall. The two did that thing where they both shuffle to the left, then the right, then the left again, and yadda yadda yadda; they kept blocking each other in the hall and neither said a word! You think that’s normal? Nah. Nah-uh, no sir-ee, I know shit when I see it—”

 _“Why_ can’t you drop it, Jo? Please,” the electrician grimaces and holds their head in their hands. “Nothing— _Nothing_ —Happened—Changed—Whatever. We just… Aren’t talking. Which is normal. We don’t really talk much anyways—”

“I forgot, normally she just sits with you and watches you _nat twenty_ your way through repairing alien technology.”

“You know about tabletop games?” Ivon’s eyes widen.

Jo stomps a foot, irritated. “I am—I _do_ listen to you on occasion, Ivon!”

Sundew leaves the two in their weird back-and-forth conversation. She heads for the lift to the _kehrite,_ looking for a certain, green-white-brown speckled Yautja. When the lift drops her, she is surprised by how pristine it looks. Everything appears wiped down, clean, and free of any messes made when H’chak and her fucked. It sounds so silly to think—they _fucked_ —but when she dwells on it longer, the humor dies down to a deep, visceral warmth. There is a specific form of happiness in the depths of it all, a kind of delight only H’chak inspires.

She likes him. She likes him a _lot._ Just the thought can bring a smile to her face, her body reacting instinctively as if it is ingrained deep within her. She wants to be with him. She wants to be at his side more than anything else, save the ever-lasting pursuit of knowledge. Even then—Knowledge has a limit; she can feel her fake heart striving for H’chak, thinking about H’chak, _beating_ for H’chak. He loves her, he expresses weakness for her, and she can barely process the fact any of it is true. She wants to build on it and make something of the two that extends past anything knowledge has ever founded.

Sundew wonders if that is what love is.

She pauses at the sound of a door opening nearby. The Synthetic turns in time to catch sight of H’chak staring at her, bio-mask clasped on his ace and hiding his beautiful orange eyes. She offers him a smile and polite nod, stating plainly, “H’chak.”

“You’re up.” The mask’s translator voices slowly.

“I am.” She nods again. “Did you move me to your cabin? I do not recall falling unconscious in a pod.”

“…You looked tired.” He intones through the mask, stepping closer. She is happy to take his hands in her own when he tentatively holds them out. They feel warm; _he_ feels warm. Her willingness to respond to the gesture appears to relax him. The next time he speaks, H’chak clicks it without the translator, _“I cleaned. You don’t have to… worry.”_

“Worry…” Sundew trails off. She purses her lips at him. “Do you worry about me a lot?”

 _“…In recent times. Yes. I told you,”_ he leans down, bumping his covered forehead against her bare one. She feels heat light up in her stomach. H’chak’s throat rumbles softly before he goes on, _“I… love you. Sun-Dew.”_

She lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding when he straightens upright. She steps forward and closes the gap between them, letting go of his hands to wrap her arms around his chest and lay her head there. “You take care of me.”

Hearing him _laugh_ is a strange thing. She looks up and notices him looking down, at her. He clicks with mild humor, _“You took care of both of us.”_

“I had your help,” she reminds him. “And your blood.”

_“Thwei.”_

“Thwei,” Sundew repeats, sounding it out slowly. _“Thwei._ Thwei. Thwei. Blood.”

He wraps arms around her and begins to purr. He sounds as content as she hopes he feels. Her eyes shut and for a moment she imagines the two staying like that forever: entwined and enmeshed and utterly wrapped up in mutual adoration.

 _In mutual…_ Her face flushes gray. She imagines he can tell, and he confirms it when he pauses and draws back from her. Sundew cannot bring herself to look at him, too flustered and overwhelmed in the moment. She opens her mouth to speak, but her words are jumbled up, “I like—love—The cleaning. Clean. You did. You cleaned. I love your cleaning.”

Click-filled laughter echoes across the _kehrite._ Sundew blinks and looks up, just in time for one of his hand to shift and rise to her face. He caresses her cheek, thumb drawing circles with a precise gentleness. Her gaze softens as she watches him, awestruck. As he begins to click, the blush on her face increases and she begins to clutch him tightly.

 _“My… cleaning,”_ the Yautja’s chirps are tender, reserved specifically for _her._ H’chak trills at her, intent on keeping her attention. _“Don’t say anything until you want to.”_

“But I—” She swallows her nerves and clenches her eyes shut. “I _want_ to—I want you—”

The Yautja dips into a hiss. He picks her up with ease; she wraps her legs around his hips. The hunter leans down and nuzzles her neck. _“You’ll sleep again at this rate—Wait until tonight. Until we’re in my quarters.”_

Sundew moans softly against him, losing herself in the moment. When he draws away it is her turn to lean up and plant a chaste kiss along his neck, just above where his mesh bodysuit begins. She hears his growl. Her mind is lost briefly, aching terribly for his touch. H’chak’s throat and chest rumble before he sets her on her feet.

“Wait until tonight.” His helmet voices. “I want all of you. I love you. Sun-Dew.”

“I love—Your cleaning,” Sundew mumbles back.

* * *

They have not come to Gahn’tha-cte in many cycles. Their sudden presence, even in their ship, is cause for concern among the Elders of the clan. Though many fear their name, there is one group of shadowed warriors not even Gahn’tha-cte can best through brute force. They are the steps who come from the darkness. They walk behind the clan leader no matter who leads, a shadow of unspoken devotion and loyalty. Their title carries power, their blood demands respect, and when they come, death is bound to follow.

They are Dto-Bhu’ja, the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na, and stand in front of Akrei-non-Daga with no weapons in hand. The Yautja’s torso is covered head-to-toe in heavy body armor, but they stride forward in Daga’s court with no concern for their safety or well-being. They have nothing to fear, for as much as Daga yearns for the blood of the Shadow to stain Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship, he knows the plasma weaponry won’t be enough. The twelve Elite guards in the room could subdue them, but the risk of Daga being injured in the process is too high, much less the total collateral, and the death pointless when Ka’Torag-Na looms in the background of all he says and does. Daga holds up a hand and motions for the Elites to lower their weapons and turn off humming _sivk’va-tai_.

The Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na stops in the middle of the court room, the masked face looking up as if staring into his soul like a reaper of Cetanu. Daga cannot imagine what the face of the one behind it looks like. Sullen, perhaps. Dead. A true embodiment of the power of a clan and wrath of a warrior.

 _Worthy foe,_ he feels the bloodlust simmer in his veins. _But not yet. Not yet._

Daga’s yellow eyes narrow behind his bio-mask. He growls his greeting, standing to full height of seven-foot-eight and watching the shorter Yautja with disgust in his veins. _“Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na… I am perplexed by your presence here. You do not stray far from your matriarch without reason. May the Paya bless us all with good news.”_

It feels like combat, where adrenaline surges his body and leaves him hyper-vigilant and alert to everything around him. It _is_ combat, but not in the conventional sense of the world. Akrei-non-Daga interprets it as two forces circling each other, lashing out with words rather than _dah’kte_. Politics are nuanced that way with interweaving facets one must tear out by the root as if a weed. Ka’Torag-Na is certainly a weed in Daga’s mind.

 _“Our matriarch sends me with a blessing for Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_ The Shadow’s voice is low and serene, unpleasantly _calm._

Daga exhales loudly. He wants his displeasure known. _“No one is stopping you from speaking, Shadow.”_

 _“Lights.”_ The Shadow chirps.

It is abhorrent how harmonious it sounds. Clan Ka’Torag-Na is a lurking menace, with notes of a songbird and trills of pleasant melodies in their dialect. Nothing like a warrior, utterly disgraceful compared to the rough and merciless growls and clicks of Gahn’tha-cte.

Daga taps an input on his wrist computer. The lights of the courtroom dim but do not go out completely. He knows better than to let a Shadow parade in their preferred habitat. Even in the dim light, the silhouette is already difficult to see. The suit of armor adorning their body has technology superior to the civilian caste of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. It is a shade of something not quite black, but darker and beyond it, a color that absorbs the light, that demands only void: vantablack. Sheer perfection in every alloy rendered and shaped for the Shadow’s form. How Ka’Torag-Na successfully incorporates it into the alloys of the armor is a secret Daga has yet to shine light on, but it is menacing. It makes him pause.

He may not be afraid, but he is cautious. The Shadow gives no indication they pick up on this, though Daga knows better than to make assumptions. He nods at the Shadow to carry on. The figure lifts a small computer attached to the gauntlet of one _dah-kte._ It is another of Ka’Torag-Na’s innovations, a carefully constructed compaction of existing equipment that enables the Shadow to move with less weight on their back. Daga feels the bloodlust return as he watches the Shadow input a sequence, noting how the Shadow is both quick and careful to angle the computer and keys away from most eyes.

A beam of blue light shoots up from the machine and hovers in the air; it begins to twist and morph, taking on a semi-translucent nature while reconstructing a scene in a myriad of shimmering colors. Multiple figures take shape, with a rainforest filling space in the background. There are three individuals, two of which are Yautja and a third who looks like a silver _pyode amedha._ Daga’s eyes widen, not at the Image visible, but at the Yautja standing between the Arbitrator and the remaining duo.

 _“Clan Ka’Torag-Na assigned two Arbitrators the role of eliminating the icjit Vayuh’ta.”_ The Shadow pauses.

Daga growls. _“That is—"_

 _“It is a copy of the feed sent from Arbitrator T’gou’s mask during the Hunt.”_ Ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow taps a button and the hologram begins to replay the video feed.

The entire room is silent as the scene unfolds. Daga immediately curses in his head. Ka’Torag-Na is a sham to have sent their Shadow into what could be an immediate death, but now the twelve Elite guards in his court are witnesses to his actions. His response will be noted, talked about, spread through the clan like wildfire on a dry plain. When the feed ends, the hologram flickers out and the Shadow tilts their head to one side, expectant.

 _“…That is an Elite of Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Daga affirms, recalling the distinct armor and bio-mask. It is an unmarked mask but one with the distinct ridges found in Gahn’tha-cte’s forges.

 _“The matriarch of Ka’Torag-Na asked I inform you of this development. A blessing of information,”_ the Shadow’s voice contains no humor, no laced undertone, nothing. Daga’s hands tense into fists as the Shadow continues. _“One of your Elites aids the ic’jit Vayuh’ta.”_

 _Pauk._ Daga sits in his throne and leans back. He will not crack. Everything is being recorded if not sent directly back to Ka’Torag-Na’s matriarch. The Yautja cracks his neck, stalling for time while he assesses accordingly. He cannot let Ka’Torag-Na interfere more with Gahn’tha-cte’s politics than it already has.

No doubt—The matriarch wants something of him, wants him to _act,_ to bend and conform and follow her orders, but he does not need to act on their behalf. He won’t let them interfere. He won’t let N’Ritja-Zabin control all of him. She cannot play her game of cat and mouse with information forever. There will come a point where the younger Yautja slips in her reign, where the clan is ripe for devastation, and when that time comes, he will squash the vermin of Ka’Torag-Na and ensure secrets are _kept_ secret.

 _“S’yuit-de. Tell that to your matriarch!”_ Daga roars at the Shadow. _“We do not need Ka’Torag-Na’s assistance reining in one of our own! Your presence is unwarranted, Shadow. Your time’s a waste. I thank you for this information but tell your matriarch her concerns in how we conduct ourselves are unfounded.”_

 _“My matriarch requested I pass a message to you in event of these circumstances_ ,” the Shadow strides forward, not stopping when the twelve Elites raise their weapons and growl warnings at them. Daga lifts a hand and the guards still. Ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow walks up the steps to the throne and leans down to Daga’s eye-level. _“Remember who you cross.”_

Then the Shadow draws back, turning and leaving with no sound accompanying their footsteps. Daga stills and realizes he hears his four hearts thudding wildly in his head. He stares as the Shadow goes, the Elites abiding his order to let the Shadow walk freely.

As silence fills the court room, the leader of Gahn’tha-cte seethes in his seat. He leaps to his feet and snaps at the nearest guard, _“Notify the Elders and my Adjutant—We hold Council midday tomorrow. The Paya blesses us with grave news—our fallen mei-hswei is fallen no longer!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! I'm happy with this chapter. I feel like it's a major turning point for H'chak's character development. also I find it very funny that a chapter labeled xxx has smut in it. Ha ha.
> 
> for my own reference that is probably not canonically aligned, I tend to classify the Yautja of this story based on their ages of the following:  
> (post chiva) 18-300 cycles, Blooded  
> 301-499 cycles, Elite  
> 500-999 cycles, Elder  
> 1,000+ cycles, Ancient  
> as of right now the oldest Yautja in this story is Akrei-non-Daga at a whopping 782 cycles!


	31. moroidin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jupiter Eyes. Ivon wants to cringe externally as well as internally, a mess of their own making. It wasn’t bad enough coming to the realization they find their friend Jo attractive—Now they get to contend with the fact they can’t shy away from the growing feelings for a certain huntress. Sometimes they close their eyes and find themself pondering what such circumstances could lead to. Probably nothing, given one is four inches taller, could crush their skull in a second, and comes from a world of technological advances and sport hunting. In comparison to other Yautja, what do they have to offer a huntress? The entertainment that comes from messing with scrap pieces of alien hardware and electronics? They still lack an explanation for that, and part of Ivon fears a day might come where they find themself at a loss when handling the equipment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -mention of suicide  
> -physical abuse in the part with ikthya-de  
> it begins at:  
> "When the night cycle ends, he is an exhausted, weary mess, but he is triumphant."  
> it ends at:  
> "Guan croaks as the woman walks away from him to the door."  
> ^you can ctrl+f the line above (between the quotation marks) to skip to after that part.

Along the River Plate off the coast of Argentina, north of the country’s capital, Buenos Aires, the great serpent _Kukulkan_ sits down along a strip of the shore. The sandy coast greets the eyes of all the inhabitants when the cockpit pops open and the window rises to allow exit.

“I know it’s not much, but,” Ivon doesn’t step past the pilot seat, lingering near the open door connecting the cockpit to the fuselage of the ship. The person keeps their eyes on the taller of the two Yautja, nervousness evident in every action as they watch the two aliens finish donning and checking gear. “I think those can relay messages to one another. And—To the ship. So, if there is something you need, uh…”

“We won’t.” Mercy’s bio-mask voices the translation of quick clicks.

To Ivon’s left, Sundew stands in her crisp orange dress, a crumply but clean beige sun hat on her head. She smiles today. It is for Mercy, but Ivon finds a semblance of comfort in it anyways.

It is not that they still hold feelings for the Synthetic. On the contrary, they feel they have let go and moved on. On that same contrary, their feelings have quickly dissipated into a mess of their own making: sheer, utter chaos and nothing less of the sort whenever they think about Jo in her lovely, peacock-colored shorts and shirts, or Maelstrom in her… _What am I thinking?_

It’s hard not to think when the woman in question, the _alien_ in question, is wearing little more than modesty wrappings and a mesh bodysuit on top. Ivon finds the thoughts flicker back to Maelstrom _constantly._ They have spent far too much time dwelling on the matter since landing miles north of Argentina’s capital. They know why. It is clear as day: it relates to the delightful surprise party Louanne, Sundew, and themself threw for Jo. It relates to, _specifically,_ what they said under the influence of alcohol.

 _Jupiter Eyes._ Ivon wants to cringe externally as well as internally, a mess of their own making. It wasn’t bad enough coming to the realization they find their friend Jo attractive—Now they get to contend with the fact they can’t shy away from the growing feelings for a certain huntress. Sometimes they close their eyes and find themself pondering what such circumstances could lead to. Probably nothing, given one is four inches taller, could crush their skull in a second, and comes from a world of technological advances and sport hunting. In comparison to other Yautja, what do _they_ have to offer a huntress? The entertainment that comes from messing with scrap pieces of alien hardware and electronics? They still lack an explanation for that, and part of Ivon fears a day might come where they find themself at a loss when handling the equipment.

 _I’m six-foot-one. I have… I have very messy hair. Does she care about hair? She has her own and it looks very impressive but… But does she care? Is that a normal thing to care about in her clan?_ The person finds their gaze absentmindedly trails back to the huntress in question, brown eyes unable to tear off her.

All of this is very bad. They knew they had it bad with another _human_ , but the months spent onboard the _Kukulkan_ have made ‘bad’ grow worse. Even if there was a chance in hell they knew how to flirt, to charm, to do something besides be a bumbling, awkward electrician, they know, in comparison to Yautja, they are nothing. They are _nothing._ She has no eyes for them. Even if she did—which she doesn’t, she made that clear—they know zilch of Yautja social customs and norms.

 _Would I ask her out? Give her gifts? How does that work?_ Ivon freezes when they realize the huntress has turned to look directly at them. They feel heat rush into their cheeks, and they pray to every deity they remember looking up on Wikipedia it isn’t too noticeable.

“Ivon, are you alright?” At their side, Sundew faces them. Her clear eyes give nothing away, nor does her tone, but they know her well enough to understand she expresses a sincere desire to know the answer. When they fumble to think of something, Sundew purses her lips. “Your cheeks are red.”

“I’m. I am not feeling well.” They blurt out a weak lie. “I’ll see Louanne after this, promise, just. Just having nerves.” _Around Maelstrom._

Heaven help them if they happen to be cornered by Jo. One crush is bad enough. They cannot handle these developing feelings.

“Sun-Dew.” Mercy steps forward, and for once Ivon is more than happy to inch backward and let the attention fall to the duo. The electrician doesn’t mean to stare, but they know if they don’t focus on _something_ that their eyes _will_ go back to the taller, muscular, _very-toned_ huntress waiting at the side.

Sundew smiles, warm and polite. She makes the sound of someone exhaling in delight when Mercy pulls her to him and wraps arms around her. A very soft rumble emits from the duo; it takes Ivon a moment to realize the Yautja produces the purr-like noise. It feels oddly intimate. They feel guilty for looking on and shift their eyes to the floor. The slightest sound from Maelstrom—she cracks her knuckles, likely eager to get a move on with the whole thing—makes Ivon snap their head up. The quick gesture must be noticeable to her as well, because she snaps her head in their direction.

“I,” Ivon doesn’t _mean_ to speak, but their tongue no longer listens to the rational half of their brain as they blurt out to the world. “I hope you do hunt well!”

Now _all_ eyes are on them and they are certain their face surpasses a cherry tomato. Their hands clench and unclench as they nod fervently to their own words, trying to play it off as a general statement rather than a general statement _directed at the huntress nearby._ When they hear Mercy start to click in faint laughter, or what they think is laughter at any rate, Ivon’s heart drops at the realization he _knows._ They hear Maelstrom snarl from across the cockpit and Ivon takes it as their cue to bolt, sprinting the length of the living cabins’ hall and frantically slamming their hand against the medical bay door. It takes far too long to open; they duck inside and heave in relief when it slides shut.

“What the fuck,” Jo mutters under her breath, leaning against one of the medical pods mid-conversation with Louanne. The latter has her arms crossed, an annoyed look on her face. Jo quirks a brow up, brown eyes flickering up and down their shaking form. “You don’t look so hot.”

 _“I know,_ ” Ivon sputters. “I know I’m not! Not to her—Not to—” They cut themself short before they have a chance to go on a tangent. They hear Louanne sigh and Jo gasp loudly.

“What did you do?” The woman is up and walking to their side in a moment. “Did you kiss her? Fuck’s sake, Ivon—You can’t say things like that outta nowhere!”

“For what it’s worth, I doubt they could kiss the alien. Yautja do not possess lips the manner humans do. It’s one of the first notes I have on my tablet.” Louanne shakes her black bangs out of her eyes.

Ivon wants to find a hole. A hole sounds acceptable. They know no holes exist, because the _Kukulkan_ is an alien ship and holes only exist with purpose. They settle for the next best option: ignoring Jo, ignoring Louanne, and striding to the first open medical pod. Without a word they climb inside and shut the hatch, ignoring Jo when she runs and taps on the glass top. The human sinks into the dark liquid and breathes heavily, as much a mess inside as they are outside.

The only thing on their mind is a single phrase. _God damnit._

* * *

_Ka’rik’na._

It is a word often overlooked by Yautja like Guan. The Adjutant does not have reason for it at this time, possessing neither the authority to schedule such a meeting of powers nor the circumstances of a hunt or warfare to which he might consider asking for assistance. To summon other Yautja, there must be cause, and the cause must be _good_. Yautja of Clan Gahn’tha-cte are a proud lot, with many clinging to old traditions, and they do not like their time wasted. Even if a cycle is but a blink of an eye in the mind of a Yautja, it is still _time,_ and time is a currency no warrior is strong enough to get back once lost.

Initially, the dusky-skinned Adjutant contemplates attending the summons. It is less a matter of _if_ versus the pondering of possible consequences and risk of lost reputation that hang over Guan’s head. Between attempting to circumnavigate Ikthya-De’s sadism and train himself back to the strength of a true Elite _kv’var-de_ , the Yautja is exhausted. He seeks relief in a long, scalding hot bath the evening before, but it can only do so much for his muscles. He attempts to muscle through the pain by stretching and minor exercises, but the pain is _deep_. Ikthya-De is a dangerous opponent; he remembers how easily she dislocated and broke his arm. He does not want to repeat it.

With Ikthya-De becoming increasingly more aggressive whenever he dominates her in the two’s mock mating dance—if only a mockery because there is no lust, only disgust between the two Yautja toward one another, and spite of the typical violence it does not end in copulation—Guan needs rest and recuperation. He needs time to hone himself. He does not have time. It, ironically, is a currency not even the Adjutant of Clan Gahn’tha-cte can obtain once past.

He does not have any other options. The evening before, and throughout the night, after he completes his bathing routine and settles like a sentinel at the door to his and Ikthya-De’s bedchamber, Guan has no choice but to remain alert and hyper-vigilant the entire night. Ikthya-De’s vibrant yellow eyes linger on him as hours past; she sits on the edge of their bed with a terrible hiss occasionally passing her mandibles. Her long locs frame her face, a face he can never call _beautiful_ , and Guan makes a point to never look away. There are times throughout the night cycle he forgets to blink, a headstrong and spiteful strength driving him to seethe in equal hate back at the woman.

He will not let her win. He will not let her win. _He will not let her win._

She seeks to hurt innocent, honorable lives. The Yautja seeks to maim others and leave them incapable of what is many Yautja’s primary goal in life. She does it with a purpose, and though Guan does not yet understand or know that purpose, he has enough honor in him to fight for the safety of those the woman would sink her talons into. He stays awake, she stays awake, and the two become statue-like in their stillness.

When the night cycle ends, he is an exhausted, weary mess, but he is triumphant. Ikthya-De has not challenged him, she has not attempted to sneak past his watch, and he has done his duty to protect others in his clan. Guan rises to his feet, his locs swaying in the process. It is a mistake, because no sooner than his attention shifts does his life mate surge forward and slam him into the door of their bed chamber. Guan howls in pain and spits as Ikthya-De roars her challenge and tears into his head, ripping at his locs. He shoves a hand against her mandibles and forces her back, ignoring the green blood that flows from his palm when her tusks puncture his hand. The two Yautja grapple a moment, rolling over and over on the ground before Ikthya-De finds a moment to jam her fingers into the flesh of his arm socket

Guan screams in agony as she dislocates his arm again and begins to laugh.

 _“S’yuit-de!”_ She scolds him like he is a Suckling, climbing on his form and pinning his arms to the side of his chest with her knees. She lowers herself to his face, hands caressing his cheeks and mandibles in a twisted mockery of affection. _“If you were not Adjutant… I would do more than carve your flesh. You have use to me, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, but only if you obey.”_

His eyes widen and he begins to struggle. The man howls in pain when his life partner increases the weight of her knee on his dislocated arm. It is unbearable, agonizing, wretched pain—Guan feels like his arm will tear from its socket. He thrashes anyways, slamming his head against hers and causing her to curse and snarl at him. The sound of metal scraping a sheathe prompts blood to _pound_ through his head, hearts, _everywhere_ as he becomes instantly aware of what she will do if she gets the chance. The man screams as he forces his knees to come up to her chest and smash into her back, throwing her against him and continuing the two’s mock embrace.

She hisses and grabs him by the throat, a blade pressed against his neck, but Guan does not fear the call of Cetanu. He knees her again, this time shoving the blade through his flesh in the process. His orange eyes narrow and harden.

 _“What will your father do when the clan discovers his Adjutant dead?”_ The Yautja spits in her face, unafraid.

Ikthya-De hesitates, and it is enough for him to draw all his strength to his chest and throw her off. Pain sears his vision and leaves him seeing white spots as he clambers to his feet and attempts to open the bedchamber door. He gets two steps out before Ikthya-Da strikes him in the back, tearing through flesh and pushing him to the ground. Blood pours out but he crawls forward, one arm useless at his side.

Guan begins to remember what fear is like when the woman stands next to his dislocated arm, raises a foot, and brings it down on his shoulder. He writhes and convulses in the sounds of his own agony, momentarily blacking out only to come to a second later with Ikthya-De raising her foot to do it again.

 _Cetanu take me quickly._ Is all he thinks.

A knock at the front door of his residence gives her pause. Ikthya-De snorts and spits at him, a lumbering, tall figure of muscle and mass that far exceeds his own, admittedly taller-than-normal frame. Guan croaks as the woman walks away from him to the door. He hears her open it, but the pain is too much for him to do anything but listen and curse inside. _I will not fail. I will not fail!_

 _“Leader Daga sends for his Adjutant, Ikthya-De. I am here to escort him to the council hall.”_ It is the voice of a Yautja woman, one he has only seen on occasion when Tjau’ke drags him around the medical bay scolding him. She is one of the nurses; he vaguely recalls her name being _Bist’ri,_ or Scalpel.

 _Did Tjau’ke expect me to wind up like this?_ Guan is grateful for the woman. He thanks the Paya for her existence but withholds audible chittering. Laughing right now means pain and he needs to pop his arm back into his socket.

Surprisingly, Ikthya-De steps aside and lets Bist’ri enter. The woman hesitates a moment before Ikthya-De snorts at her. _“If the Adjutant’s late—It falls on your head, nurse.”_

The next time Guan opens his eyes, his bio-mask adjusts to the presence of blue over him. He makes out a maskless Yautja, one with eyes as green as the lush jungle and scales of lightening blue. The Yautja heeds him no attention beyond appropriate medical care, administrating a quick injection of regeneration serum into his open flesh. Her hands feel surprisingly smooth when she shifts to his dislocated arm.

He tries not to scream when she quickly pops it into its socket, but the noise tears from Guan’s throat regardless. His mandibles twitch and his hands shake. He hisses when Bist’ri rolls him unto his back, making a clicking noise not unlike what he’s heard Tjau-ke make in the past. The Adjutant glares at Ikthya-De from the floor, hands eventually tensing into fists that dig into his own flesh. Guan growls when Bist’ri takes him by the wrist and pulls him to his feet. Her clicks are strange, higher pitched than most residents of Gahn’tha-cte, yet possessing a crudeness all the same.

She is not taller than him. It surprises him to see her approximately one-thirteenth a _nok_ shorter. The Adjutant thanks Cetanu for his mask; it hides his balking. Bist’ri’s green eyes narrow on him and she turns back to Ikthya-De. _“Leader Daga extends an invitation for you to attend this meeting as well, Ikthya-De-th’Syra.”_

 _Pauk._ Guan seethes where he stands. He turns to Bist’ri and trills quickly, _“I need to change.”_

 _“Do it quickly, then.”_ Bist’ri does not move, gaze locked on Ikthya-De.

Guan doubts the younger Yautja can beat his mate in a fight. He is lucky Ikthya-De wasted _her_ hours awake watching him. If the woman had rest, if she could think more clearly, he would not have a dislocated arm—He would have _one_ arm, and the other would be a bloody heap on the floor. Guan looks from Bist’ri to Ikthya-De, then back at the former. _“Come.”_

The nurse pauses but does not denounce the Adjutant’s word. Bist’ri tails him back into his bedchamber and waits by the door, arms stiff at her side, while Guan taps a code into the wall near the bed and unlocks his personal inventory of ceremonial garb. He opts for something capable of covering most of his body, the finer black robe smooth over his form and accentuating his muscles. It goes on easily once he peels off his old mesh suit and throws an intact one on. He ties a brilliant orange sash around his waist. A belt goes over the sash before the man fetches the scabbard of his sword. When he turns back to Bist’ri, he finds her nodding slowly.

 _“Does Tjau’ke consider this appropriate wear?”_ The Adjutant inquires, catching Bist’ri’s eyes narrowing.

 _“She would, sei-i.”_ The blue Yautja confirms. _“She will be in attendance with the Five Elders and Leader Daga.”_

Guan’s eyes darken. All five Elders present at the _ka’rik’na_ spells ill news. He dons his personal computer and straps it to his wrist before crossing the bedchamber to Bist’ri’s side. _“And yourself?”_

 _“I leave that to Tjau’ke. I will go where she asks.”_ It is a wise answer; the old nurse has chosen an honest and fearless Yautja to take on in her division.

The Adjutant pauses. A thought crosses his mind; he glances at the open bedchamber door and notes Ikthya-De’s presence is at the other end of his residency, flopped unto a sofa while she waits. Guan turns back to Bist’ri and leans forward. _“If she does not ask—Offer it of your own accord.”_

 _“You want me present, Adjutant Guan?”_ She challenges the words without hesitation, green eyes riling something up in the man.

He growls softly, not wishing to let his life mate overhear. _“She may try to manipulate the events of the present. You may collaborate my testimony if necessary.”_

 _“Ki’sei,”_ Bist’ri nods slowly, understanding. _“If that is the Adjutant’s wish, I will oblige.”_

 _“It is not my…”_ He lets the subject drop, determining the time spent arguing semantics is better elsewhere.

It is a short walk to the council hall, the meeting place on the highest level of the clanship, directly next to the observation deck. Guan finds relief in having Bist’ri follow behind him; the Yautja acts as a small buffer between Ikthya-De’s wrath and his pained body. Though his arm is in its place, and the serum applied to his wounds has mended the flesh, he remains in throbbing pain masked only by the presence of his bio-mask over his mandibles and eyes.

The council hall, unlike the court, has more than one seat. It is a great circle stage surrounded by rising levels of chairs, each placed at increments reflecting the user’s age and rank. During a trial, the accused party or parties stands in the center of the stage for Elders to see and question. During that time, Arbitrators serve as flanking sentries to ensure no party attempts to leave. Outside of the trial, the only guards present are the Elites posted at the singular exit. Neither of them responds to Guan’s chirp of greeting beyond a subtle nod.

Guan enters the council hall with his posture perfect, head held high, and not a hint of pain lacing his clicks of greeting at the seven Yautja present. He can already see Gahn’tha-cte’s Elders waiting, each in their respective seats ranking from lowest to highest with Akrei-non-Daga at the highest point. The Clan Leader does not look pleased to hold _ka’rik’na_. The huge, lumbering Elder Yautja has a tense posture. His ivory scales do not look as polished as Guan _knows_ the perfectionist usually prefers them. Daga’s yellow eyes, visible without his mask, are narrow and dark. The Clan Leader growls at Guan when he makes his way up the ascending sets of seats and takes his place at the right of Daga’s side. A moment later, Ikthya-De joins Guan at his right, her mandibles clicking with satisfaction when the Adjutant tenses beside her.

 _“…Elder Tjau’ke.”_ At the lowest levels of seating, the voice of Bist’ri is a soft, smooth set of clicks, almost soothing. _“As your Adjutant, I request permission to stay at your side during this meeting.”_

 _“You did not express interest before, Bist’ri.”_ Tjau’ke tilts her head to one side, icy blue eyes visible on the maskless huntress. _“It is, of course, up to Leader Daga and the Elders to permit your presence at a ka’rik’na… But I am not opposed. Leader Daga?”_ Her long, spiraling locs shift and tumble off her shoulder as the older nurse stands to look up at the clan Leader.

 _“I leave the matter to the Elders in the room.”_ Daga’s asserts swiftly.

 _“H’ko. Absolutely not.”_ It is M-di-H’dlak who is the first to speak, the Yautja of six-eight-seven cycles sitting up straight with respect for the traditions of the _ka’rik’na._ Guan is quick to avert his eyes when he catches the maskless Yautja’s tense gold eyes on his form. H’dlak is a respected veteran of Hunts with a legacy behind them; though the Yautja often excuses themself from Hunts to train Sucklings and Unblooded, their trophy collection is more than capable of securing multiple mating partners during the mating season. Even now, Guan can tell the Yautja carries formidable skill: H’dlak’s presence reeks of a confidence he longs to possess, radiating the wisdom of cycles of experience and success. 

H’dlak sits on the third lowest sets of chairs, the middle ranked and middle-aged of the group present, excluding young ones like Guan, Ikthya-De, and Bist’ri.

 _“Generous as always, H’dlak.”_ From a higher seat, the second highest only below Daga, Guan spots a Yautja with a strangely smooth pelt sit upright. Though he cannot see the Yautja’s face, Guan notes the dark green locs falling from the sides of the Elder’s face are twisted in the exact style as Adjutant Bist’ri.

 _“Speak for yourself, Ju’dha! She is your pup and you have yet to put her in her place.”_ H’dlak growls the words, the Yautja’s hands tensing. _“Leader Daga’s Adjutant has cause to be here. What is this nurse’s excuse? She wants to be present? S’yuit-de, this is ka’rik’na! Summoning of the highest! She is not even two hundred much less Elite—"_

Ju’dha-Jehdin stands and spreads out their hands. Much like Bist’ri, there are points on the Elder’s body where the color of their disturbing smooth scales shifts from the Elder’s blue green to a lighter hue, eventually transitioning into tiny yellow specks scattered across seafoam splotches. The Elder cuts off H’dlak with a curt, _“She is not to blame if your Adjutant refuses attendance, H’dlak. Nor is she my Adjutant—I have not permitted her presence here, nor expressed support of such. I refrain from inputting myself into this decision, but I encourage you to expand your horizons.”_

 _“I act in accordance to tradition.”_ H’dlak’s hands turn a sandy green brown from how hard they tense into fists. Guan notes they don full regalia, with a great, vibrantly colored kilt in lieu of a robe or sash. It hugs the Elder at the waist, a clash of colors against H’dlak’s otherwise neutral green scales and brown spikes. At their neck, the skin shifts from green to an intense, rich brown, dark enough to make the necklaces of beads and bones pop out.

 _“As do I. Do not forget who is the Clan’s point of contact for the Council of Ancients.”_ Ju’dha’s words are smoothly clicked, fluid and calm.

 _“I will rip your spine out and string you from the kehrite roof if you do not shut up, H’dlak! Let us vote.”_ Though she sits a level lower than M-di-H’dlak, the huntress voices her displeasure and ensuing growl loud and clear.

The woman is someone Guan recognizes as talking to in the past when inquiring into the stock of weapons for a hunt. Kwei-Tyioe, Gahn’tha-cte’s Master-At-Arms, is a deadly huntress dressed in the best of the clan’s gleaming golden armor. It makes her quite a spectacle, the only one wearing _awu’asa_ when others wear medical robes or ceremonial garb. Guan finds himself in awe as his eyes fall upon her; the Elder’s entire body is riddled with scars, but the scars only add to her ferocity. She has impeccably bright beige skin, intense and real as the threat she offers Elder H’dlak, with splotches of gold, ivory, and pearl crisscrossing across what he can make out of the back of her arm muscles, shoulders, and the upper half of her neck.

The only piece of armor Elder Tyioe lacks is that of her bio-mask; it appears to be deliberate, offering all occupants of the council hall a chance to see the massive scar where a Queen once ripped off her inner jawbone and three mandibles clean from the skull. Tyioe appears to possess a metal jaw and three prosthetic mandibles, though only her original mandible twitches in impatience. Her eyes are a blazing, burning saffron, almost molten gold in intensity. Guan snaps his head down when he realizes the Elder has turned to eye him, but he calms once he realizes the fearsome huntress looks at Leader Daga, not at him.

Clan Leader Daga clicks for Elder Tyioe’s attention. _“You have not offered a decision.”_

 _“I do not care who is here as long as the matter is resolved quickly. Ki’cte! My Adjutant can handle the civilian armory without me, but I am responsible for the maintenance of the Gahn’tha-cte Military Force’s arms.”_ Tyioe is quick on the draw, snapping jaws and snarling to emphasize just how much she wants the _ka’rik’na_ over with.

 _“One abstains, two are neutral, and one opposes… Elder Lar’ja, Elder Migo?”_ Daga laces his fingers together and leans forward, staring across the hall where two Elders sit in the levels between Elder Ju’dha and Elder H’dlak. 

One of them, the lower seated of the two, clears his throat. He is someone Guan knows well, having been the Elder to oversee _his_ official _chiva_ after the first one ended in disaster. Elder Migo-Kuhjade, the “Breaker of Bonds”, is a Yautja Brawler of seven feet, with jagged, bumpy gray scales that mottle into clashing, buzzing red hues at the shoulders, neck, and knees. Black scales dot his backside. His hair is tied back, the locs covered in an assortment of platinum ringlets and clasps, but no beads. Like Elder H’dlak, Migo dresses in the finest ceremonial kilt, but it is accompanied by long, flowing red sashes falling from his shoulders over his chest.

 _“She is Tjau’ke’s Adjutant, correct? If Tjau’ke is permitted in these grounds—Why not her Adjutant? We cannot pretend Tjau’ke is not on the verge of being an Elder herself. She demonstrates great judgement in her division and holds the respect requisite to possess an Adjutant.”_ Migo chirps and clicks in a deep tone, daring H’dlak or any of the Elders to challenge Tjau’ke and himself on it. He crosses his arms and looks up to his right, where Elder Lar’ja remains quiet leaning back in her seat.

 _“You should know better than to drag others into your mess, Guan.”_ Guan freezes when his life mate leans over to his head and clicks the words softly, sweet as honey and smoother than silk. _“She won't keep you safe.”_

 _That is not…_ Guan holds his tongue, remaining impassive and keeping his gaze forward. He will not show fear in front of the Clan Leader _and_ Elders.

 _“Elder Lar’ja…”_ Daga calls out to the silent Yautja, beginning to grow impatient.

 _“Thinking.”_ The huntress replies, cutting off any further conversation in the room.

The last of Gahn’tha-cte’s five Elders, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja is easy to overlook. Known as “The Dark Night is No More,” She melts into the darkest part of the council hall, light seemingly falling around her due to the way the _Pride of Cetanu_ falls freely down her shoulders, back, and sides. The vantablack locs are like a shroud, a reaper’s omen, and the rest of Lar’ja is just as haunting. She is a Yautja with a pelt dark as obsidian, whose scales hold coal-gray scars specking her hide like a canvas of dying stars. Her ceremonial kilt is a contrasting myriad of white and black, the pattern confusing the full spectrum gaze Guan’s bio-mask currently perceives with. Her white eyes are full of bitterness at something he cannot understand. She dons no jewelry or trophies, only her ceremonious kilt, shin guards, sandals, and a thermal bodysuit for warmth.

Guan realizes quickly Lar’ja lacks her left arm. He recalls a rumor circulating the clan the arm was engulfed and torn off during a disastrous hunt, almost two-hundred cycles past. A sheathed Elder Blade hangs off a belt around her waist, the visible handle looking like it is made of a substance far from anything Guan has ever seen forged in recent cycles.

 _“Think faster.”_ Elder Tyioe snaps, her eyes ablaze.

 _“Speak out of turn again,”_ Lar’ja’s voice is blunt. _“Cetanu will greet you in paradise.”_ The woman does not look at Daga when she adds her response, _“Tjau’ke is… someone I still trust. I pass the same judgement to her Adjutant.”_

Tjau’ke clicks in satisfaction, finally returning to her chair. _“Bist’ri, sit at my right. Do not speak unless spoken to.”_

The Adjutant bows her head and does as told, but as Daga begins the meeting, Guan catches the younger huntress peering up to where he sits. She nods at him. Guan feels heat drift through his face when he nods back.

* * *

Alma carries a long metal case into the foyer. She sets it on the table nearest where the heavy-set man sits. Tucker’s eyes widen and he nearly drops his phone in attempt to sit upright and heed attention. He purses his lips when he sees her unlock the case. She pushes it over to his side of the table and stares from beyond her sunglasses. Hesitantly, the man reaches for the case and opens it. His blue eyes widen to the size of saucers as he gawks at the contents. He looks from the case to Alma to the case again.

“Tonight,” the woman says. “We will make contact, Tucker Mason.”

“You sure about this?” The man feels sweat drip down his forehead. “This is—I haven’t—”

“You will not shoot unless necessary,” Alma is quick to cut him off.

“But it’s been—Years—Over a decade since I,” Tucker shivers. “Miss President… I can’t… I ain’t the kind to shoot people.”

“This won’t kill, Tucker Mason. It contains a capsule with a shell designed to break down upon exposure to chemicals found in the bloodstreams. The range is only sixty feet. You will be on the building adjacent my position. It is a construction site—Three floors, but many windows. Left side, northern end—I will transport Blake Kingston there following the shifting process.” Alma speaks calmly of it all. She pulls off her sunglasses, revealing the clear eyes and eye sockets beyond them. “Do you understand?”

“…How the fuck am I supposed to see in the dark? Flashlights?” Tucker mumbles, both unnerved by the situation and pressed to finish it and return to his semi-normal, dead-brother-filled life.

Alma walks to his side and leans over to the case, giving the man a view of her hips and ass. It makes heat crawl through his face and settle into his groin. He grabs his phone and awkwardly holds it and both hands over his groin. Alma straightens upright, holding a pair of something he cannot discern until she turns it over and demonstrates the goggles’ different range of sights, manually folding new lenses over the primary optical system built inside. Tucker balks at it.

“Thermal goggles. You see heat signatures. Mine will be cold, theirs will be _hot,_ ” her voice drops into a whisper at the end, the woman setting the goggles back in the case. She pauses and lifts the first layer of the case’s contents, setting the goggles, rifle parts, and ammunition aside to pull out a _thick_ sheet of what appears to be deactivated heating compresses. Tucker vaguely recalls seeing a demonstration in a store once where snapping the compress in a certain way caused it to heat up to a pleasurable temperature. When he reaches for it, he finds it feels like rubber against his hands. Alma lowers her arms to her side, “Until I make contact, you will cover yourself with this and remain hidden. Activate it immediately when you secure a location. It matches your thermal signature to the environment, but it takes time to adjust to the current temperature.”

“It can do that?” The man is aghast in disbelief.

“It will appear the same in color; make sure you are shielded from the naked eye in event the Yautja has his mask available. Yautja use them to see a wide spectrum of hues.” Alma says.

“…Have you fought ‘em before? President.” The man pauses and glances at her. Tucker’s brows furrows.

Alma looks at the case and begins packing the sheet of thermal who-knows back into the case. She sets the tray of rifle parts and ammunition into the case, then extends the goggles to Tucker. He takes them, glancing at the rifle parts and ammunition a final time. Alma sees his hesitation and tilts her head to one side, “Do you have questions?”

“…What’s in those? That… The bullets. Pellets. Things.” Tucker frowns.

 _“Dendrocnide moroides.”_ The Vekin slowly puts her sunglasses back on. “Humanity has many names for it.”

“Could I have a, uh, a common name?” The man asks. “One that’s not… Not… Not scientific? I don’t—I ain’t a biologist.”

“The suicide plant,” Alma says. “The hairs of it break off on contact and react with air or temperature change, exposing the recipient to a compound called moroidin. The Yautja immune system is capable of many things, but Arnold Escrow and I believe this compound remains effective against it. Given moroidin’s anti-mitotic properties, I am inclined to believe it will render the Yautja’s natural healing rate inefficient.”

“What the fuck?” Tucker’s eyes widen. “That’s…”

“It will work. Trust me, Tucker Mason.” Alma says calmly.

He swallows. “Have you—Fought these before? Miss President?”

“Once. Most of my information comes from the hive member who deposited the information one-nine-two cycles prior.” Alma purses her lips. “Two Vekin expired as result of the events of _Scutum-186f._ Myself and another cluster member obtained biological information regarding Xenomorph XX-121’s drones and Elder Yautja. It was a trade the hive deemed relevant. The pursuit of information is everything to our hive, but it is no longer everything to us.”

Her pause makes Tucker’s hair stand up on end. Goosebumps erupt over his skin. He does not have words to say, so he sputters and mumbles something akin, “Yeah, yeah, yeah… Yeah?”

Alma turns her head away. Her hands tense and her lips meld into a taut, thin frown. “Would I… Consider this ironic, Tucker Mason, if I were one of your kind? This chain of events began when we were Vekin. And now… She is a Synthetic. She is not FLORA. And I am… Alma. A ghost of a ghost.” She shakes her head, sighing softly. “I will excuse myself. The shifting process is not a sight humanity finds enjoyable, outside of Arnold Escrow.” The woman waves a hand and walks to the silver caskets at the other end of the foyer. She begins to push one to an empty bedroom, disappearing inside with it but reappearing a moment later to fetch the second. Then the door shuts, and Tucker is left with silence.

* * *

The darkness of Buenos Aires’ night sky contrasts sharply to the colorful buildings lit up with displays throughout the city. Across the city’s subdivisions, present in a shadowed alley of Flores, the wrist computer attached to her wrist pings softly. Vayuh’ta pauses and looks down at it, orange eyes narrowing behind her mask. She does not know whether to answer or continue looking; it has been hours and there is no sign of Blake Kingston, nor do either Yautja have his scent to track him down. The search has proven impossible in the nighttime with nothing but appearance to go by.

She decides to climb unto a rooftop and hide there while tapping the inputs to bring the message into sight of her bio-mask, splaying across in front of her as if physically in the area. Her gaze trails through the words quickly. She feels her hands tense; It is not H’chak who has sent her a message, but an electrician she is not thinking about right now.

The message is simply, ' _Can we talk?'_

Vayuh’ta grimaces and clicks her mandibles together. Overhead, she sees many dark gray clouds spanning the sky. It might rain. Not like it matters—She and H’chak both lack cloaking devices, nothing to short out besides the wrist computers. She _hopes_ the computers can handle a bit of dampness, or communication will be incredibly sparse.

 _No._ She types it out but hesitates, clawtips hovering over the device. The huntress growls softly and deletes it. She does not have time to waste! Time is a valuable currency not even a Yautja _kv’var-de_ can get back once lost.

Vayuh’ta turns on the communication relays of her bio-mask. It takes a moment for the mask to tune to the ship’s signal. It is scratchy, but she hears a soft ping to indicate the connection is a success. The huntress clicks briskly, hoping the _Kukulkan_ ’s transmitter knows how to translate, _“Electrician.”_

 _“Damn, that thing works?”_ In the background, Jo’s voice comes through. Vayuh’ta resists the trill of laughter that vies to come.

 _“Shush.”_ Ivon tells her before their voice becomes louder and clearer. _“Maelstrom? Maelstrom?”_

 _“Here.”_ The huntress clicks sharply.

 _“Right. Okay. Uh—Hi. It’s me. Ivon,”_ even through the terrible connection, she can make out Ivon’s nervousness. It makes her stop and her stomach begin to flip. _“I’ve had some time to think and—”_

 _Cetanu, I’ll tear out their spine,_ she won’t, but she finds relief in thinking the thought anyways the second heat starts to worm across her face. Vayuh’ta wants to cut the communication line—she won’t, she doesn’t, she can’t bring herself to—when the electrician continues.

_“I’m sorry about that one night. About what I said. I don’t—I mean. I don’t… I respect you as a, um, a tall muscular Amazonian huntress. Which is a compliment in human mythology! I think you’re… Interesting. Dangerous. Strong, really strong. But I don’t… I don’t—I didn’t mean to—I don’t hold… Feel… Ings… For you… Um…”_

The huntress stills. Her four hearts feel like they suddenly stop and freeze. An unpleasant tingle spreads through her body. She forgets to speak and stares at the wrist computer instead.

_“Maelstrom?”_

This should be a good thing. No—It _is_ a good thing. It is. The electrician had a drunken mishap and babbled things they didn’t mean. Things about her eyes. _Jupiter_ eyes.

Her orange eyes dim. _“I understand and accept your remorse. It has been a subject occupying my thoughts as well—”_

 _“Oh, good,”_ the electrician can be heard sighing in relief. _“I thought—I was worried—You wouldn’t… We couldn’t be friends. Companions. Allies? I mean—From what I understand a lot of Yautja clans respect huntresses. I don’t—I don’t want to disrespect you.”_

_“You haven’t. But I am in the middle of this Hunt. If you do not have news for me or H’chak, this line should not be used.”_

_“Oh! Oh, right. I do have news. Shit, hold on.”_ Inaudible words flicker in the background before Ivon resumes speaking, _“So, Louanne’s browsing humanity’s internet while we’re in range of a wifi signal. She says another video with your guy popped up—Blake Kingston? It’s from a construction site by the shore. Louanne says there’s a sign in the background that’s… How do you say it, Louanne?”_

 _“—Let me talk—Maelstrom. There is an unlit sign outside the building. It says, ‘Casino Palmero.’ Palmero is a subdivision of the city by the northeastern coast.”_ Louanne speaks quickly. _“When we determine how to… When we figure out how to send this video over, we will. Until then—Good luck.”_

 _“Ki’sei. Thar'n-da s' yin'tekai,”_ Vayuh’ta absentmindedly clicks the message before the connection cuts. She finds her blood does not roar with excitement, even if this is a form of a Hunt.

The huntress grimaces at herself and inputs a command to establish a communications line with H’chak.

 _“Sei-i?”_ His response is immediate, he sounds far from her current location.

 _“Palmero subdivision, construction zone. Look for a sign reading ‘Casino Palmero.’”_ Vayuh’ta clicks quickly. _“I am at Flores, it will take time to bypass the oomans in Caballito and Villa Crespo.”_

 _“Ki’sei, don’t dawdle.”_ Is all the Elite responds before the line dies.

Vayuh’ta grimaces. She does not look forward to the trek across Buenos Aires to Palmero’s coast, but there is no avoiding it. She is on a Hunt, and she expects the Hunt to be anything but convenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the excuse of "different clans interpret/translate the primary Yautja tongue differently" for coming up with the meaning of some names. This is what the names of the Yautja spoken of in the story thus far mean!  
> Format is:  
> Name - Clan Meaning, Primary Tongue Translation  
> M-di-H'chak - Merciless, No Mercy  
> Vayuh'ta- Maelstrom, Air  
> Ikthya-De-Th'syra - Umbra Skull, Umbra Skull  
> Gahntha'cte-Guan - Ruthless Night, Ruthless Night  
> Akrei-non-Daga - Explosive Dagger, Explosives (daga taken from spanish translation for dagger)  
> Bist'ri - Scalpel, (play on the spanish word for scalpel 'bisturí')  
> Guan-Tjau’ke - Night Sky, Night Rock-Made-From-Compressed-Dust  
> Kwei-Luar-Ke - Sly Moon, Sly Moon  
> T'gou - Net, (taken from 't'gou u'linja' which is the canon translation for the Yautja Netgun according to the wiki page)  
> M-di-H’dlak - Fearless or Without Fear, No Fear  
> Ma-Or - Senior, (play on the spanish word for senior 'mayor')  
> Ju’dha-Jehdin - Fluid One or Watery One, Water One  
> M-di-Guan-Lar’ja - The Dark Night is No More, No Night Dark  
> Migo-Kujhade - Breaker of Bonds or Friend Destroyer, (taken from the masculine spanish word for friend 'amigo') Destroyer  
> Kwei-Tyioe - Sly Escape, Sly (tyioe taken from the canon translation of escape pod, 'tyioe-ti' according to the wiki page. shout out to the wiki page for helping me avoid naming everyone random keyboard mashing of letters)  
> Setg’in-bpi-de - Death's End or Deadly End, Deadly End  
> Kiande-Dekna - Hard Eyes, Hard Eyes  
> N’Ritja-Zabin - Mantis, Dance Insect  
> Dto-Bhu’ja - Jungle Spirit, Jungle/Woodland/Forest Ghost
> 
> Yautjas with English names:  
> Chirp, Brisk, I think that's everyone?
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I'm still in shock people like this story enough to give it over 1200 views? I have... three word documents full of notes for this cast and random plot points... And people LIKE IT? I love you all.


	32. an omen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes darken. Guan’s mandibles twitch and flare angrily, but he keeps his voice level as he trills, “Ka’Torag-Na is known for their trickery, honorable Leader Daga! How do we know this is not one of their ruses? M-di-H’chak has not contacted the clan in one and one-sixth cycles! His primary computer lost signal in the middle of a Hunt. What proof do you need to acknowledge his death? Do our enemies not seek our demise? Does Ka’Torag-Na not detest the Hunts we champion?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -PHYSICAL ABUSE + THREAT OF ABUSE  
> begins at  
> “To his right, Guan sees Ikthya-De straighten up where she sits.”  
> ends at  
> “He howls at her,”  
> ctrl+f the bottom line if you want to skip it!  
> -infertility is used as an insult / in a degrading way by one character  
> -mention of child death and death of pregnant woman  
> -during the ka’rik’na when lar’ja speaks, there is misgendering going on that may not be obvious but just in case now you know
> 
> note: ikthya-de is not related to anyone she's pursued. this will be elaborated on eventually but putting it out there right now because not going that route, nope

_“Honorable Elders… Adjutants. This ka’rik’na comes at a strange time. It has not been but one and half a cycle since our mei-hswei departed for Cetanu in the throes of the blue and green planet, Terra,”_ Daga’s voice begins as a rumble of low growls, spreading to the farthest reach of the hall. His mandibles twitch, _“As you know… The Elite kv’var-de known as M-di-H’chak fell during his Hunt as Gahn’tha-cte’s Arbitrator—”_

 _“A dishonorable end for a dishonorable warrior.”_ Elder Tyioe spews the words, her clicks vile and nasty to hear. When eyes in the room fall to her, she stands and roars, her prosthetic inner jaw just as capable as any flesh one. _“Do I lie? Adjutant Guan defeated the man in Jehdin-Jehdin! Honorable combat! He should not have been spared—”_

At his side, Guan spies his mate click with soft laughter. Guilt and rage claws at his throat, but he holds his tongue. He remains facing forward, refusing to fall to Ikthya-De’s taunts. The Adjutant keeps silent while Daga snarls at Tyioe. _“This is not the time to criticize the events of cycles ago!”_

 _“Then when is the time? Honorable Leader Akrei-non-Daga?”_ Tyioe barks the words, gold eyes brim with bloodlust.

 _“If you desire a discussion on the judgement of M-di-H’chak’s Challenging, you may arrange private counsel with me when the ka’rik’na ends.”_ Still in their seat, Elder Ju’dha trills the sentence with calm. Their composure is something to strive for; Guan cannot help but respect how effortlessly relaxed and neutral the Elder makes their words.

 _“A visitor docked the clanship a day cycle ago,”_ Daga stands. He is a towering presence, taller than most men across Clan Gahn’tha-cte, even those that complete the transitioning process from another gender to male. He is _tall_. His eyes are a bold, empowered amber, full of resolve at the unspoken-as-yet matter. _“Those of us who are… Not young. Will know the meaning of the word ‘Shadow.’”_

The room falls silence, a stillness so permeating it makes Guan want to squirm in his seat. He remains as he is, willing his composure to not break under mounting pressure. His orange eyes scan the room; he notes Elder Lar’ja’s form has begun to tense. He tastes bloodlust on the horizon. Elder Lar’ja’s hate at the _Shadow_ is a visceral reaction, one capable of turning the solemn huntress into a vicious war machine.

At his right, Guan pauses as he notes Ikthya-De does not express or feign surprise. She is calm and relaxed, not at all bothered by what the Clan Leader speaks of. It makes Guan perplexed.

 _“Ka’Torag-Na. That which lurks in the darkness of Yautja clans…”_ Lar’ja’s voice is not loud. She does not need to roar or bellow the clicks to get her point across. The Elder huntress shakes her head slowly, the Pride of Cetanu locs swaying enough to look like a visage of void framing her face. _“To send a Shadow… Their matriarch issues an omen. Someone will die. Where the Shadow walks—Cetanu is given tribute.”_

 _“Honorable Leader Daga—Who is the target of Ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow?”_ Tjau’ke directs her question from the lowest level of seating. She does not sound shy or strained over it, ignoring the massive difference in ranking and age altogether as she presses the question.

 _“I do not know. N’Ritja-Zabin is—Young to be Matriarch.”_ There is a crack in Daga’s chirps and trills. The Elders do not acknowledge it outwardly, but Guan cannot miss it.

The Adjutant pauses and stares at his leader, baffled. When he breathes in, for a moment Guan swears his olfactory receptors pick up the faintest trace of fear. _Fear?_

 _“The Shadow left me a ‘blessing of information.’ It is the reason ka’rik’na has been called,”_ Daga lifts the wrist with his personal computer attached. He begins to input a sequence, clicking and growling in a low tone as he does so. _“Clan Ka’Torag-Na… Three-four cycles past. The mate of the late leader dhi-ki’de-Gkinmara was murdered by a huntress. Vayuh’ta. She took the life of Kiande-Dekna when the bearer was in labor. The pup did not survive.”_

 _“Dishonorable of the highest degree,”_ H’dlak snarls loudly. Elder Migo nods in agreement, with the remaining Yautja following suit.

 _“The ic’jit Vayuh’ta was located on Terra one-sixth cycle ago. Ka’Torag-Na assigned Arbitrators to execute her and bring her body back for burial by her existing pups. I… do not know how many were sent before Ka’Torag-Na dispatched Arbitrator T’gou and Arbitrator Kwei-Luar-ke to handle the ic’jit.”_ Daga sits in his seat.

The lights of the hall dim. Guan watches a hologram project from the amphitheater into the air above the rounded platform. It slowly expands and fills in with different colors before the hologram renders itself to brown-and-green terrain. The sight is recognizable as a still feed from a bio-mask. Guan’s orange eyes widen as figures take shape within the hologram’s depths: three figures, with one being an Im-Gen and two Yautja, appear. His throat feels dry and his limbs grow heavy as he stares in disbelief. The rendered figure of his _mei-hswei,_ his fallen brother, looks over his shoulder at the second Yautja and the Im-Gen standing back in the hologram. The Im-Gen wears a Yautja thermal suit and stands between the bio-mask wearer, his _mei-hswei,_ and the second Yautja.

 _“…That is…”_ Elder H’dlak falls quiet of their own volition.

 _“My pup. My pup_ —" Tjau’ke clicks in growing volume, on her feet in seconds and turning to face where Daga sits. _“What is the meaning of this?!”_

 _“Ka’Torag-Na blesses us with this information: M-di-H’chak lives.”_ Daga announces before the Elders and lower-ranked Yautja. The hologram in the center of the hall fades and the lights come back on.

The council hall descends into a mess of words and disbelief, some Yautja snarling louder than others. From where he sits at Daga’s right, Guan watches Tjau’ke collapse back into her seat, her soft howls drowned out by the voices of the others. Bist’ri puts a hand on the older Yautja’s shoulder and Tjau’ke shoves it off. Higher up along the rows of seats, Elder Migo expresses initial shock but soon leans back in his chair and falls quiet. Elder Tyioe is far from quiet; the Elder huntress is a guffaw of expletives, some of which are beyond the Adjutant’s years. Elder Ju’dha attempts to talk down the Berserker while she calls for an immediate attack on Ka’Torag-Na’s clanship for the dishonorable implications. H’dlak’s fists tense to the strange-green brown, a sign of controlled _rage_ brimming under almost seven-hundred cycles of experience and self-control. Only Lar’ja does not react, the woman’s white eyes conveying something vastly beyond Guan’s comprehension.

To his right, Guan sees Ikthya-De straighten up where she sits. Horror jumps the man and he grabs her wrist when she begins to rise, only for the woman to take it in her hand and twist it just short the point of _snapping._ Guan growls, the sound lost among the raucous of the Elders in the hall. Ikthya-De’s mandibles twitch and she trills with humor, her free hand rising to push at his left shoulder. The challenge is clear, and he knows he cannot accept it. He seethes where he sits, only taking solace in the fact Ikthya-De changes her mind, releases him, and sits down, all in response to seeing his misery and bewilderment at the unfolding circumstances. She leans over.

His entire body tenses when Ikthya-De begins to click, _“Tonight… You are not stopping me. If you try, Adjutant, I will pin you to the floor pluck your scales one-by-one.”_

She speaks brazenly, almost directly in front of Leader Daga’s face, as if she does not fear him or his authority, but when Guan looks, he sees the Leader has his head turned away from the duo. A sickening nausea flips in his stomach; his four hearts slow in realization the Leader knows. Daga knows, and he does not _care_ what his progeny does to Guan. Orange eyes blaze in anger, but it is Ikthya-De who stops him from jumping the Leader in rage; the woman calmly reaches for Guan’s face, the man tensing as she caresses him with one hand.

 _“Don’t be like that, Guan. You’re so defiant. Always trying to do what you think is best. But you don’t know what’s best for you. I know what’s best for you...”_ It is freakishly convincing, but the pain his shoulder alerts Guan to the fact it is all a ruse. Ikthya-De does not care about him. He snarls at her, but her claws suddenly dig into his cheek. She hisses at him at a volume only the two can hear, _“I’ve let you live, impotent ui’stbe. I let H’chak go. But I’m beginning to think that was a mistake. You should be the one dead, and H’chak should beg at my feet for his honor.”_

Guan’s mandibles flare and his back arches, instinctively ripping her hand off. _“Ell-osde’-pauk, Ikthya-de!”_

He leaps to his feet, ignoring the pain that comes when Ikthya-De’s grip latches unto his arm and crushes it. He howls at her, the noise loud enough to draw attention from the Elders around the hall. Ikthya-De freezes and Guan stills, his hearts beating wildly in his head as he looks around and finally glances to his left, where Daga stares up at him expectantly. The Clan Leader’s gaze reveals his shame, but with it is also a viciousness Guan is not used to. The Adjutant stares back intently before he removes Iktyha-De’s hand and drops it.

His gaze briefly returns to Tjau’ke. She is silent now, icy blue-gray eyes locked on him. Next to the nurse, Bist’ri watches him with a surprising flicker of concern in the jungle-green eyes. The two Adjutants stare at each other for a moment before Guan faces Daga.

His eyes darken. Guan’s mandibles twitch and flare angrily, but he keeps his voice level as he trills, _“Ka’Torag-Na is known for their trickery, honorable Leader Daga! How do we know this is not one of their ruses? M-di-H’chak has not contacted the clan in one and one-sixth cycles! His primary computer lost signal in the middle of a Hunt. What proof do you need to acknowledge his death? Do our enemies not seek our demise? Does Ka’Torag-Na not detest the Hunts we champion?”_

Daga growls in warning, displeased by his Adjutant’s outburst. Guan does not sit. The latter’s hands are tense as he stares down the Clan Leader.

 _“The Adjutant raises a point, Honorable Leader Daga_.” Elder Lar’ja cuts into the conversation. The monochromatic Yautja tilts her head to one side. She lifts her hand and gestures at Guan to sit. After a tense moment, the Adjutant does so.

 _“You have the attention of this hall,”_ Daga snaps. _“Honorable Elder Lar’ja.”_

 _“The… young ones present at this ka’rik’na… Ikthya-De. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. Bist’ri…”_ Elder Lar’ja sits upright. Her mandibles twitch unceremoniously. She slowly drags her gaze across the room, looking from one Yautja to the next but ending at Guan. _“Most of you do not know the full extent of Gahn’tha-cte’s history with Ka’Torag-Na—”_

_“If it is not relevant to the topic at hand—”_

_“Let her speak, Leader Daga.”_ Elder Ju’dha cuts the older man off. They nod at Lar’ja. _“I believe two of the three lack sufficient knowledge of this matter. We are not above reason, and reason points to establishing context as precedent in this ka’rik’na. I believe—Adjutant Guan and Adjutant Bist’ri are honorable warriors. Let them hear the mistakes of our clan.”_

 _The mistakes of…_ Guan snaps his eyes from Ju’dha to Lar’ja.

At his left, Leader Daga growls swiftly. _“Fine! Share our skeletons, Lar’ja. Tell them what Gahn’tha-cte is guilty of.”_

* * *

On the coast of _Palmero,_ standing on the rooftop under a sea of clouds, H’chak greets the other Yautja and nods her way. He keeps his voice down as he clicks softly, _“Sign reading… ‘Casino Palmero.’ There.”_ he gestures with one hand, then points with his free hand at a newly-built structure sixty yards out. The Yauta’s mandibles twitch. _“The windows—You can tell the inside isn’t finished. This matches a… construction zone.”_

 _“The ooman’s inside, then? Poor place to hide.”_ Vayuh’ta emits a hacking sound, snarly softly at the end. She tilts her head to one side, dark locs falling down the side of her face. _“This is… a trap. Sei-i?”_

 _“Ki'sei. A trap. A man hiding from Yautja would not choose an ideal location for a kv’var-de to kill him. No supplies, witnesses, or places to run. Easy to maneuver.”_ The Elite’s orange gaze narrows. He tests his _dah’kte_ , ensuring the gauntlet deploys the wristblades smoothly before they retract into the gauntlet at his command. The Elite taps a quick input on his computer, activating his bio-mask’s communications relay and attempting to connect with the _Kukulkan._ It takes a long minute to do so; the voice on the other end is scratchy.

 _“Oh! Oh. Hi. Uh. Mercy.”_ Ivon comes through. _“You and Maelstrom doing okay?”_

 _Pauk._ He thinks. The hunter clicks quickly, _“Is Sun-Dew present?”_

 _“Um… Hold on…”_ A pause. _“—Nope, not right now. I know she mentioned cleaning your trophies as a surprise—Oh. Wait. Fuck. Forget I said that.”_

The hunter is not amused by the person’s forgetfulness. H’chak chirps quickly at them, _“Vayuh’ta and I have located the ooman. We will retrieve the pyode amedha and return to the ship.”_

 _“You do that. Um. Godspeed?”_ Ivon offers the word hesitantly. H’chak does not understand why a Paya would speed, or what ‘speed’ entails. He kills the line between the _Kukulkan_ and himself, turning to Vayuh’ta in the process.

He briefly wonders if he should have kept the akrei-non collar. He has since removed the doctor ooman’s collar, and apparently the electrician ooman found a way to unlock the collar around Vayuh’ta’s neck. Having the explosives on hand could prove useful if things go south, not that he expects it to be anything but a fruitful hunt. Two Yautja spiriting away an _ooman_ is a simple task, yet the more H’chak thinks the more he questions just how complex the inside of the building is. He sorely longs for a functioning plasmacaster, but between the equipment fried by Sundew and the dead Arbitrator’s equipment—He and Vayuh’ta both lack functioning _sivk’va-tai._ The two wear what remaining pieces of armor they have, with H’chak significantly more covered than the huntress due to the latter’s being mostly destroyed back in the Amazon rainforest by a direct blast of plasma.

The two have their weapons—It will have to be enough. Both with one _dah’kte_ , him with a combistick, and Vayuh’ta with her reclaimed Elder Blade sheathed and strapped to her back. The latter is incredibly alert, scanning and pointing out the briefest sign of movement. Under the night sky, it is dark enough where both hunters disengage their bio-masks full spectrum optics and rely on their natural thermal vision. H’chak wishes he could _smell_ the ooman out, track down _exactly_ where Blake Kingston is, but the immediate area reeks of overwhelming, overlapping scents of _ooman,_ sand, surf, booze, and cigarettes with the occasional whiff of ooman urine thrown in the mix. If he and Vayuh’ta had not scouted the surrounding buildings and swept them for thermal signatures, H’chak knows he would have jumped to the conclusion of an assailant hiding.

 _“I’ll go first. Follow after me in five.”_ The Elite intones.

Vayuh’ta growls at him. _“Don’t get used to giving me orders.”_

 _“I won’t.”_ H’chak chirps before he and Vayuh’ta part.

He opts to enter the building by the ground floor. It is easy enough climbing to the streets and walking silently past the occasional stray. He jumps the fence surrounding the nearly complete mall, landing with the softest of thumps against the concrete before moving on. He finds the door is locked. _Too easy._

H’chak does not want the night to drag on. He holds his breath, calms his racing hearts, and shoves his hand through the glass door. No alarms pick up on his bio-mask’s noise indicator. He can tell something moves _inside,_ but the smells remain starkly mixed and overwhelming for him to identify just _what._ The Yautja heads inside, finding the first floor leads to an empty floor with equally empty rooms flanking both sides. Areas are marked for construction, with tape and ooman signs predominantly in the language _Spanish_ littering the grounds. He strides forward, looking over each of the rooms quickly before hurrying on. The upper floors are divided by a stairwell and something he identifies as a primitive elevator shaft, drastically inferior to even the old lifts of his beloved _Kukulkan._

At the first landing, he stills and shivers as an odd scent wafts through the air. He isolates it _immediately,_ sprinting up the steps and leaping when sprinting is not enough. Adrenaline surges through his veins as he bolts the length of the second floor and climbs to the third. The air grows cold and H’chak finds thoughts drain from his head when he stops moving. Notifications pop up on his bio-mask; noise indicates movement at the other end of the building. He crouches and creeps forward, watching as his bio-mask begins to spike with notifications over movement and abrupt temperature shifts. His thermal gaze registers the environment is much, _much_ colder toward the end of the third floor. 

It does not click until he activates his bio-mask’s optical system, the full range of colors returning his sight to observe a shadowed interior of an empty, partially constructed mall. Tucked behind the corner of a counter, third room on the right, H’chak exhales softly as his orange eyes fall upon two grandiose silver _things_.

They are long with polished, smooth surfaces, and appear akin to something like the boxes of which some oomans bury their dead. Each are roughly ten feet long, with one cracked open and leaking a soft white mist. When H’chak turns off his bio-mask’s optics, he confirms the drastic shift in temperature originates from the caskets. He grimaces and backs away, returning to the central hall and looking from one end to the next. There are two rooms left up ahead and three behind him.

A flash of light makes him snap his head up and spin on his heels, _dah’kte_ activating instinctively as he crouches and enters a fighting stance low to the ground, spreading his center of gravity while he stares at the darkness. He sees no one, only the strange shapes of shadows across the building’s unfinished interior.

 _Pauk._ The Elite kv’var-de curses in his head, chiding himself for his nerves and zealousness to fight. He retracts the blades of his one _dah’kte,_ breathing in deeply. 

The smell is stronger. It is horribly intoxicating, swarming his senses now and filling him with a sense of…

 _Nostalgia?_ His eyes widen. From further down, the last room on the left, he hears scuffling. The Elite creeps forward silently and stops at the doorway. Beyond the nostalgic, melodic aroma, there is the distinct hint of _ooman_. He rounds the corner and his thermal vision falls upon an ooman-shaped form tied to a chair. In a second he is at the ooman’s side, bio-mask reverting his vision to color as the ooman begins to emit muffled noises and thrash against restraints. Before him, secured with incredible lengths of rope and chain, an ooman male with pale skin hinting at a past tan. The ooman has intricate scars across his face, recognizable as the kind left by _dah’kte_ wounds.

He is Blake Kingston, and the bastard is still alive. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow at the man’s panicking gaze, the latter’s dark hair unkempt and a mess strewn about his head. H’chak inhales and his olfactory receptors pick up on traces of blood originating from the man’s hands and mouth. He kneels next to the restrained ooman and ignores the muffled cursing. In the vastly dim light, H’chak notes the bloke has four missing fingers, cut clean at the knuckle. It gives him pause. If he held any doubts about an ulterior force being behind the ooman’s videos and subsequent resurface here, they are gone.

 _Something wants us to find him._ H’chak immediately turns on his helmet’s translation software, the monotonous voice quick to voice his clicks, “Blake Kingston.”

The human begins to wail and thrash harder against his restraints. H’chak can smell the fear; Blake is panicking.

He grimaces internally. His helmet voices, “I am here to assist you. You are being hunted by another of my kind. A… Bad Blood.” His _dah’kte_ reactivate and, ignoring the heavy aroma of terror coming from the ooman man, H’chak begins to cut through the ropes binding him to the chair.

 _Pauk,_ he thinks when the chains do not give way. He will have to pull them apart. The Elite retracts his _dah'kte_ and reaches for the metal links. The ooman’s terror _spikes_ and Blake Kingston starts to convulse in horror, muffled noises increasing to strained screams of panic and alarm.

Trepidation sets in. The Elite stills when a notification on his bio-mask alerts him to noise nearby. He drops Blake Kingston’s chains and spins around, bio-mask abruptly flickering from full spectrum color to his natural thermal vision. His eyes widen and dread sinks to the pit of his stomach as something slowly walks into view, a drastically cold outline of violet in his thermal vision. He instinctively steps back and lowers himself close to the ground, bio-mask shifting back to color in time for him to witness the haunting silver form of a Yautja at the doorway.

The _nostalgic_ odor fills his head. He finds himself lost in a daze, transfixed, as the ethereal figure stands before him like a _bhu’ja_. What little outside light falls through the window casts a soft glow across her form, yet when he stares, part of him swears he can see _through_ her form. Her long locs are platinum white, whiter than anything he has seen in his two-one-five cycles. Her eyes are clear, absent of any visible organs and giving him access to seeing what lays in the sockets, a pristine resemblance to a _trophy_. Her head slowly tilts to one side as his body locks up in place, unable to process the sight before him.

More of her scent fills his head. He cannot think clearly as the air tingles with electricity and a calm, courteous voice greets him. “Greetings, Yautja. I hoped to meet you here. You’ve come for Blake Kingston?”

_“Who are you?”_ H’chak clicks softly, stupefied.

“My name is Alma.” The huntress replies, and it only then dawns on him she speaks in ooman English.

He steps back with one foot, uncertain. _“Pauk—I—What are… What clan do you hail from? I have not seen—Yautja of your colors… before.”_

When he breathes in, he can only think of her. The allure of her aroma is too much. She makes his stomach twist with fire and his blood to simmer and stew in his veins. His entire body tenses. He watches her, both enamored and awestruck, yet equally at a loss for how to proceed. Any thought of the Hunt, of Vayuh’ta, the _Kukulkan,_ or Blake Kingston slips from his mind. He thinks about her, the silvery-white Yautja, only then noticing she does not don armor. She wears a tattered thermal mesh. It does not look functional.

“I am not from a clan.” The white Yautja answers, “I am not from Yautja Prime, _kv’var-de._ ”

He turns off his bio-mask’s optical system to get another look at her thermal signature. The little moonlight outside seeps in through the glassy windows across the walls. H’chak stares in confusion at the cool purple outline of Alma. She is cold. She should be cold due to a lack of thermal suit, but not _this_ cold. Her current body temperature would force her into torpor if not outright kill her.

 _“You aren’t a Yautja.”_ He acknowledges. _“You’re one of… You’re like Sundew. You’re one of her kind. You’re an Im-Gen.”_

“It pleases me to know your kind continues to operate under that assumption.” Alma replies with a small, stiff nod.

 _“Why are you here?”_ He blurts out, staring the Image down.

“To meet you,” She takes one step forward; H’chak can taste Blake Kingston’s fear rising. “You are key to locating FLORA.”

 _“Flora...”_ The air _crackles_ with electricity. The currents run through his body, cutting through his train of thought and making his body shudder. He knows this is dangerous. This _creature_ is the one behind the videos, behind Blake Kingston’s appearance in Palmero, but—He cannot. He cannot think clearly. The aroma is overwhelming his senses, beguiling him with a compulsion to touch her. Like a hapless fly caught in the grasp of a _drosera,_ the Elite _kv’var-de_ cannot stop himself from staggering forward and reaching out, throwing rational thought to the wind.

It is identical to the time of Scutum-186f, down to his impulsive need to get to the silver _thing._ H’chak feels his body move against his will, pulled farther from the original prize of Blake Kingston and to the silver Image waiting for him. One arm remains outstretched and he reaches for her. She extends a hand, the glove attachment of the mesh suit partially torn off and revealing smooth white scales and claws devoid of pigment.

 _“H’chak!”_ The roar comes from afar, but the _kv’var-de_ is too lost to acknowledge his ally. The other Yautja comes _crashing_ from above, smashing into the ground and making the entire building shake as a blade swings in the night.

In a second, the silver skin of Yautja flesh melds and shifts into a block of element he cannot identify. The intoxicating aroma fades and sparks fly as the Yautja growls in irritation and shoves the Image away from him. Alma’s hand, now an amorphous shape of hardened _elements_ , suddenly undergoes the process of melting and shifting into a Yautja hand once again. The thermal mesh is torn where her hand and part of her forearm initially shifted. Now ten feet in front of both Yautja, Alma imitates the sound of an ooman sigh. She straightens upright, steps back with one foot, and lifts her hands.

 _“S’yuit-de! You seek the final rest? U'sl-kwe?”_ The Yautja barks at him, clicks shrill and tense.

H’chak blinks and stares at the Yautja’s mask, half-lost in the daze. _“Guan?”_

 _“Outside is guan—Thanks for clearing that up, s’yuit-de,”_ Vayuh’ta snaps, lifting her sword up and tensing. She holds it upside down by the guard in her right hand, the other raised and prime to block or strike as needed. Her right foot slides back and she tenses. _“What kind of cjit are you?”_

“My name is Alma,” The silver figure repeats, clear gaze narrowing. “I did not foresee two of you present.” She tilts her head to one side. “This is… unexpected.”

 _“She’s like—Sun-Dew, an Im-Gen,”_ H’chak’s head aches and throbs. He finds it easier to force the intoxicating aroma out of his head now, as if the prolonged, intimate exposure to it has rendered part of it null. He looks at Vayuh’ta and hisses. _“Expect electricity and—That paukin’ smell—"_

Both Yautja still at the sound of Alma’s mandibles clicking in soft, candid chortles. H’chak roars at the entity to cut the cjit. Alma straightens upright and nods at the two. She continues to speak in English, voice flowing despite what should be Yautja vocal chords impeding her natural speech. “I am not an Image, _kv’var-de._ You mistake me for the Synthetic in your possession.”

 _“I dislike her already,”_ Vayuh’ta growls and takes a step forward, encouraging H’chak to follow suit with the blades of his _dha’kte_ extended and ready. He catches Vayuh’ta’s soft click to move to the side, with one Yautja taking the right half of the third floor’s open hall and H’chak taking the left. The two stare Alma down behind their bio-masks, all three waiting for someone to make the first move.

“May I have your sequence?” Alma asks softly, hands remaining in the air. “Your names?”

 _“No.”_ Vayuh’ta retorts.

H’chak’s orange eyes narrow. _“Why?”_

“Consider it an honorable custom of certain cultures across this planet.” Alma replies.

 _“M-di-H’chak.”_ The Elite tenses. _“And you are—Alma?”_

 _“Why tell her anything? She’s prey—Amedha! She’s responsible for this nonsense with the ooman you’re after,”_ Vayuh’ta scolds him five yards out.

 _“She’s worthy prey.”_ H’chak snaps back, orange eyes full of newfound clarity. _“When I take her th’Syra, I want to know the name of the beast it belongs to. Im-Gen! Your name—Alma?”_

Alma trills with soft laughter again. The silver figure digs her front foot in the floor and lowers herself to a runner’s starting position, body angled and weight on her front leg with her other leg extended far back. The silver figure responds in the dialect of a clan H’chak does not recognize.

 _“I am Alma now, but it is not my sequence, kv’var-de, do not make incorrect assumptions,_ ” the entity answers, head tilt to one side. _“I am the remains of the Vekin GHOST."  
_

* * *

The entire hall falls silent under Lar’ja’s gaze. The white eyes are deep. She carries many emotions in them, with cycles upon cycles of events tucked into the irises. When she closes her eyes and begins to speak, the rest of the world bides bated breath under the huntress’ words.

 _“Three-nine-nine cycles ago. Andromeda System,”_ Lar’ja recites clearly, as if thought through many times and spoken even more. _“A Gahn’tha-cte hunting craft orbiting planet 1406b came into conflict with a Ka’Torag-Na ship transporting nine clan members. Grievances between the two crews escalated into a minor interclan affair where one spacecraft opened fire on the other. The entire crew of Ka’Torag-Na’s craft was lost, along with the lives of nine Gahn’tha-cte kv’var-de, including one Elder and two newly Blooded Yautja.”_

 _Barely adults..._ Guan’s orange eyes darken at the thought. He nods at Lar’ja, heeding her absolute attention.

The huntress holds up her hand, studying her own palm as if to find a secret among the tiny scales interlaced and overlaying one another on her skin. Lar’ja’s white eyes narrow. _“It was discovered one of the nine Ka’Torag-Na members was a huntress with pups on the way. Knowing this, Ka’Torag-Na demanded our clan, the Ruthless, pay for this tragedy in the thwei of the kv’var-de responsible for ordering the ship to fire. Whether Gahn’tha-cte’s clan members retaliated or took initiative to escalate is irrelevant; the Council of Ancients came together and ruled our clan must offer tribute for the loss of the pups. But… As the Elder overseeing the hunting craft perished in the conflict, their blood could not run and satiate the call to arms issued by that which lurks in the darkness. Ka’Torag-Na demanded a sacrifice equal to the pups lost at the hands of Gahn’tha-cte.”_

Elder Lar’ja’s clicks become curter, sharper, brisk and to the point. There is an animosity between herself and Clan Leader Daga, the latter of whom has grown furious and seethes in his seat at her trills and chirrups.

 _“It was necessary,”_ Daga hisses when Lar’ja begins to speak again. _“What else would suffice, Lar’ja?”_

The latter holds up her hand to silence him and, to Guan’s surprise, Daga complies. Lar’ja’s head tilts to one side, her mandibles twitching faintly, _“At the time—Leader Daga served as Adjutant to the late N’yaka-de Hou-depaya, honorable kv’var-de of the r’ko-Vekin hive.”_

 _Vekin?_ The name is familiar, from an old and distant memory buried deep within the Adjutant roughly one-nine-two cycles past. Guan recalls, faintly, the late Elder Ma-Or uttering the term during the extraction from Scutum-186f. The disastrous _chiva_ ended in not only the murder of the Elder, but the extrajudicial execution of his fallen _mei-hswei._

 _Chirp…_ The Adjutant’s hands tense into tight fists. _I have not forgotten you._

There are pieces to the story that do not make sense. The sudden mention of _Vekin,_ the absence of historical information on Gahn’tha-cte’s history of this interclan conflict with Ka’Torag-Na, the Adjutant is smart enough to understand there must be connections. Perhaps each element is only connected by a fishing line-thin string, but they connect. They link. They point to a greater picture, one of a history purposely blotted out and lost to the younger Yautja of the modern age. Guan snaps his head at Lar’ja and finds she is already watching him, intent and with a leer as intimidating as it is curious, almost expectant. He gazes back, uncertain what she wants of him.

 _“Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan… Do you know the name of your bearer?”_ Lar’ja clicks.

“I…” Guan swallows. His nerves return to him.

 _“—Setg’in-bpi-de.”_ Tjau’ke answers for the man, speaking loud and clear with a note of pride at the name.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke,”_ Lar’ja is kinder in tone when addressing the nurse but remains strict. _“I address Adjutant Guan, not yourself. I ask you refrain from speaking out of turn.”_

 _“Forgive me, Elder Lar’ja, but I cannot sit idly when late Setg’in-bpi-de is involved. She gave me the greatest gift a mei-jahdi could bestow upon this lou-dte kale.”_ Though Guan cannot see the nurse’s eyes, he imagines she remains resilient even when facing Elder Lar’ja. Tjau’ke is a formidable and honorable huntress whose bravery surpasses most he knows of.

Elder Ju’dha bows their head, chirps and clicks as fluid as running water. _“Honorable Setg’in-bpi-de... A huntress beyond her cycles. A loss for Gahn’tha-cte—”_

 _“She walks with the Black Hunter! Do not grieve what is the blessing of Cetanu,”_ Elder Migo snaps from his seat, his black spikes and quills flaring against his gray pelt with agitation. _“We honor the lost but remember the living. Setg’in is gone—"_

 _“She is gone, but she lived as we lived once. She walked as we walked. She hunted as we Hunt today. And, like many others, she sought only the strongest seed when time came to bear pups,”_ Lar’ja seizes control of the discussion in a succession of four heartbeats. The Elder’s tone becomes sharp as a _dah’kte_ blade. _“Honorable Leader Akrei-non-Daga—You sought the huntress during her estrus. You and her coupled many cycles. By the time the Council of Ancients decreed Gahn’tha-cte’s dues to the Lurking Clan, you two were mates for twenty-two and a sixth cycles. She was with pups.”_

The younger and lower ranked Elders of the room—Elder Tyioe and Elder H’dlak—lean forward and stare up at Leader Daga with newfound interest. Tjau’ke turns her head away, refusing to look. Bist’ri peers up at Guan, but he quickly realizes her green eyes are not on him but Daga to his left. At his right, Guan sees Ikthya-De exhale in candid enjoyment at the unraveling situation. She does not seem surprised by what she hears. In fact—Guan cannot help but wonder if she _knows_. The Adjutant’s four hearts sink lower in his chest when Lar’ja stands and points her finger at Daga.

 _“Setg’in never forgave you for stealing her pup and giving him as tribute to Ka’Torag-Na,”_ The Pride of Cetanu shudders around Lar’ja’s head, as if Cetanu himself watches and condemns the moment. _“A pup blessed by the Black Hunter—With the Pride of Cetanu on his head—Eyes as bright as fire—You threw him away! Your Adjutant’s mei-hswei—You threw him to the pits of shadow, to those who lurk in the dark, to Ka’Torag-Na! And Ka’Torag-Na did not forgive you for it! Setg’in did not forgive your disgrace! A sacrifice worthy of the pups lost was given but Ka’Torag-Na has not forgotten! That,”_ Lar’ja breathes out, entire body rigid with the tension rolling off her in waves. _“That is why… I believe Adjutant Guan makes a point, honorable Leader. Ka’Torag-Na has never forgotten our history and misgivings. What is this but another chance to lie and sow discord? And you want to fall for it!”_

 _“You challenge my leadership, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja?”_ Daga leaps to his feet and _roars_ at the Elder, the noise drowning out all other sounds in the hall. _“I sacrificed my thwei to keep our clans from war! Can you say the same of yourself?”_

 _“I was not given the chance, honorable Leader.”_ Lar’ja spits at the ground. _“Forgive me when I say I do not regret missing the opportunity to use my thwei as sacrifices to our enemies.”_

_“Ell-osde’ pauk! You think I enjoy living with the knowledge my pup is Ka’Torag-Na’s prisoner? If he even lives—”_

_“Elder Lar’ja, Leader Daga, this conversation extends beyond the boundaries of the ka’rik’na’s focus. Settle your matters outside the council hall in jehdin-jehdin if necessary,”_ Elder Ju’dha intones loudly, a sense of calm following amid tense silence. The Yautja turns to peer at Guan, their green eyes an almost identical hue and intensity of Bist’ri’s. _“Adjutant Guan—Knowing the history of our clan and Ka’Torag-Na, do you continue to yield your previous position?”_

 _“Ki'sei.”_ His response is immediate. _“In fact—Knowing this tragedy—I believe it amplifies my statement. Ka’Torag-Na has cause to lie. What proof do they have M-di-H’chak lives besides a feed of a masked Yautja on Terra?”_

 _“It is one of the two gifted to our clan by the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na.”_ Daga snarls at him. Guan does not flinch, but for a second a flicker of fear rises in his form. Ikthya-De shakes her head while Daga begins to tap inputs into his wrist computer. The lights in the hall dim and the hologram projects a new scene.

The Yautja in the hall, even Ikthya-De, turn in unison to look at the hologram as the feed of a bio-mask plays through the recorded event. A rainforest in _Terra_ rises from the ground, with thick green foliage and dark brown trees mingling intermittently around the bio-mask’s user and another Yautja. It is a quick and merciless fight: the huntress beyond the bio-mask is easily dispatched and overwhelmed through fluid strikes and the familiar style of mixed weaponry. Guan’s orange eyes widen behind his mask as he observes the Elite of _Gahn’tha-cte_ scatter blood and gore from the huntress’ torso, throwing her to the ground next to a tree. The bio-mask’s user begins to enter a state of shock as she looks up at the advancing _kv’var-de._

 _A motley of green, white, and brown skin. Locs darker than night._ Guan watches in horror and relief, in shock and misguided hope.

 _“Who are you?”_ The bio-mask’s user clicks in the dissonant nature of Ka’Torag-Na’s clan members.

Mere feet away, the Elite stops only to pick up a combistick with the markings of a weapon forged in the flames of Gahn’tha’cte’s weapon masters. The growl that comes from the Elite is mortifying, both in familiarity and sheer rage. The hunter snaps, _“M-di-H’chak.”_

_“…Merciless…”_

The activated combistick comes crashing down and the feed cuts out. Guan falls back into his seat and exhales shakily, mind a rush with different thoughts and feelings. Relief is not alone. It is an emotion singing beneath his skin, spurned by morose, regrets, and the impending terror of what is to come. He does not care about Daga’s smug click of satisfaction. His thoughts are on the woman at his right, on the poison in her veins, and on the very real possibility everything he has thrown himself through is for naught if she gets her hands on his _mei-hswei._

 _“Why did you not show that one first, Leader Daga?”_ Elder H’dlak snaps. _“You and Elder Lar’ja have wasted time we cannot get back! I say this with utmost respect for the opinions of both of you, but time is a currency not even Yautja can get back when lost.”_

 _“It was not a loss. Adjutant Guan and Adjutant Bist’ri understand the history of the clan their loyalties belong to. Understanding history is imperative to avoid repeating our mistakes.”_ Ju’dha cocks their head to one side, daring H’dlak to challenge them on the stance. Elder H’dlak sinks back in their seat, disgruntled but accepting of the answer.

But something is off about Ju’dha’s words. It clicks in Guan’s head that his earlier suspicion is not wrong. He growls softly and stands. _“Elder Ju’dha—That is to say—My mate—Ikthya-De-Th’Syra—Has known of these events this whole time?”_

 _“Are you jealous, Adjutant?”_ His mate clicks at him, soft enough for only him and Leader Daga to hear.

 _“Never of you,”_ the man snaps at her, ignoring the concerned looks of both Tjau’ke and Bist’ri from the lower levels of the hall.

 _“…Elder H’dlak, to answer your inquiry,”_ Daga cuts the two mate’s conversation short. The Elder shakes out his locs and growls sharply. _“I was interrupted by the passionate zeal of my Adjutant insisting our mei-hswei does not live, and by Elder Lar’ja’s insistence on the extradition of our clan’s history. But if we are in agreement M-di-H’chak lives—The true ka’rik’na begins.”_ Daga stands up and spreads out his palms. _“M-di-H’chak has been recorded intervening on behalf another clan’s Hunt! He cut down not one but two Arbitrators of Ka’Torag-Na and aided the ic’jit Vayuh’ta. Ka’Torag-Na expects us to take action immediately.”_

Guan clenches his teeth. His mandibles twitch in suspense. There is too much to take in, an overload of information to process, but right now all he can focus on is the _ka’rik’na_ , and the stakes at play. Daga has demonstrated H’chak lives and walks the living of _Terra,_ taking actions that defy the Code of Honor Clan Gahn’tha-cte bides by. There is only one thing the Elders can vote on.

 _“We are here to vote on the fate of M-di-H’chak.”_ Daga decrees. _“To determine if he is ic’jit or honorable, if he lives or dies.”_


	33. ka'rik'na

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am all for tradition, Leader Daga. I do not criticize you for your faithfulness to the old ways—But if the old ways bring suffering to the honorable in our ranks, are we not obligated to consider the actions we take? Perhaps an indication of this ka’rik’na’s topic last night would’ve diverted from this path… Given Tjau’ke the agency to make an… informed decision.” Ju’dha looks around the hall before glancing over their shoulder at Daga. “Do you agree or cast dissent, Honorable Leader?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super happy with how this turned out! especially with tjau'ke and bist'ri  
> shout out to the medical division of clan gahn'tha-cte for having a bunch of badasses  
> (confetti)

_She’s a…_ Vayuh’ta snaps upright, shouting at the Yautja to her left. _“We can’t fight her!”_

The whispers are true. The whispers are true. The whispers are true. She should have listened to the whispers.

Alma sprints forward. The silver figure is on Vayuh’ta in a flash, running like she’s trained for a marathon but leaping before and smashing into the ground with both fists. The huntress dives out of the way and brings her sword up instinctively as the Vekin’s hands transform from Yautja clawtips to the elongated talons of a Xenomorph. The claws smash against her Elder Blade; she growls and pushes Alma back while the latter hisses. H’chak runs up behind the silver abomination, _dah’kte_ pouncing on the entity’s form. Alma’s shape appears to _melt_ and Vayuh’ta stares in horror as the extended blades of H’chak’s single _dah’kte_ plunges through empty space and smashes against her sword, locking together momentarily.

 _“Pauk! S’yuit-de!”_ Vayuh’ta snarls at him. _“Get back!”_

 _“How—”_ H’chak’s words are cut short by the sloshing of liquid and Alma’s mass dipping and diving away, chunks of flesh barely recognizable floating in the silver goop before the amorphous figure jumps at them. The entity changes shape mid-air, hardening and taking shape of a Yautja in time to grapple H’chak by both wrists. He throws her to the side, snarling a cry of _ui’stbi!_

The silver monstrosity swipes at his legs; the Elite leaps backward in time for Alma to carry through the roundhouse kick and smash her foot into Vayuh’ta’s Elder Blade. Vayuh’ta roars at the Vekin as it cuts clean through the flesh and lobs a foot off off. She drags her sword down and cuts through the Vekin’s thigh. Vayuh’ta rears back when Alma throws herself forward; the Yautja huntress ducks out of the way, spinning on her heels and snarling. A strange odor fills the air where a pool of clear liquid seeps from the dismembered foot.

Alma scoops up the flesh just as H’chak pounces on the woman. Alma doesn’t try to dodge, her body warping and the rest of the thermal mesh falling away in shreds as an amorphous silver-hued goop of liquid with chunks of _things_ inside it dances out the way of his strikes. H’chak’s free hand activates his combistick; the hunter throws his weight unto his left leg to twist and lash out at the amorphous shape. The viscous silver body leaps to the ceiling and over him, landing next to Vayuh’ta. The huntress slants her blade forward and cuts clean through the form in a prepared blow. Clear liquid sprays Vayuh’ta’s sword, arms, and face; she howls in disgust and staggers backward, wiping off the mock blood with one hand. Her body sings in pain, the throb of the injuries sustained over the past months beginning to wear on her form.

When Vayuh’ta looks, Alma possesses the form of a Yautja again. Alma misses the toe on her left foot, but her flesh is otherwise mended. The Vekin clicks softly at her, looking over her shoulder where H’chak retracts his _dah’kte_ blades and hefts his combistick up, back arched in growing bloodlust. Alma whistles softly and runs forward, aiming for Vayuh’ta but careening past when the Yautja sidesteps. Alma continues running, footsteps thudding against the floor of the building. Both Yautja follow her. When Alma leaps up, the woman goes _through_ the roof. Vayuh’ta cusses loudly and follows the new hole in the ceiling. H’chak is up a moment later, both Yautja under soft, sprinkling rain while Alma stands at the other end of the building.

 _“We can’t,”_ Vayuh’ta repeats, hissing softly. _“H’chak—She’s Vekin!”_

H’chak steps back with one foot and lifts his combistick, the razor-sharp edges gleaming softly as he takes aim. _“Nothing but prey! Amedha!”_

_Pop. Pop. Pop._

_“We don’t have—cjit!”_ Vayuh’ta howls and doubles over, a sharp popping noise bringing new notifications up on her mask. She staggers, stunned, with H’chak’s gaze on her form, before the Yautja howls in _pain_.

_Pop._

The noise sounds a second time and a stinging pain, the likes not even the huntress knows, shatters her composure and floods her veins. Vayuh’ta drops her sword and clutches her side, catching the faint whiff of blood. She sees flashes of white when the pain rocks her vision. She takes one knee and H’chak lowers his combistick, stopping at her side while keeping a sharp eye on Alma at the other end of the building.

 _“She has a,”_ Vayuh’ta hisses, when her vision fades in long enough for her to make out the bright green blood, _“—Sniper! P’kya-uha! H’chak—Go! You can’t—”_

 _Pop. Pop. Pop._ Three more hit her side, with two plunging into her back on the site of skin grafts. Vayuh’ta throws her head back and screams. Instead of adrenaline, her body breaks out in a cold sweat. Her throat begins to swell, and welts swell along the bullet wounds at the site of impact. Her green blood oozes, but she does not fear bleeding out; the fact she can still _move_ in theory is enough to affirm the bullets are not designed to penetrate or tear through deep flesh like most ooman weaponry. In fact, during a brief glimpse of lucidity, she confirms her injuries are shallow; Her body’s natural healing rate should be enough to heal the flesh.

But the stinging—the Cetanu-damned, abhorrent _stinging_ —Vayuh’ta longs to carve out her flesh and burn it to ash, the _stinging_ persisting even when she claws out one crumbly shell after another.

She howls at the sight of small, hair-like needles embedded in her pelt: the pain returns tenfold. Every raindrop sings her name to the tune of _Pop. Pop. Pop._ She tenses muscles in her body she forgot she had. The huntress roars at the weeping sky.

H’chak leaves her side and steps in front of the injured huntress, imposing himself as a buffer between her and the Vekin at the other end. Vayuh’ta tries to repeat her past sentiment, to demand he get the _pauk_ away from the beast, but she screeches in agony when words fail her. The wind picks up, and the gale ravages her body with a new wave of pain.

Vayuh’ta’s hearts slow to the point she cannot hear anything but the sound of her body succumbing to the toxins in her flesh. Shock sets in and she falls into a daze of confusion and clawing haplessness as the accursed _pop, pop, pop_ continues.

* * *

He catches sight of the figure on the third floor of the building adjacent the construction site, a faint glimmer of heat against the cool hues of his thermal vision. H’chak growls and takes off in a run, leaving Vayuh’ta behind in favor of making the leap to the other building’s rooftop. He misjudges the length; his weak leg cannot throw him with the momentum necessary to close the distance. H’chak crashes through one of the lower floor’s windows. Above, noise pings on his mask confirming the presence of another being. He tears his way through the first floor to the second and second to the third before Alma’s wicked silver form catches up and slams into him from behind. Someone shrieks in the building. He and the Vekin— _Vekin?_ —go rolling head-over-heels on one another before both slam into the wall of a trashed room.

H’chak’s combistick is flung from his grasp, lost in the impact. He leaps to his feet and activates his _dah’kte,_ bringing it down on the rising silver figure. Alma catches his wrist and ducks the incoming slash of his hand, chittering softly when he plunges it into drywall. She releases his wrist and slips behind him in time to receive a powerful kick to the chest. The hunter huffs and rips his hand free, turning around and retrieving his combistick as Alma stands and brushes herself off. His eyes burn in irritation behind his mask. _“I’ll rip your friend’s th’Syra out when I’m through with you.”_

“Will you, now?” The silver figure intones, ducking when he plunges the spear forward. H’chak spins instinctively and the combistick hits home. Alma emits a strange, garbled cry of noise and a bolt of lightning leaps from her hand into the air, aim altered by the strike.

H’chak pushes her back and slams the combistick’s serrated blades against her throat. Even with his bio-mask’s optic systems on, he begins to see _red_ again as his focus narrows on the prey in front of him. He reaches back with his free hand and _rips_ through flesh, ignoring the way teeth and tusk impale his flesh and tear through his mesh and arm. H’chak reaches deep enough to feel body, clenches his hand around it, and _tears_ backward. He bellows and howls in triumph when bone gives and the Yautja skull slides free of flesh. Clear white liquid sprays the area. H’chak does not care about the odor; he cries out in victory and holds the skull—still attached to the spine—over the body as Alma’s headless figure slumps to the ground.

Noise notifications at the side of his bio-mask’s optics informs him Alma’s companion is still in the building. He marches out of the room, down the hall, and flicks to thermal vision to aid in tracking warm footprints from one room down the stairwell. Thinking quickly, the man takes to a window and leaps through, the glass pieces leaving minor abrasions over his flesh while he falls three stories and crashes into the ground. Dust kicks up; he ignores the pain in his left leg and rises to his feet, cutting off Alma’s cohort at the back door of the building. The man is a white ooman with a large belly and wide eyes. An open bottle in one hand alerts H’chak to the odor of human piss. It would be clever at any other time—An ooman using urine to cover up the smell of _fear._

“This is your leader.” The translation service in his helmet intones as he hefts up the spine and skull, hissing all the while. He steps forward and the man begins to sputter and stumble backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. H’chak storms forward and catches him by the tail end of his large, gaudy t-shirt, the fabric covered in vivid floral prints. He drops Alma’s skull and grabs the man by the neck.

“Please—Please—Don’t—I’m just—Fuck—Fuck!” The man sounds like he is middle-aged, or perhaps in his forties. His receding hairline does not spell well for him if ooman customs are anything like Gahn’tha-cte is when it comes to locs and wooing mates. Not that it matters; H’chak’s orange eyes are ablaze behind his mask. The man begins to choke when H’chak lifts him.

“Will I kill you?” The Elite’s mask asks. “You shot my ally. Will I let her kill you? An eye for an eye?”

The heavy-set man begins to weep and beg, a disgusting show of cowardice. H’chak drops him and makes the decision of taking his skull himself. He reaches forward with his free hand, slick with Alma’s blood, when his body locks up. Pain shoots through his leg first; it hits his bad muscle and he falls to one knee, groaning when he cannot scream. He barely makes out an amorphous glob of silver oozing from the Yautja skull next to his foot, a tendril-like appendage wrapped around his bare foot and shooting electricity through him at increasing voltages. His bio-mask shorts out and his personal computer begins to spark as he falls down; his muscles twitch and his flesh burns in a manner not unlike months past when Sundew electrocuted him.

But that was an accident.

This is intentional.

He collapses in a heap, conscious but unable to control his body or bodily functions. His muscles jerk erratically as the electricity slowly dies down. He sees nothing, the bio-mask completely dark. He hears soft weeping; the ooman man from before is loud and obnoxious in the noises. When he breathes, H’chak tastes relief in the ooman.

He hears _slithering,_ like a great snake creeping across the ground and dragging something with it. He feels the tendril around his foot release.

“President… President…” The ooman is a mess, far from composed. “I thought you—Fuck—I thought—I fucking thought—”

Soft hands roll him unto his back. Hands unclasp his bio-mask. When he can open his eyes, he is lost in a daze looking up at a dark purple outline with a bright red heat signature to her right. Alma tilts her head to one side and hands _his_ bio-mask to the ooman. _“Kv’var-de,_ do you know there are many Yautja clans who claim skulls and spines as trophies?”

He wants to growl. His throat is too dry to do anything but croak. The rest of his body is just as exhausted and pained, and his leg throbs in ungodly pain. The Elite is stubborn enough not to beg for Cetanu. His orange eyes narrow at the outline of Alma. When he looks up and down her form, he sees her head has reattached to the body. He imagines the flesh has mended too, if her foot earlier was anything to go off.

 _How?_ He wants to bare his inner jaw, flare his mandibles, and growl.

Alma stands up. Perhaps she picks up on the unspoken demand in his silence, or perhaps she intends to gloat, but she answers. She sounds surprisingly neutral for an entity who just put him to shame as she states, “You or your companion have been in company of a Synthetic Vekin long enough to make false assumptions about our kind. You should not equate a Synthetic of thirteen percent to one of ninety-six percent. She is an inadequate example of what we are capable of.”

She strips him of his _dah’kte,_ trying it on for herself before slipping it off and tossing it aside as if it is nothing more than old, moth-riddled garb. She unstraps his fried personal computer and puts it aside. The figure is thorough in knowing how to extract him from any pieces of armor he dons. H’chak feels more and more vulnerable the longer he lays there. He wants to convulse and thrash, to fight to an honorable end if possible, but the moment his body regains any hint of obedience she puts a cold palm over his chest; a new current leaps into his body and seizes him with pain. He feels his flesh instinctively try to cry out in pain, but his muscles lock up before he has the opportunity.

“Tucker.” Alma orders the ooman nearby. “Please dial Arnold Escrow and put him on speaker.”

“…Yeah… Yeah… Right—Right away. M’am.” The heavyset man blunders off, returning a minute later with a cool rectangle reflecting heat signatures. The smartphone rings twice before a surprisingly merry voice picks up.

 _“Oh, ho, ho, Tucker! My boy! I am surprised to see a call from you at this hour! Is it not… Hmm, say, four in the morning there? Well,”_ The man sounds delighted. _“Given you sound alive—I trust everything went to expectation?”_

“Arnold.” Alma cuts into the conversation. “There was an additional Yautja present for the skirmish. She is not one of yours. Both lacked in equipment.”

_“Hmm. Disappointing, disappointing—Oh, am I on speaker? My dear Alma, you must tell me these things ahead of time!”_

“I lost critical mass in the encounter.” The Vekin informs him. “Present mass is ninety-six percent.”

 _“Oh, Alma…”_ A sigh follows. _“Did you have to toy with them that much? I tell you, Tucker, my beautiful, darling Alma—She can’t keep her hands off people!”_

“These are not classic hunters, Arnold Escrow. One is of an Elite ranking. I do not know the clan; the memories contained in the corpses you delivered are absent in armor details. I will confirm his clan later. The other—I am uncertain. It is tempting to drain the huntress to a husk and peruse her memories directly,” Alma speaks calmly as she picks up H’chak’s form and walks out.

His arms hang uselessly. Behind the woman, the ooman picks up H’chak’s discarded equipment and grunts as he follows Alma.

 _“Oh, huntress? A huntress, you said?”_ The individual H’chak now knows as _Arnold Escrow_ sounds strangely fascinated. _“We have not examined a huntress’ physiology. I will make an appointment to speak to our new anesthesiologist… You are shipping the bodies to the Tegucigalpa site, I presume?”_

“It is the closest one.” Alma affirms.

_“Very well! I can afford to send another employee on an all expense paid expenditure to Honduras… Ah, Alma, do be quick in wrapping up business down there with your… Err… Who was it again? Your friend? The Synthetic?”_

“FLORA.”

 _“FLORA… I doubt she is as wonderful as you, so don’t dawdle. You do have a way of finding her, I presume?”_ By this point, H’chak knows the three are in the mall, third floor, approaching the strange silver caskets he saw earlier that night. His entire body throbs with burns, occasional jolt of electricity shooting from Alma into him and locking his muscles up.

She drops him unceremoniously on the ground. He groans weakly in pain and prays to Cetanu the huntress on the roof has recovered. It is all he can think of to do when he hears Alma pull open one casket. His thermal vision spies the drop in the temperature in the corner of his peripheral.

“I am capable of finding her, Arnold Escrow.” The woman answers. “The first specimen has blood to spare. I will alert you if there is a problem I am incapable of resolving.”

_“Oh, you are doing that, then? Will you tell me how it goes? What is the flavor? Do document any differences between the two bodies—Are they different than a corpse? My dear? Alma?”_

She kneels next to H’chak’s body, the cool temperature falling off her body and numbing his when her hands grab him and roll him unto his back. He glares at her, but she does not appear to notice—Or care, if she sees. The woman grabs a handful of locs and pulls his head back. H’chak wants to growl and curse, but he cannot. He barely manages the croak of pain when Alma swoops to his neck and plunges her teeth into his flesh.

* * *

“I will inform you when I am on the way to Tegucigalpa.” She gestures at Tucker to hang up instead of satisfying the old man’s morbid curiosity about what Yautja blood tastes like. Arnold knows too much for his own good; she enjoys pondering the day of his death, when she does not rely on the two’s toxic partnership to fulfill the duo’s objectives.

She is quick to dump the Elite _kv’var-de_ into a casket-like freezer after taking her fill of his blood. Though Alma is a Synthetic, the large amount of mass retained is more than enough required to sift through the memories with ease. She processes them as she works, tenderly shooting weak currents of electricity into the freezer to ensure the inner mechanisms alter the temperature. She does not want the Yautja to regain control of his body, nor does she want _M-di-H’chak_ to die to hypothermia or asphyxiation. She runs a sharp clawtip across the rubber seal and opens a pocket big enough for the mist—a deep violet in her current thermal vision—to cycle clean air in and out. When Alma is satisfied the machine obeys her instructions, she shuts the freezer door.

She looks over her shoulder at Tucker’s heat signature. “Retrieve your equipment, Tucker Mason.”

“And… What about you? Are you alright, Miss President?” Tucker’s thermal signature indicates his tense posture, but it is worry that filters in through the duplicated olfactory receptors of her current physical composition.

Alma walks to the second casket. The great freezer is thrown open with a single hand, her Yautja arm flexing from the muscles at work. Yautja are very different to emulate compared to humans, and she is eager to get a move on to her preferred form. When the freezer is open, she steps away and waits for Tucker to peer inside. The man’s horrified shriek indicates he understands what she refers to. Alma shakes her head, clicking softly with humor but speaking English all the same.

“She will be missed. Someone on this planet knew her. But I… require her flesh, Tucker Mason. To transition from one body to another—Even a Vekin has its limits.”

“The shit I saw you do—President—Alma—”

“You acted appropriately, Tucker Mason,” Alma offers the words sincerely. “Arnold will be happy with your performance.”

“I panicked.” The man looks away. “Can’t help but, uh. Wonder. Are police gonna show up, m’am? Do I need an alibi? Do _you_ need an alibi? You didn’t answer my other questions. Not that I…” Tucker tugs at the collar of his t-shirt and swallows. “Do you need an alibi?”

“Arnold Escrow took care of that when I decided the location of tonight. A substantial donation was given to the chief superintendent of Buenos Aires City Police in exchange for routing emergency calls from this area to a deadline. If it came to it—I would not let them intervene.” Alma makes her words clear as she climbs into the freezer, only to pause. “…I will need to bring the other Yautja here before I can shift to a human’s composition.”

“Can’t help with that. She—She was on the roof. I shot her. On the roof. Fuck.” Tucker fumbles in his pockets for what she presumes is a cigarette and lighter, finding none.

Alma tilts her head to one side. “I will take care of it. Retrieve your equipment, Tucker Mason.”

“Yeah… Yeah… Alright. I’ll do that, Miss President. What, then?” He pauses after taking one step, looking over his shoulder at her. “What do you want me to do afterward?”

“I will make a call after the two specimens are secure. Arrange for transportation, a plane, and new clothes for you that do not smell of piss. You may relax; Buenos Aires has many beautiful sights, though I recommend against entering a construction zone.” She speaks the words neutrally, but Tucker pauses at the statement.

The man balks at her. “Was that a… joke? M’am?”

“Vekin are not above humor, Tucker Mason. We do not express the range of emotions we feel.” Alma dismisses him, climbing out of the freezer and walking out of the room. She looks up, inhaling deeply and catching a whiff of the Yautja huntress. It appears the moroidin bullets worked; the Yautja huntress smells as close now as she did before, indicating a lack of movement. The Vekin shuts her eyes. She calls to Tucker as he begins walking away, but she does not look at him. “—It was a joke, Tucker Mason.”

“Can I laugh at it?” The human asks. “M’am?”

“If you want.” Alma carries on. There is much to do before she ventures to the spacecraft docked north of Buenos Aires, and the Vekin knows from M-di-H’chak’s experience time is a currency one cannot afford to waste.

* * *

_What do I do? How do I—How can I protect him?_ His thoughts loop and spiral. The Adjutant keeps himself calm enough to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself, but as silence falls on the hall, he struggles to come to terms with the information.

Though Gahn’tha-cte-Guan knows H’chak never forgave him for the Challenging of Ikthya-De’s hand, the man once believed his _mei-hswei_ was spared of her sadism to the end.

_But I was wrong. I was wrong. He isn’t… He lives. Pauk. My mei-hswei… Ikthya-De can ensnare him again. I haven’t protected him. All I’ve done—I’ve made him suffer. I brought suffering upon him._

None of it matters. None of his reasons are good enough, brave enough, _honorable_ enough—What has he done but stolen everything of H’chak? Stripped his _mei-hswei_ of honor? Guan wants to hold his head in his hands, but he forces his body upright and continues to look out across the hall. _After Chirp… I promised to protect him. I failed. How can I protect him now?_

 _“What strange tides follow the shores we walk together…”_ Ju’dha clicks the words softly. _“To think you would call us here to celebrate the discovery our mei-hswei lives… and in the same breath ask us to vote on his life, Daga. Why is it this way? To invite Tjau’ke here no less—Where is your empathy? Do you enjoy making her lose her pup again?””_

 _“Remember who you accuse, Elder Ju’dha.”_ Daga warns. _“I do not derive pleasure from honorable Tjau’ke’s suffering. She is invited here out of respect for her strength and age. Is that not tradition?”_

 _“I am all for tradition, Leader Daga. I do not criticize you for your faithfulness to the old ways—But if the old ways bring suffering to the honorable in our ranks, are we not obligated to consider the actions we take? Perhaps an indication of this ka’rik’na’s topic last night would’ve diverted from this path… Given Tjau’ke the agency to make an… informed decision.”_ Ju’dha looks around the hall before glancing over their shoulder at Daga. _“Do you agree or cast dissent, Honorable Leader?”_

 _“I do not cast dissent. You speak truth. I will consider it for the future, Elder Ju’dha. But this is not the time for hypotheticals,”_ Daga remains standing in front of his seat. _“Ka’Torag-Na expects immediate action! And if we do not take initiative—They will. Their Shadow possesses copies of both feeds, and a member of the Council of Ancients hails from their darkness. We risk the Ancients clawing down our neck should we fail to resolve this conflict.”_

Elder Tyioe sits upright and leans forward in her seat. She props her right hand up on her knee while her gold eyes flicker with bloodlust. Guan’s hearts fall in his chest; he already knows her vote before she growls the syllables, _“—Kill him and be done with it. I have more important things to attend to than a useless Elite aiding the enemy’s ic’jit. No mercy for the dishonorable—"_

 _“Keep in mind, Tyioe, he is an Elite,”_ Ju’dha interrupts the weapons master. They tilt their head to one side and meet Tyioe’s in unspoken warfare, both Elders refusing to blink or look away first.

 _“Was an Elite. If he aided ic’jit—Does that not make him the same as this ic’jit, Vayuh’ta?”_ Elder Migo asks the room. They join Tyioe in staring at Ju’dha. _“We do not have the right to consider rank when he makes himself lesser than the lowest of Gahn’tha-cte.”_

Guan stares at Ju’dha’s back, unable to fathom the calm they radiate. Ju’dha holds no fear, only composure, and they do so effortlessly. The Elder gestures at Tyioe while answering Migo in the same breath, _“—Honorable Elder Migo—I was pointing out—A Yautja of an Elite rank is not merely a Blooded warrior. Does Gahn’tha-cte not hold their Elites in high regard? What we put our kv’var-de through to prove they are worthy of such title, of such honors, does it not point to M-di-H’chak’s innocence? If he is honorable, if he is Elite, if he is of Gahn’tha-cte—He must reserve reason for his actions. I do not believe Ka’Torag-Na has given us the full picture. We must bring our kv’var-de clanward and put him before each of us, not judge him without giving him the grace of his own testimony.”_

 _“Your vote, then—”_ Daga pauses purposefully, looking at Ju’dha with sharp eyes.

 _“We do not brand him ic’jit. Not without allowing him the opportunity to explain himself.”_ Elder Ju’dha nods slowly. Tjau’ke nods as well, outwardly pleased by the suggestion.

 _“I cannot vote, Honorable Leader Daga.”_ It is the Dark Night is No More who speaks, drawing Guan’s attention back to the white-and-black myriad of intense, contrasting hues. Around Lar’ja’s head, the Pride of Cetanu continues to fall and caress her like a cascading waterfall, the vantablack locs not unlike his own. Hers are much longer. Her hand plays with one while she trills at Daga, her words soured by an irritation Guan cannot make out, _“To vote is—A conflict of interest on my party. I will abstain with honor, but I bear witness to the judgement reached.”_

 _“A conflict of interest?”_ He means to think it in his head, but Guan blurts it out. The man’s orange eyes stare at Lar’ja, not following her unspoken meaning.

Lar’ja clicks curtly. _“There are many things you do not know about Gahn’tha-cte, Adjutant Guan. You will learn of them one day.”_

 _“What relationship does an Elder have with M-di-H’chak?”_ Guan clicks briskly in return, ignoring the scathing look of annoyance Daga gives him.

_“That is… not something I am obligated to share at this time.”_

_“Tjau’ke—”_ Guan calls for the nurse, causing her to stand and turn to face him. The older Yautja’s eyes are a cool blue-gray as she peers at his mask. Guan swallows his nerves and chirps, _“—How does the Honorable Elder Lar’ja know your pup?”_

For a moment-He sees the flicker of hesitation, the emotions of a deep pain he does not recognize within the depths of the courageous huntress, but then Tjau’ke turns her head away and looks up at Lar’ja. _“Forgive him, Elder Lar’ja, the Adjutant asks only in respect and a desire to know the truth of Gahn’tha-cte.”_

 _“I do not keep secrets to protect my own hide, Tjau’ke.”_ Every word directed at the nurse is softer than at anyone else, betraying the Elder’s slight fondness in her.

Tjau’ke clicks softly. _“You do not need to protect me, Lar’ja. I have held my own in the time since Setg’in’s death.”_

Lar’ja’s mandibles clack together in contemplation. Around the hall, Guan notes the other Elders are fascinated by this discussion. It surprises him; he expects the Elders to share in their secrets and knowledge of Gahn’tha-cte with one another, but it appears the clan is as politically enmeshed and tangled among its Elders as it is with its lower-ranked members.

 _“I am M-di-H’chak’s sirer, Adjutant. I gave him the flying serpent, Kukulkan.”_ Lar’ja leans back in her seat. _“My seed contributed to the problem facing us today, for it is through me Cetanu blessed his creation. It would be dishonorable to vote in favor of sparing his life when I possess this bias, yet I cannot willingly kick my pup to the flames and brand him ic’jit without more proof. Like Elder Ju’dha said—Ka’Torag-Na does not share the full picture. I have no choice but to voluntarily abstain from voting.”_

 _“I…”_ Guan slumps in his seat. He nods, accepting the answer but unable to process it.

He sees why Ikthya-De took her time toying with his _mei-hswei_ now. H’chak is the descendant of an Elder, with a legacy of sheer power and might following his steps. Ikthya-De wants only the strongest to propagate with, and H’chak’s ancestors carry great potential. If he is at her beck and call—That legacy, that honor, all of it—It would be _hers_ to manipulate and twist, to fit her obfuscated schemes and plans. And if Lar’ja is the one to pass the _Kukulkan_ to H’chak—Elder Lar’ja may pass on other items of great worth to her pup.

It is a _selfish_ thought to have, and he chides himself immediately after for being distracted so easily, but for a moment Guan cannot help but wonder who his sirer is. In the brief time before Setg’in’s death, his bearer did not say much of whom his sirer was. Not Daga—That much is clear.

 _This is a… labyrinth. I don’t know how to navigate it. I keep finding new twists, new turns, and become lost all over again._ The Adjutant’s eyes dim behind his mask.

 _“Well,”_ Elder Migo’s one good eye—a brilliant ruby red—sweeps the hall. _“In the interest of Elder Tyioe’s time—And that of all of ours—I am obliged to support Kwei-Tyioe’s stance.”_

 _“What?”_ Guan utters softly, staring at the Elder. Of all the official Elders present, he knows Migo-Kujhade best, having both trained under their watch while preparing to begin the trials of Yautja Elite, and having had Migo oversee his _chiva_ alongside H’chak. To hear Migo so easily vote against the Yautja shocks Guan.  
  
_“For what reason, Elder Migo?”_ Tjau’ke intones, clicks short and courteous.

_“We are on the brink of a new mating season, Honorable Tjau’ke—"_

_“I am aware of that,”_ The nurse cuts him off with a slow, stiff nod. _“As the head of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division, all bearers come to me for pre-natal and post-partum care. This cycle’s mating season is expected to run smoothly; what reason exists for it to interfere with this ka’rik’na’s subject?”_

Migo hesitates. Guan sees Tjau’ke tense where she sits. The old nurse, though he can only see her back and long, spiraling twist of locs, is rigid.

 _“Do you intend to imply I am incapable of performing my duties while my pup is on trial, Honorable Elder Migo-Kujhade?_ ” The nurse rises to her feet, fists clenching. She growls lowly at him; the Elder looks like a deer caught in the jaws of an Unblooded, stupefied by her brazen disregard for ranks in the matter. Tjau’ke’s growl increases in volume when she does not get a response; the nurse turns and gestures at Elder Migo with one sweeping hand. _“I am not an Unblooded s’yuit-de! The mating season has no bearing on this judgement and to insinuate otherwise disrespects me and diminishes the value of all pups I have assisted carrying to date, including those of all Elders in this room! To perpetuate this notion that I am incapable of doing the job I have devoted my life to for four-ten-zero cycles tarnishes my honor! If you agree with Honorable Elder Migo—If you truly believe I am incompetent in these circumstances—I will resign from my post this second and let Adjutant Bist’ri take over for the bearers of Elite rank and above.”_

 _“I do not share his view, though I share his vote,”_ Tyioe snaps quickly, shifting how she sits in her seat. As a bearer, the discomfort at not having such an experienced nurse on hand is obvious on the huntress’ face. The Elder’s one true mandible twitches. _“—Clan Gahn’tha-cte owes its prosperous mating seasons to the efforts of you and your nurses, Honorable Tjau’ke. I will make a formal request you remain at your post if you are insulted by Elder Migo’s insufficient comprehension of the complexities of Yautja gyniatrics.”_

 _“I am no bearer, but I will second this request.”_ Lar’ja nods slowly. One-by-one, Guan watches in awe as Daga, H’dlak, and Ju’dha follow suit. Tjau’ke sits after, but it is clear she is not happy with how things have unfurled.

Migo-Kujhade is quiet a long while before he leans back in his seat and drums claws along the armrest, _“Forgive me, Honorable Tjau’ke—I know you are a capable nurse. You are correct; the mating season does not conflict with a trial. I retract my statement with all present in the council hall as my witnesses.”_

Tjau’ke makes a _tch_ sound. She keeps her arms crossed. _“My forgiveness does not mean I forget. I do not judge your mates or future pups, but you are stained in my eyes, Elder Migo. May Cetanu offer you peace, because I will not.”_

 _“Is that a threat?”_ Migo snaps upright, good eye narrowing on her.

Tjau’ke stares back at him, _“It is a promise.”_

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke! Remember who you address.”_ Lar’ja chides from nearby, her clicks blunt. 

_“My past statement stands, Honorable Elder Lar’ja. I will be given respect, or I will excuse myself from where I am not wanted.”_ Tjau’ke clicks in response.

 _“Your words are noted, Honorable Tjau’ke,”_ Daga is the next to speak; his gold eyes flicker from the nurse’s form to Elder H’dlak. “ _—Honorable Elder H’dlak… You are often louder than this. Does your silence entail a vote? Have you reached a conclusion? Thus far—Elder Tyioe and Elder Migo approve of sanctioning the death of M-di-H’chak—"_

 _“I retract my vote, Leader Daga. I choose to abstain.”_ Migo interrupts, eyes still leering at Tjau’ke.

 _“Then—Elder Tyioe. You maintain your vote?”_ Daga clicks briskly. At Tyioe’s stiff nod, Daga clicks something under his breath before glancing at Elder Ju’dha. _“—And for you, Elder Ju’dha? You maintain your vote?”_ At the click of affirmation, Daga glances at Lar’ja and Migo. Neither speak up, prompting Daga to return focus to the green-and-brown figure sitting in one of the middle levels of seating. _“You are the judge, jury, and executioner of M-di-H’chak, Elder H’dlak. Say the word and I will arrange a fleet of Arbitrators to execute him.”_

“No.” H’dlak crosses their arms, gold eyes fluttering shut. They grunt loudly. _“I act in accordance with tradition, Daga. ‘Let one accused by another clan come before the Elders and make their case known.’ Let us hold trial for M-di-H’chak. If Ka’Torag-Na voices displeasure—We will permit the presence of one of their own to ensure the trial is honorable. As for the ic’jit Vayuh’ta—We will take her into custody and gift her to Ka’Torag-Na as a sign of good will. That is my vote.”_

Guan sees Ikthya-De begin to rise and he leaps to his feet, roaring into the hall, _“I’ll do it—I’ll go! Honorable Leader Daga—Permit me to do this for Gahn’tha-cte—”_ He can see Ikthya-De’s pause and Guan knows he has made the right choice. As Daga’s eyes lurch toward him, as the eyes of the leader and all Elders in the room, as the eyes of even Tjau’ke, Bist’ri, and his accursed mate fall on him, Guan straightens upright. He drops his arms to his side and attempts to hold composure. _“Permit me to bring M-di-H’chak back to Gahn’tha-cte.”_

 _“It is not the duty of an Adjutant._ ” Daga clicks.

His orange eyes narrow on the leader from beyond his mask. _“To send the Adjutant of the Clan Leader on this assignment will demonstrate Clan Gahn’tha-cte recognizes the severity of M-di-H’chak’s actions and has taken the action to investigate these allegations against him.”_

 _“It is a diplomatic maneuver—If we demonstrate Gahn’tha-cte intends to investigate, Ka’Torag-Na cannot drag the Council of Ancients into this matter.”_ Elder Ju’dha tilts their head to one side, tapping a claw to their mandibles in thought.

“Honorable Elders, Honorable Clan Leader Daga,” the voice of Ikthya-De next to him, standing at his side and leaning into his shoulder, it all makes Guan feels weak and nauseous. He is a mess of stress, of disbelief, of hate—so much hate for the woman—and of hope his _mei-hswei_ is not damned in the present. Ikthya-De seems to notice this, as she trills with delight and enthusiasm. _“Allow me to go with my mate in recovering M-di-H’chak! Ka’Torag-Na is full of intelligent Yautja—Would they not raise suspicion for the Adjutant to go by himself during Gahn’tha-cte’s mating season?”_

Guan’s stomach flips. He cannot see it, but he _feels_ the color and life drain from his face. He does not want to fathom traveling with Ikthya-De to retrieve H’chak of all Yautja. It will end poorly. He will die before he lets her touch him. She will happily kill him for H’chak’s hand; the woman has her own agenda and her motives are as impure as any _ic’jit._

He looks around the hall wildly, unable to focus on a single point or individual. His orange eyes zip from one Yautja to the next, only to come to a sudden stop in a mess of green when Bist’ri clears her throat, rises, and turns to face Daga. _“—With respect, Leader Daga, is M-di-H’chak’s condition known?”_

 _“It is not, nor do any of us know how he may react to being detained.”_ Daga grunts loudly. _“What is the point of your question, Adjutant?”_

 _“Given it has been… one and one-sixth cycle. No contact?”_ At the leader’s nod, Bist’ri’s gaze narrows. She has a fire in her eyes, one born of the verdant jungle and sprawling vines. The blue Yautja gestures at Tjau’ke. _“In the event M-di-H’chak requires immediate medical attention—Is it not wise to send a nurse alongside Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan?”_

 _“Are you volunteering yourself?”_ The clan leader’s hisses at the younger, much shorter kv’var-de.

 _“It would be a… diplomatic maneuver.”_ Bist’ri’s mandibles twitch as she copies Ju’dha’s words.

H’dlak huffs from the side, amused but reluctant to show it. Ju’dha shakes their head. Even Lar’ja cannot hide her reaction, mandibles clicking in faint, almost inaudible laughter at the Adjutant’s nerve. Daga growls and stomps one foot. _“Sei-i! Fine! Adjutant Guan, Adjutant Bist’ri, and Ikthya-De—The three of you are to leave with a civilian speed craft and depart for Terra immediately. You will be supplied with two Yautja engineers and an Elite kv’var-de to serve as a guard in event M-di-H’chak does not comply willingly. Bring him and the ic’jit Vayuh’ta back at any cost. Ka’rik’na adjourned! When M-di-H’chak returns to this clan, we will resume with his trial.”_

It isn’t until the Elders begin to rise and leave Guan realizes his eyes are still on Bist’ri. He watches the Adjutant turn to Tjau’ke, the two speaking quietly while the others file out. Guan feels Ikthya-De latch unto his arm and pull him away, but for a moment Bist’ri’s green eyes flicker back to his form, and all he can see is her.


	34. the gift of mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is quiet and devoid of others. Lar’ja blinks and watches as Tjau’ke lets go of her hand and walks out unto the deck. Presently, Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s mothership orbits Yautja Prime. The atmosphere of the planet is a beautiful yellow, but it shows up as a range of hues in Lar’ja’s thermal vision. When the lift begins to lower again, Lar’ja leaps from it and lands softly on the metal floor. The Yautja’s ceremonial kilt sways with each step as she follows Tjau’ke in a slow walk around the observation deck. A sea of stars accompanies the duo outside the ship’s windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping to have arc 4 wrapped up in the next 2-4 chapters, maybe 5 if they get too long? 
> 
> TW:  
> -mention of stillborn birth  
> -mention of past child / infant loss  
> -physical abuse, begins at:  
> "to reveal his personal armory."  
> ends at:  
> "to his left arm."  
> if you would like to skip it, ctrl+f^ to do so!  
> edit: I apologize, forgot to put this here when the chapter was first uploaded but Guan and Bist'ri's conversation in this chapter delves into the topic of abusive relationships. 
> 
> I remain in disbelief. It feels surreal to see this fic has 1400 views? Thank you all so much for giving it a chance. I've enjoyed working on it immensely even if I fail at adhering to 100% canon.

The Elder seeks peace and quiet after the end of the _ka'rik'na._ It drives M-di-Guan-Lar'ja far from the observation deck, all the way to the lowest floor of the clanship where there is none but empty containment cells, long-looping corridors, a cargo hold, and the ship's docking bay.

Luck is not on her side.

 _“I was not expecting you to attend today’s ka’rik’na_ ,” The voice of the honorable nurse draws her attention; Lar’ja stops mid-stride in the hall and looks over her shoulder as the Yautja approaches. The nurse’s dark pelt is both a match and contrast to the Dark Night is No More. The Elder finds humor in noting how the woman’s spiraling, inter-twisted locs are the exact style they were three hundred cycles past. _“Kv’var-de.”_

 _“Don’t give me that,”_ The Elder’s clicks are curt and formal. Lar’ja looks up and down the corridor but finds only an Elite guard at the far end. Lar’ja’s white eyes narrow and she turns to Tjau’ke. She has half a mind to call the woman out for stalking her, but other topics loom on her mind. _“Your actions in the ka’rik’na were bold but foolish. S’yuit-de!”_

 _“You would have done the same, Lar’ja.”_ Tjau’ke clicks with amusement. _“I will not pretend not to notice when Migo-Kujhade insults me to my face, in front of all the Elders no less.”_

 _“I do not think it is wise to make a spectacle of yourself in a ka’rik’na where you are an honored guest. Daga and the others permit your presence. That can change at any time.”_ The two walk side-by-side down the hall together. Lar’ja is briefly taken aback by Tjau’ke dropping the subject. Her stalwart and headstrong friend is known to address such topics directly, not dance around the fact. It prompts Lar’ja to stop when the two have rounded the corridor and entered one of the clanship’s main lifts.

Tjau’ke clicks at her. _“Amedha got your tongue, Lar’ja? You are quiet until you want to speak. And I of all Yautja know when you want to speak.”_

 _“…If he is guilty—Daga will appoint his Adjutant as executioner.”_ The Elder trills.

_“You’re worried about him.”_

_“Guan is—”_

_“I am not referring to the Adjutant, Honorable Elder Lar’ja.”_ Tjau’ke’s icy blue eyes soften as she stares at her. The lift begins to rise.

 _“He is not mine anymore.”_ Lar’ja grunts.

She twitches in irritation when Tjau’ke’s mandibles click together in laughter. _“Oh, and publicly announcing your place as his sirer untangles you from him? It does not matter who raised him—You are H’chak’s sirer. And I am—”_

The lift stops and Lar’ja growls to cut the Yautja off. The Elder becomes quiet once again, posture tense as the next level of the ship comes into view. A group of Yautja, three of which appear to be Blooded _kv’var-de_ returning from rounds of training, steps on. Lar’ja notes the group gives her a wide berth of space, as if the Elder is a ship herself, a weapon, or even _kainde amedha_ opposed to a fellow living, breathing Yautja warrior. Tjau’ke picks up on her displeasure and falls silent.

 _“Tjau’ke… Why did you expect me absent this ka’rik’na?”_ Lar’ja clicks softly.

The other Yautja does not answer until the lift passes the medical division. At the residential level, the three _kv’var-de_ get off. Lar’ja and Tjau’ke remain on as the lift resumes rising. _“—You have not been the same since Setg’in’s death, Lar’ja.”_

Lar’ja pretends not to notice Tjau’ke misses her stop.

_“I know.”_

_“She is gone, but she walks with the Black Hunter now. You cannot turn your back on Clan Gahn’tha-cte because she was taken from us,”_ Tjau’ke scolds gently, but it is a criticism all the same. It stings to hear coming from her, one of the few—perhaps the only Yautja outside her pups—with the right to do so.

 _“So now you want to protect me, Honorable Tjau’ke?”_ The Elder _tsk’s_ with the clacking of two mandibles together. She shakes her head. _“I do not need your help.”_

 _“I was not offering to help. I cannot help a Yautja incapable of grieving,”_ the nurse retorts immediately, the chirps and clicks taking on a harsher tone. _“What have you done for either of them since Setg’in’s death, Lar’ja?”_

_“I am not required to do anything.”_

_“But you feel obligated to. The responsibility of a sirer to pups is no different than a bearer to pups. It is not tradition to indulge in such impulses, but you cannot deny they exist. You push them out of your mind and pretend the two do not exist. Now—You have announced your tie to H’chak to the council, to Daga, and to Guan. He will look into this,”_ Tjau’ke is blunt now, though her eyes carry on the softness. _“What will you do, Lar’ja? Do you intend to ignore the Adjutant when he comes hunting for answers?”_

Lar’ja is quiet, with a soft, somber silence about her.

 _“You cannot hide the truth forever,”_ Tjau’ke extends a hand and takes Lar’ja’s in her own. Her eyes hold sympathy, but the Elder growls in response. Tjau’ke lets go and sighs. She shakes her head. _“Lar’ja—When H’chak returns to Gahn’tha-cte—I will tell him about Setg’in.”_

_“Tjau’ke…”_

_“—If he is taken by the Black Hunter, it will be with truth in his chest!”_ Tjau’ke snaps. _“And if Guan is made to cut his mei-hswei down in the name of honor—I will tell him, too. He deserves to know who his mei-hswei is.”_

_“You would do that to me, Tjau’ke? After all Setg’in did for you—”_

_“In a heartbeat,”_ the nurse steps closer and sides the Elder up as if the two are both Unblooded or Sucklings. Tjau’ke does not express fear. She is a capable individual, full of courage and honor to a degree that can both ruin her and lift her from the ashes.

Lar’ja’s eyes close, defeated. It is a sore sting to her ego to admit it, but part of her knows the nurse is right. She has not let go of the past. She has not grieved the loss of her mate. She has not forgotten the hunt that spirited Setg’in from her and ripped her arm off in the process. Yet in the same breath—She knows if she could, she would put herself through that very Queen hunt again, and again, and again, if only to see Setg’in one last time, to say goodbye.

Her chest aches. Her hand tenses. The Dark Night is No More cannot stand to look at Tjau’ke again.

 _“How is it,”_ the Elder hisses softly, almost inaudible when the lift stops. _“You speak of her so easily, Night Sky. You speak of her like she is only gone a day and not a lifetime.”_

 _“Ah.”_ Tjau’ke is heard sighing. Lar’ja feels the nurse’s hand take her own once more. Her white eyes open and she glances at the Yauta beside her, so alike yet vastly different, nothing but a thermal signature of bright red in her eyes yet infinitely more than that. _“Not a day cycle passes where I do not think of her, miss her, ache over her. She was your mate, but my mei-jadhi, Lar’ja. Don’t mistake my composure as a lack of grief. Not even Gahn’tha-cte’s mourning period can surmise and encapsulate all the pain I have felt since the day Setg’in met the Black Hunter. But I…”_ The lift stops on the highest floor of the ship, the observation deck.

It is quiet and devoid of others. Lar’ja blinks and watches as Tjau’ke lets go of her hand and walks out unto the deck. Presently, Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s mothership orbits Yautja Prime. The atmosphere of the planet is a beautiful yellow, but it shows up as a range of hues in Lar’ja’s thermal vision. When the lift begins to lower again, Lar’ja leaps from it and lands softly on the metal floor. The Yautja’s ceremonial kilt sways with each step as she follows Tjau’ke in a slow walk around the observation deck. A sea of stars accompanies the duo outside the ship’s windows.

 _“I believe honorable spirits—The kv’var-de who have met Cetanu, who have gone to the Paya—I believe they walk with each of us, Lar’ja, carried in the memories we hold of them, in what they leave behind,”_ Tjau’ke’s hands absentmindedly rise and mess with her spiral of twisted, long locs. She stops mid-stride and turns to Lar’ja. _“Setg’in… Left many memories for us, Lar’ja. She left me so much joy. She gave me the greatest gift a mei-jadhi could bestow upon someone like me.”_

 _“The gift of mercy.”_ Lar’ja clicks softly.

 _“Sei-i,”_ Tjau’ke’s mandibles twitch up at the edges. She shakes her head. _“It has been too long since her death—There is no reason to hide it from the two anymore. They can handle the truth, Lar’ja.”_

_“They may hate us for it.”_

_“Then let them hate us. It is their right, especially if one of them may soon die at the other’s hands!”_ Tjau’ke reverts to her scolding nurse’s persona a moment before her shoulders slump. She trills softly and shakes her head. _“Setg’in would have wanted them to know long before this. Let us honor her wishes now. Perhaps H’chak will disown me as a bearer. Perhaps neither will speak to you or I again. But they will know before the Black Hunter arrives.”_

_“And if it draws space between us? If it lets Ikthya-De-th’Syra ensnare H’chak again?”_

_“We cannot keep that from happening, Lar’ja. You see the way the woman digs her claws into Guan’s neck?”_ Tjau’ke’s form becomes rigid.

Lar’ja hisses through her teeth. _“Sei-i.”_

 _“Ikthya-De is a woman who wants things. Power. Ego. Influence,”_ the nurse says one-by-one, pausing between each word with a growing tension in her body. Tjau’ke clenches her teeth and growls. _“Daga was—is—a fool to think—Accepting one of Ka’Torag-Na’s orphans would change the course of events. The woman that orphan grew up to be—”_

 _“Can your Adjutant handle her?”_ The Elder interrupts Tjau’ke’s clicks with a click of her own. _“Ikthya-De. Can Bist’ri handle her? During the mating season?”_

 _“If I did not trust her with your pup, how could I trust her with my own?”_ The nurse huffs loudly, the sound echoing across the deck.

_“The mating season is brutal for the unprepared, Tjau’ke.”_

_“I am the head of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division. I understand how ‘brutal’ Yautja mating dances are! Don’t think I haven’t stitched a sheathe back together, or a pushed a prolapsed uterus inside,”_ Tjau’ke snaps, mildly offended a moment before she elaborates on the Elder’s inquiry. _“Bist’ri is Blooded. She is as trained a huntress as Ikthya-De.”_

Lar’ja growls. _“The woman has almost one-zero-zero cycles on Bist’ri! Bist’ri has yet to reach two hundred.”_

 _“Would you prefer I go?”_ Tjau’ke demands the answer, stepping closer to where Lar’ja stands and staring at her in challenge. _“Will that satisfy you, Lar’ja? I hear your complaints, but you offer no solutions—"_

The Elder loses track of her words, momentarily distracted by the sound of her voice and rush of blood flooding her veins. Lar’ja finds herself distracted by the idea. It eats at her inside, prompting her to reach for Tjau’ke and put her hand on her shoulder. The other shushes immediately. Lar’ja trills softly, _“Stay.”_

_“Lar’ja…”_

Absentmindedly, the Elder’s hand drifts up, skimming the nurse’s neck and cupping her cheek and mandibles. Her thumb slowly rubs against one tusk. The Elder looks up at Tjau’ke, ignoring the five inches the latter has on her in height. Lar’ja’s voice becomes very soft as the Elder intones, _“Forgive me, Honorable Tjau’ke—I insulted your judgement and skills. I… know you only pick capable Yautja to take under wing.”_

 _“…You are forgiven, Elder Lar’ja.”_ Tjau’ke states back, hands slowly rising to the Elder’s shoulders. _“If you are—If you are propositioning me, Honorable Elder—”_

 _“Paya,”_ Lar’ja feels Tjau’ke lower her head until it bumps her own. _“May the Paya give us both long lives, Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ The Elder inhales once and growls softly when the rich scent of Night Sky fills her head. It makes her body writhe and shudder with a want she has not felt since Setg’in died.

 _“—I have never birthed a live pup. They are stillborn.”_ Tjau’ke’s chirp is closer to a whisper.

 _“I am not,”_ Lar’ja forces the words out, though she cannot deny how appealing the idea is when it flickers through her head. She inhales again. The Elder has the self-control to withdraw from Night Sky and step back, eyes averted to the side with a heaviness within them. _“I cannot proposition you, Tjau’ke. Not like… this. Not like this.”_

 _“Of course.”_ The nurse nods quickly. _“Forgive my—Misunderstanding.”_

 _“If I did,”_ the Elder clicks softly. _“It would not be without… a traditional courtship. Without the… appropriate rites. Gifts. Food. And—And—”_ It is overwhelming her senses. Lar’ja has the dignity to step back again before she pins her old friend to the wall. She inhales one last time, the scent of _Night Sky_ a million times stronger than it was before, before the Elder clears her throat. _“I will take my leave. Good night, Guan-Tjau’ke.”_

_“…Good night, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja.”_

Lar'ja can feel the other woman’s eyes on her when she turns and walks to the lift.

* * *

 _“You know, Guan, the mating season is upon us.”_ Ikthya-De is _gleeful_ from where she sits perched on the two’s bed.

 _“I’m not your personal pauk toy,”_ Guan growls at her, continuing to pick through a closet for a spare wrist-computer. _“Jack yourself off.”_

 _“Foul language from an Adjutant. From my mate!”_ The woman snarls; her clicks dipped in venom. _“You really think you won’t feel the effects of the mating season, Guan? S’yuit-de! You are still Yautja.”_

_“I’ll cut my own throat first.”_

_“Mm,”_ the woman’s mandibles click in satisfaction at his blatant disgust. _“Will H’chak show the same restraint, kv’var-de? I’m sure he’s desperate to produce a few more pups before his trial. And doing it with your mate? A real ell-osde’ pauk from the Elite to you.”_

 _“You left him a broken man after stringing him along fifty cycles.”_ The Adjutant seethes. He retrieves the spare wrist computer and unstraps his current one. It is a quick change, but one he deems necessary; he wants everything perfect for the trip. The next on the list is armor; Guan strides to the wall and taps a code into indentations along the wall. The geometric dash-like symbols glow briefly before a large cabinet protrudes and opens to reveal his personal armory.

 _“You amuse me sometimes,”_ Ikthya-De is behind him in a flash, wrapping her ungodly arms around his torso and holding him in a way anyone else might see as intimate. It makes the Adjutant still, four hearts beginning to beat in unease as the woman’s hands slide over his ceremonial robes. _“Thinking I don’t know how to fix s’yuit-de like yourself.”_

 _“Get the pauk off me,”_ the Adjutant howls at her but her claws bolt up and she pins his arms back, bringing one knee to the small of his back to force him on his knees. He hisses at her but shudders when she leans down to his smaller frame and growls.

 _“What are you going to do about it? Try and fight me? You aren’t as clever as you look, Adjutant. I’ve had so many cycles to study the way you fight,”_ she hisses at the back of his neck, wrenching his arms back at a painful angle and making him roar in rage. Ikthya-De’s mandibles begin to laugh. She savors his pain. She always has, whether the pain is his, H’chak’s, or another’s. Guan attempts to headbutt her from his current position, but she is keen enough to move out of the way, continuing to laugh all the while. _“I’ll take your arm off this time.”_

 _Pauk,_ the Adjutant howls when Ikthya-De begins to apply pressure to his left arm.

A glimpse of blue from the side is all he sees before several things happen at once. The door to his bedchamber shuts as if someone just passed through. A gleam of metal, _dah’kte_ , glides through the air. A scream pierces his head and Ikthya-De’s arms loosen enough for him to writhe out of and stagger away. He rises to his feet and turns around, eyes widening behind his bio-mask at the sight of glowing green blood spilling from Ikthya-De’s leftmost mandibles. Two of them have been sliced clean off along with a substantial length of the woman’s locs.

 _“You should go to the medical bay. Have a nurse look at that.”_ The voice is blunt but clearly agitated. Bist’ri’s face is covered in her own bio-mask, but she stands between Guan and his life mate with the blood of Ikthya-De dripping off her _dah’kte._ The huntress wears a complete set of armor, resembling a Brawler yet possessing a frame that is not _quite_ bulky enough to reflect a Brawler’s raw, physical strength.

Ikthya-De seethes as she stands. Her hands shake in outrage. _“That was a mistake.”_

 _“Far from it.”_ The nurse clicks back immediately and holds the hand with the extended _dah’kte_ up. _“Next time you touch the Adjutant—it won’t be superficial. Now. As I said,”_ Bist’ri’s voice lowers in pitch and she steps forward, holding the _dah’kte_ out and aiming it at the other huntress. _“You should go to the medical bay. Have a nurse look at that.”_

The shock does not wear off until Ikthya-De relents in leaving. Bist’ri walks her out of the residence. He hears the front doors shut before footsteps scamper back to the bedchamber. The nurse stops at his side, where he has moved to sit against his bed on the floor. That is where it all comes crashing down; the Adjutant holds his head in his hands and struggles not to weep. The weight of having the accursed woman around, goading and taunting, provoking and making excuses to torment him, it wears on him mentally. He is an exhausted man. Even if it is worth it—He feels the pain run through his body. He has not slept soundly in a long while.

 _“Adjutant.”_ Bist’ri’s voice pulls him out of his mental void. He looks up and over where she kneels next to him, head tilt to one side. The nurse’s _dah’kte_ retracts into itself. She pauses. _“You are not capable of defending yourself from her.”_

 _“No.”_ The man hisses at himself, deeply ashamed to have such weakness. _“I once was.”_

 _“But you cannot now.”_ She presses him to iterate the sentiment.

Guan’s orange eyes narrow. He directs his gaze at the floor. _“…I thought… I thought I could. I am a… pauk. S’yuit-de. I am not worthy to be Daga’s Adjutant. All my training did was—It left me too tired. Too tired. I am tired, Adjutant Bist’ri.”_

_“Don’t say that.”_

_“It is true!”_ He howls at the air.

Bist’ri’s mandibles can be heard clicking softly. _“I was not referring to your body’s… exhausted state. Do not call me ‘Adjutant Bist’ri’. It is… I don’t care for it. Too formal. I am a nurse, but I am still ‘me’. Bist’ri.”_

 _“Ki'sei. In that case—Call me Guan.”_ He wants to grimace.

 _“Guan,”_ the way the nurse sounds it out as if it is not a common word and instead some kind of complicated prey from a distant planet is almost amusing. Bist’ri slowly nods. _“Guan, then.”_

_“Bist’ri.”_

_“I don’t know how to say this respectfully,”_ Bist’ri clicks sharply to bring his attention back to her. As if to make a point, or perhaps to emphasize just how serious she is in her words, the nurse unclasps her bio-mask from her head and takes it off. Up close, the verdant sea of rich green greets him in her eyes. He has just enough energy left in him to focus on her words, _“Your partnership with Ikthya-De-Th-Syra is dishonorable, Guan. Dishonorable and toxic. Yautja clans may carry violence but this is not—It is not the same. Not acceptable. Not part of a mating dance. She does these things to hurt you.”_

 _“I know she is,”_ the man snaps at her, the clicks closer to a garbled screech due to his frustration at himself. His hands tense into fists. _“But I’ll handle her—I’ll handle her. It. These things. I’ll take care of it. I won’t let her hurt another—”_

 _“Unacceptable. You are not saving others when you yourself are a victim. She will terrorize others and it does not stop at you,”_ Bist’ri sounds surprisingly gentle when she scolds him, huffing in a way that reminds him of Tjau-ke. The blue Yautja crosses her arms and chirps at him. _“I am a nurse, Guan. I am trained to look for these things. What I see in her—What I see her doing—She is ui'stbi. You are not… You are not and will not be the only one.”_

His body tenses. He can still feel where Ikthya-De sunk her clawtips into his torso. His own blood mars his dark robes, soaking into the fabric. Guan grits his teeth and growls. _“What else can I do, Bist’ri? What else can you do? She is Honorable Leader Daga’s daughter—"_

 _“And you are the son of the late Honorable Huntress Setg’in-bpi-de.”_ Bist’ri grunts in response, cutting him off. When he snaps his head to look at her, the Adjutant clicks her mandibles together. _“—I have been told things by Tjau’ke, Guan. Many things. Perhaps not all of them—But enough. Legacy means cjit in justifying her actions. She hurts you. She acts dishonorably.”_

 _“I cannot do anything more than I am right now—Pauk,”_ he clutches his side where one of Ikthya-De’s claws dug deep. It begins to bleed again, the blood clot disrupted by his movement.

Bist’ri pauses. She inhales and growls at the scent of his blood, no doubt picking up on the new flow of blood from his body. Guan flinches when Bist’ri reaches for him. She pauses, holds her hands up with the palm facing out, and clarifies. _“I will not hurt you outside medical care. I am a nurse, Guan. Let me help you.”_

 _“It is shameful for me to need help,”_ he growls again, cursing under breath when he tries to lift his arms. _Pauk! “Fine—Cjit—Do it! Do what you need to!”_

Bist’ri activates her _dah’kte._ She is slow scooting closer to sit next to him, carefully extending her hands under his uneasy gaze. She gradually lowers one hand to his torso. The nurse is very particular in how she uses one hand to grab a fist of his black robe from the _ka’rik’na_ that afternoon and uses the hand with the _dah’kte_ attached to begin cutting through the material. She does not apologize as she works to cut away enough fabric to where the wounds are visible. Guan feels his face heat up from everything happening at once. It is bad enough to admit he is in a dishonorable partnership, but to have the same nurse act as if she is stripping him to copulate makes him want to squirm. He tries his best to stay still through the process.

She is gentle in her work. When she examines the injury, she exhales sharply and reaches for a pouch strapped to her hip. A small vial comes out, and a syringe follows. The nurse, her _dah’kte_ once more put away, fills the syringe with cellular regeneration serum. She offers Guan one hand, _“Squeeze it. This will be unpleasant.”_

He hesitates. Bist’ri begins to hiss. Guan takes her hand in his. His fingers instinctively seek to lace with hers, making her pause a second before her focus returns to her work. The injection is just as awful as she says it is. Guan’s scream is long and rings in his head afterward. Bist’ri pulls the empty syringe out and sets it next to her on the ground, her eyes flickering from it to the two’s hands. She clears her throat. He lets go and draws his hand back, the moment accompanied by a sudden spurt of heat in his stomach. Guan crushes it immediately. His gaze dims. _“Bist’ri—”_

 _“What?”_ She sounds startled by his voice, as if lost in her own thoughts for a time.

 _“Why did Tjau’ke ask you to come?”_ Guan’s orange eyes are a mess behind his mask, a swirling intensity of orange that hides the tangled thoughts in his head. He is surprised by the nurse’s sudden head shake, her locs swaying from the movement.

 _“She didn’t ask me.”_ The nurse replies in quick clicks. She stands up and brushes herself off, then offers him a hand. He stares at her. Bist’ri pauses. _“You don’t believe me.”_

_“No.”_

_“No one asked me to volunteer. It was of my own volition.”_ She continues to hold out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Guan begrudgingly takes it. Bist’ri does not pull him up; she acts as a stable anchor for him to pull himself up. He finds it unpleasant when she lets go of his hand. The man continues to stare at her for a long minute after.

 _“Why did you volunteer?”_ It is both morbid curiosity and a sense of unease. Guan asks anyways, refusing to look away. He quickly tacks on in a series of brisk clicks, _“Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s mating season is less than a week cycle away. Surely you have… mates? A mate? Potential sirers lined up?”_ He regrets asking the question immediately after, as the Adjutant notices Bist’ri’s eyes dim.

She turns away from him. _“I do not care about the mating season. Yautja go through so much trouble for pups. I respect the decisions of those who wish to sire and bear right away and ensure their bloodlines are continued—But that is not my… ideal. I don’t enjoy entering estrus and being hounded by Yautja I have no recollection of meeting outside the medical bay.”_

 _Ah._ The Adjutant feels something drop in his chest. He unclasps his bio-mask and takes it off, returning to the open cabinet to look for a new one. _“—You want to tag along to avoid suitors.”_

 _“That is not—”_ Bist’ri growls at him. _“It is the reason I don’t enjoy the mating season, but the mating season has nothing to do with why I volunteered.”_

Guan plucks a fresh bio-mask out of a glass case and turns it over in his hands. He turns around and eyes Bist’ri’s thermal signature, noting her tense hands and rigid posture. It remains strange but exhilarating to see a Yautja huntress shorter than him. _“What is the reason, Bist’ri?”_

The nurse pauses. She inhales deeply. _“—When I came to your residence to escort you to the ka’rik’na—I saw the wounds on your body, Guan. I saw what she's willing to do to control you. I knew—In the meeting—If you did not have someone on that ship with you, watching your back, she would find a way to kill you. I remember the Challenging, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I was there to witness the fight between you and M-di-H’chak. And I thought…”_

Guan’s shoulders slump. He stares.

Bist’ri hisses softly. _“Ikthya-De has tormented you for cycles. How many Yautja see her actions and ignore her? I refuse to be one of them. I do not care if others perceive me as ‘weak’ for possessing empathy. I decided to care about your wellbeing, and the wellbeing of everyone effected by this disgusting woman. I volunteered to protect you because in ka’rik’na no one else would, or could, and I find that unacceptable.”_

 _“I don’t need—”_ Guan squares her up, orange eyes narrowing. _“I’m not weak.”_

 _“You don’t have to be weak to need assistance, Guan,”_ She walks up to him and gently taps the injection site on his torso. The man’s muscles ripple and flex under her touch. He holds his breath and watches her thermal signature, suddenly all too aware of everything going on around the duo. Bist’ri draws her hand back. _“I know you’re strong. I believe you are strong. Yautja do not earn the rank of Elite by looks and lucks alone.”_

It is soothing to hear, to be reminded of, to _know_ he is still a capable kv’var-de. He stares at her thermal signature, gaze softening in the process. _“I see why.”_

 _“Why what?”_ The nurse clicks.

 _“Why Tjau’ke picked you as her Adjutant.”_ He trills the words softly. Guan finds his hands yearn to reach out and show his appreciation in touch. He holds his own, fists tensing instead. The man’s mandibles click together softly. _“You are… A very capable nurse, Bist’ri.”_

 _“And you a ‘capable’ Adjutant, Guan.”_ Bist’ri retorts. When Gaun slips his bio-mask back on and activates the optical system, he is satisfied to see the nurse’s top set of mandibles twitch up in response to their conversation.

* * *

  
The skull in her hands is a perfect, pristine white, whiter than anything she has ever seen before. Sundew’s lips quirk up at the edge as she stares at it. It is one of seventy-three skulls in the room, each as beautiful to look at now as they must have been when H’chak initially claimed them.

She sets it on its ledge on the wall and moves back to admire it. It is the skull of a small being, with a massive eye socket in the middle and needle-thin teeth. She makes a note to ask H’chak to retell that story once he returns; the thought fills her with warmth. It has only been hours, but already she yearns to wrap herself up in his warmth. There is a deep hunger in the Synthetic only the _kv’var-de_ can satiate, the longing of his heat against her form, of the two joined as one, of the two connected in sheer bliss and mutual adoration. She imagines other forms of closeness exist, but it is the one she feels driven to when at his side.

Her clear gaze flickers across the wall of trophies. She hopes he gets back soon.


	35. secured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit short but this chapter is... I'm happy with it. 
> 
> Next up: More Yautja, because having a big cast is not enough. Need more hot aliens.
> 
> TW:  
> mention of infertility  
> murder  
> gun violence

The speedcraft is a beautiful masterpiece of former Military caste glory, with five arms capable of unfolding from the egg-like shape tapered off at the end to the outstretched majesty of an echinodermata extending its legs. During regular travel, the ship resembles a cuttlefish or squid jetting forward at full force, ignorant of everything passing around it.

Though the craft lacks the high-caliber plasma cannons it held during its days in Gahn’tha-cte’s Military Force, it retains the basic plasma firearms built into the mobile segments, comprising exactly one-zero-zero guns with ten on the front and back of each arm. Its exterior is a gleaming golden hue, every bit embodying the might of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, but also that of Yautja as a whole. The species, no matter which clan, is notorious for ranking the top of the universal food chain, save perhaps the great eldritch horrors who rule the unconscious dream realms of Yautja hunters.

Just as Daga promises, there are two Yautja engineers and a fellow Elite _kv’var-de_ awaiting him in the docking bay when he and Bist’ri arrive, with the blue Yautja following his steps. It startles him to see Ikthya-De’s bloodthirsty expression from where she stands, her bio-mask tucked under one arm, directed at someone _else._

The woman’s two missing mandibles have been reattached, but a sharp line where the _dah’kte_ sliced clean through remains in a gray scar against her already deep, almost-black green pelt. Most of her black and what few gray scales she possesses are hidden beneath the mesh bodysuit she dons, or the veritanium armor plates shielding her shoulders, pectoral muscles, and vitals in the chest. She looks fierce, a prime huntress ready to pounce, and the fact she possesses her own _dah’kte_ brings Guan the familiar sense of unease. His form visibly tenses. Iktyha-De catches a glimpse of it and her mandibles twitch, torn between sheer hate for the nurse present and a riveting pleasure over his discomfort. The black scales across her face make her pale-yellow eyes stand out like a serpent preparing to strike.

The medical bay does not appear to have been successful reattached the severed locs. Part of Ikthya-De’s green-brown locs stop abruptly at her side. She snarls when she catches Guan staring at the evidence of Bist’ri’s actions earlier that day. His pride as a hunter keeps him rooted to the ground but he does not deny a tiny compulsion flickers through his head, a moment of weakness as _flee_ rings in his thoughts. He dismisses the urge. He looks to his side, where Bist’ri stops at his left. She remains donned in her armor, but the nurse has since put her bio-mask back on. It is almost a shame; Guan can shamefully admit he finds a degree of comfort in the intensity of her green eyes.

 _“My mate,”_ Ikthya-De clicks sharply, her eyes on him. Guan meets her leer head on. He does not break eye contact. _“Honorable Leader Daga has permitted us use of the Echinos. There were six cabins on board, but alterations have been made to turn one into a containment chamber for the ic’jit.”_

Guan feels his throat go dry. His hands tense into fists. “ _Why didn’t they use the cargo hold?”_

 _“It did not fit the required dimensions for a holding cell.”_ Ikthya-De could _sing_ the clicks and chirps from how calm she is about the whole thing, practically delighted.

Guan doesn’t need to count heads to know there are six crew members. His orange eyes darken behind his own mask. His mandibles yearn to flare, but he does not lose his temper easily. He keeps himself in check as he states, _“Then… You and I will share one cabin.”_

 _“Why wouldn’t we?”_ Umbra Skull goads him to respond, her eyes gleaming with intent. _“The mating season is upon us. We need our privacy."_

The thought of pauking the wench makes him nauseous. He recalls doing such a thing early in the two’s partnership, back when he hoped she was not as the rumors made her out to be, when he thought he misjudged the extent of her venomous ways. Any sweet façade melted the second she discovered he could no longer sire pups, a result of a Hunt involving the planet Baltic-102t and it’s unique, aggressive microorganisms.

 _“The medical bay contains an extra cot,”_ Bist’ri trills loudly. _“I’ll sleep there. Adjutant Guan may have my cabin.”_

 _“How generous.”_ Ikthya-De clicks in faux gratitude. _“You’re too kind, Bist’ri. So, so kind. What would he do without you?”_ Though it is directed at the nurse at his side, Guan cannot help but feel the blow to his ego as he stares at his mate. She looks at him and her mandibles twitch up at the edge, satisfied.

* * *

“Greetings—Ivon?” The Synthetic knocks on the open cockpit doorway before she enters. Her clear gaze settles on the human in the pilot’s chair. Sundew purses her lips at the sight of the electrician holding their head in their hands and keeling over as if in pain. She strides up and taps their shoulder, the cockpit door shutting behind the two in the process. “Do you require the assistance of Doctor Louanne Garcia, Ivon?”

“No. No. Just—Pretend I have a migraine.” The electrician looks up at her with dim brown eyes, golden bangs falling over their face.

Sundew tilts her head to one side. “A… migraine… That can require medical assistance, Ivon. Are you sure—”

“I’m sure! I’m sure, fuck.” The electrician taps their foot and looks around the cockpit. Louanne’s tablet sits in their lap. They grimace and begin tapping at the screen. “Though, I… Maybe I oughta bring this to her, anyways. She turned on a locking system and now I can’t… I can’t. I dunno. Use it. I can’t.”

“You cannot figure it out?” The news draws her attention to them, the rest of the world less interesting in favor of Ivon’s predicament.

“I just…” Ivon growls and throws themself back into the pilot’s seat, head slumped against the much larger backrest. “I can’t—I can’t think. Concentrate. Mind’s swimming, Sundew. My mind is _swimming_ and I can’t think. Can’t think. I feel heavy.”

“I estimate your weight to be roughly—” Sundew begins, but she cuts her words off at the realization her math may be flawed. The units in her mind are Yautja units of mass, not the human variation. She begins to wring her left wrist. “Is something causing your mind to swim, Ivon?”

There is a notable pause as Ivon’s face dusts pink. Their cheeks quickly change from a light pink to flush of red as their eyes widen in apparent realization. The electrician opens their mouth to speak, shuts it, and looks away. Sundew stares on, perplexed but curious. The Synthetic does not move from their side. Ivon begins to fidget in their seat before they snap their head up and blurt out, “I don’t—I can’t—I’m not sure you would understand, Sundew—”

“I am certain to give it my best attempt if you explain the situation.” She blinks slowly.

“I—” They appear to go back and forth in their head, unable to decide.

Sundew straightens upright. “What do you want, Ivon?”

“Look,” the person fidgets again. They begin to copy her gesture of wringing their own wrist with their spare hand. “I… You have, uh, Mercy? Right?”

 _“H’chak.”_ She smiles instinctively at the sound of his name, her synthetic heart skipping a beat. The sensation is strange but not unwelcome, though it reminds her how badly she misses him when he isn’t present.

“Right. Mercy,” Ivon goes on. “You have… Mercy. You two… You two have—Some kind of—You two have _your_ thing going. Well. I’m over here with everyone else, right? Not part of that thing. But there’s this _other_ thing that might—That I might have wrecked. Completely. Fucking shit over it, god,” they cuss a number of other expletives under breath. “Me and… Well. Me and Maelstrom and Jo. All three of us have been—We’ve been getting along. Friends. It’s nice. It was nice, I mean. Then Jo’s party came and—And—It occurred to me just how fucking gorgeous Jo is,” the human moves to hold their hands over their face, voice becoming muffled.

It looks odd. Sundew doesn’t repeat it.

“She’s—She’s beautiful! And fun! And funny! And brave! And I thought, fuck, maybe—I mean—It’s just something that happens, right? You go from things being completely normal one second to crushing on your former coworker while the three of you are trapped on an alien spacecraft for the rest of your lives! Simple! Normal! Happens to _everyone_ —”

“I do not believe it happens to everyone.” Sundew offers the words neutrally.

Ivon groans behind their hands. “No, no, that’s not—Fuck! Sundew—I didn’t think—Realize—And then we had Jo’s party—And just—She’s amazing, okay? She’s looking out for others, she’s doing what she thinks is right, and then—Then we all get _drunk_ and—I heard you wailing—And—I got Maelstrom—And Mercy—And Maelstrom _babysat_ us—And—”

“I do not recall this.” Sundew blinks slowly. She taps her chin. “This was during the time of flashing colors and triangles. Ah. That makes sense.”

“Sundew!”

“Yes, Ivon?” The Synthetic pauses.

Ivon looks up at her, “I said _things_ to Maelstrom! I said things! _Things_ —And those things—Ruined any friendship—Thing—We had—And I just—Fuck. I didn’t realize how much I… How much I liked having her around. Until I woke up hungover the next day—” their face becomes bright red and they fidget. “I fell asleep against her—Arm. Her arm. She was… She was awake already… Her hand was… Sort of… Lightly… Ruffling my hair. Which is—Which is a kind of—It’s an affectionate thing to do! For humans! Not always _romantic_ —Just—It was nice. It was so nice. It was… She was…” They trail off and shake their head. “I fucked up.”

“I am sure the matter can be sorted once H’chak and Vayuh’ta return from their Hunt,” Sundew slowly nods.

“No, no, that’s the thing! I,” Ivon blurts out, then winces. “I did apologize. And I—I meant it. I meant… I said sorry for being… A creep. Weird.”

“That sounds productive.” She means it sincerely, even if Sundew’s voice imitates a human being sarcastic.

“—Then I told her I don’t have feelings for her. Yeah. Yeah. Which isn’t. Fuck.” The person mumbles. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t… Fuck. I messed up a budding friendship with Maelstrom. And then… Then Jo thinks all of this is because I have a crush on Maelstrom. Which I do—But—But that isn’t the point—Jo keeps bringing it up—I don’t think she knows it reminds me how much I screwed things up between us.”

“Humans have very complicated forms of processing emotions.” The Synthetic offers.

“Yeah. We do.” Ivon holds their head in their hands again. “I’m sorry, Sundew. I go off on these rambles sometimes and I—I take up space. What did you come here for?”

“I wanted to ask if _H’chak_ or _Vayuh’ta_ updated you on their current status.” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “It has been several hours.”

“Sorry. Nothing.” The electrician says.

“Oh. That is,” the Synthetic feels a heavy sensation come over her chest, as if a weight has been dropped with her replica ribcage attached. “That is… It is not unsurprising. _H’chak_ did not specify a time he would return. He and _Vayuh’ta_ will be back soon. I hope.”

A sharp, brisk knocking makes both individuals pause. Ivon’s face pales. Sundew’s eyes are clear, but she knows she attempts to mimic a human’s sight lighting up when she registers the sounds. The Synthetic ignores Ivon’s fumbles to stand up; Sundew walks to the left dashboard and shoots a small electrical charge into it. The cockpit’s massive windowed hatch pops open and slowly folds up and backward, allowing both individuals to see the gloomy gray night sky outside. A flicker of silver pops into view and long legs, both in white boots with laces holding it snug against the calves, swing over the edge of the cockpit.

Sundew finds herself staring at a ‘human’ not unlike her: silver skin head-to-toe, clear eyes allowing the _Kukulkan_ ’s light to permeate the organs and show off the eye sockets, but where Sundew lacks hair on her figure, this entity has hair devoid of pigment, seemingly white, long and thin in texture. Sundew stares at the figure who rises to stand on the cockpit’s edge, balancing and revealing she has tight black shorts and a dress shirt on the top, complete with a riveting red tie. Sundew cannot take her eyes off the woman as she looks from Ivon to Sundew to Ivon again.

“Hello, FLORA.” The woman speaks to her. “It’s been a long time.”

Sundew grabs Ivon and throws them behind her. It happens too fast for her to think; her body reacts beyond her ability to keep track of time. Sundew ignores Ivon’s protest and stares up at the other Synthetic, at _her kind_ , as the woman steps unto the dashboards of the _Kukulkan._ Rain can be heard falling softly behind her, continuing the drizzle from earlier in the night.

“You are not _H’chak_ or _Vayuh’ta._ ” Is the first thing to come to mind, her anxiety spiking when the other Synthetic shakes her head in agreement.

“No. No, I am not. I understand why you would think they would come here,” The woman reaches behind her back to her waist. Sundew stills and Ivon begins to tremble when the woman calmly pulls a pistol out of the back of her waistband. She makes a point of pulling the magazine out and nodding toward the twenty thin, small bullets. They do not look like normal ammunition Sundew has seen in the past, whether it be in person at the research facility or in a memory. The woman loads the gun, turns the safety off, and lifts it in the air but does not point it at the two. “My name is Alma. I will ask for your cooperation once.”

“Alma? Alma as in—” Ivon squeaks and lifts their hands to shield their face.

Alma tilts her head to one side. “I am the President of Stargazer Corporation, Ivon Yurvchik. You are welcome to fear me, but it will not change the outcome decided upon for you by my business partner. He wants you intact. I prefer to deliver up to his expectations.”

“The founder of…” Sundew says softly. She remembers now, from a memory of Miranda Escrow that never quite made sense. ‘Alma’ is listed in the deceased woman’s memories as the first-name-only of Stargazer’s founder and President.

It means Stargazer found them all.

It means Stargazer found H’chak and Vayuh’ta.

Worry fills her gut and she makes a point to stand on tiptoes, arms outstretched trying to shield Ivon from the Synthetic. She never expected to see one of her kind contribute to humanity’s violence toward extraterrestrial life. Sundew hears Alma mimic the sound of a human sighing. She refuses to back down or move away from Ivon, instead calling over their shoulder, “Do not move.” She is not sure what she will do, but she intends to do _something_ to protect them if Alma begins shooting. She narrows her gaze, worry and dislike seeping through her tone when she hisses at the woman. “Where is H’chak? Vayuh’ta? Where are they, Alma?”

“They have been secured. If you value the lives of either you will cooperate.” Alma replies immediately.

Sundew’s arms lower. She stands normally on her feet. Her eyes widen at the implications. “They have been…”

“Secured.” Alma repeats curtly. “Do not make me repeat myself, FLORA.”

“I am not ‘Flora’,” is all she can think of, the rest of her mind reeling as reality sets in and a cold chill runs down her spine. “I am not… FLORA. I am Sundew. I am _Sundew._ Why are you here? Why are you involved with the corporation responsible for imprisoning your own kind?” She feels dizzy.

At the research facility, when she thought H’chak might bleed out and she had to get Doctor Louanne Garcia to help her, Sundew recalls becoming violently angry. She was willing to do anything to keep him safe. She still is, yet part of her feels the sensations of dizziness swarm her senses. Her replicated heart begins to pound wildly in her chest, and it is not because of the pleasant warmth of a Yautja. Her hands twitch. She opens her mouth to speak again, to add to her words, but nothing comes out. Ivon’s hands grip her arm tightly; they are both worried and fearful, a ball of trepidation and anxiety.

The cockpit door opens, mellow voices coming through a moment prior.

“—Do you think he forgot about the hat or did he just lose it?”

“If I knew, Jo—” The doctor freezes the second her gray eyes fall upon Alma’s form.

Jo runs into her, stumbles backward, and utters a curse. _“Louanne—"_

“Shush.” Louanne whispers, face paling whiter than it already is.

Jo catches sight of the second Synthetic, then the gun. She lifts her hands up instinctively, mumbling something under her breath akin to _please don’t shoot_ and _I don’t wanna die_.

“Joan Mackenzie… Arnold did not mention there were three survivors.” Alma’s clear eyes narrow. She adjusts the aim of her pistol to Jo. “Make a case for your life, Joan Mackenzie. You are not needed alive.”

“Alma—” Sundew interrupts before Jo can say anything. She does not know if it the Synthetic or the human parts of her that talk, only that she is compelled to speak, sing, scream, _anything_ to keep Alma’s focus—and aim—on her and _only_ her. She imitates a human exhale when Alma turns her head to look at her, but keeps the pistol aimed at Jo. “We will—Cooperate. I will cooperate. I will do what is asked of me with full compliance. Do not shoot these humans; they did not become involved in myself or H’chak’s affairs by choice.”

“You may lie, FLORA. You are very good at it. You are talented in many things.” Alma says, once more using the name Sundew does not recognize.

Sundew feels her hands begin to shake. She slowly—carefully—extends one hand, using the other to rip back the sleeve of her thermal bodysuit and expose her wrist. “You—We are both Synthetics. You may take my… blood. I cannot lie about what I think in a memory.”

It seems the other Synthetic considers her words, slowly nodding in a stiff and rigid manner. “That is… acceptable.”

There is no pause or delay, only a burst of silver and the sensation of something _ripping_ her from her companions and pulling her to Alma’s side. She gasps as if in need of air, startled both by the raw speed and the amorphous tendrils of silver laced around her torso, pinning her arms to her body. The silver tendrils originate from Alma’s free hand, connecting with her arm as if an extension of herself. It _is_ an extension of herself, Sundew realizes. She finds human panic fills her head when Alma looks down at her, eyes clear yet full of purpose like a predator. Sundew does not struggle or fight back when the woman opens her mouth, revealing unnaturally sharp incisors, and bites into her neck. She shakes and yells in pain, unable to contain her cries while Alma keeps her still and drinks until full. Sundew finds her body slumps when Alma draws back, the latter lost in thought.

The light on the spherical device on her wrist is on, but she does not think it is of her own doing. Sundew feels not like herself. She feels less present than she is a spectator in her current physical composition. She feels clear liquid flow down her neck and dampen her bodysuit. Alma makes a clicking sound in satisfaction, tosses Sundew to the ground unceremoniously, and nods. “You do not lie, FLORA.”

The three humans stare in stunned silence, Ivon visibly horrified while Jo looks aghast. What is initially fear in Louanne’s gaze becomes indignation and anger as she steps forward. “The _fuck_ did you do?”

“Approximately…” Alma pauses, looking away and at the sky outside as if lost in thought. “…sixteen percent critical mass… She is regenerating… This is not common knowledge… Arnold will be pleased by the results…”

“Answer me!” Louanne does not seem to care about the gun, even when Alma lifts it. She stops at Sundew’s side and Sundew feels the woman fumble in her pockets for gauze. She bandages the wound crudely, then stands upright and hisses. “You—You took her blood, didn’t you? You bitch—”

Sundew hears a painfully loud pop in her ears, followed by screaming. Something drops to the ground next to her and she struggles to open her eyes. Her clear gaze falls to where a puddle of crimson is forming from the head of a woman with long black hair pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes widen and she snaps upright. She reaches for the doctor even as someone begins to sob nearby. She does not register she is the one weeping and bawling for several seconds as the Synthetic clutches Louanne to her chest. _“Annie!_ Annie! _”_


	36. FLORA (smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks back to Tucker, and to how she doomed him to a vagabond life off the grid and out of Arnold’s wrath. She cannot protect FLORA the same way. She cannot let FLORA meander freely as a silver figure with no visible eyes. Humanity will notice, humanity will ask questions, and humanity may attempt to contact the Vekin. Humans are already at risk for the Saturn hive’s frenzies. Vekin’s have restraint, yet humanity poses too much new information every day for GHOST to risk allowing the two groups unsupervised contact. It is one of the complexities of the mess, of attempting to preserve the fragile human from the Vekin and Yautja, while keeping the Vekin from the Yautja and human and the Yautja from both prey species.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -death / murder  
> -torture  
> -mention of human trafficking during the phone call with arnold escrow  
> -implied past coercion / rape spoken of during the conversation with arnold and tucker and alma
> 
> almost finished with arc 4! I personally enjoy the part with Guan in this because I get to write a character named 'Nok-Nok' and I think that's beautiful.

They sit in the back of the armored vehicle, hands cuffed in front of them, while the vehicle hums along the road.

They do not know where they are going, or if they will ever see the sun again. When the Synthetic first marches them out—Jo first, them second, and a weeping Sundew third—Alma is quick to inform the two humans they arere returning to work in Stargazer Corporation. Neither human asks questions; Ivon doubts either wants to know. There is a heavy morose weight in the air, weighing on them like the handcuffs digging into their wrists or the manacles around their ankles.

 _I need to stay calm. I got to stay calm. I need to…_ The electrician thinks over and over, head dizzy in the present. They do not know where Sundew is. They last recall being forced into the armored vehicle—something like a van, but longer and with enough plating to withstand a lot of bullets—then they were restrained in their seat. The doors closed quickly after that. The last thing they remember hearing outside is Alma ordering someone to take them and Jo to an airport, a Spanish name though one they do not understand nor recognize. The vehicle drove off before they could get an idea where Alma was taking their friend.

Staying calm is not easy.

They have not been blindfolded, but the darkness of the vehicle impedes their vision enough on its own. There are no windows, only carefully angled slits to allow ventilation. Only the two of them are in the back, and a massive metal divider prevents either from attempting to access the front of the vehicle. Ivon feels their stomach flip in unease as they try and focus on their breathing. They have cold sweat falling down their forehead, neck, and hands. They feel clammy and hopeless, a beguiling despair sinking its claws into their flesh, and with it comes the memories of the _Kukulkan_ again.

Louanne Garcia is dead. The doctor who kept them and the others alive on multiple occasions—even if only to save her own skin, even if she was a bitch through some of it—is dead, a single shot to the head piercing her skull and leaving her bleeding out on the floor. There is no one to save her, no doctor in shining labcoats or scrubs to pick her up and perform emergency surgery. She was the only one on the ship capable of intervening on others, and now she is gone. Sundew is gone. H’chak, Vayuh’ta—Gone. Jo may be gone soon enough. Ivon knows Stargazer wants them alive, and they strongly suspect it has to do with the way they finagle their way with Yautja technology, but they don’t know if the same extends to Jo.

 _I don’t want anyone else to die._ Ivon bites their lip to avoid the sting of fresh tears. They cried earlier, silently, unable to do more than mourn in waves that came and went like a passing breeze. Jo has remained quiet on the car ride, but if she cries the same way then Ivon has no way of knowing in the darkness of the van.

The two are not being taken to the city airport. The drive feels too long for Buenos Aires. It makes sense to Ivon a massive corporation like Stargazer would have its own transportation. They don’t like it. They hate not having enough time to think through things.

“Jo?” Ivon says softly, straining to keep their voice from cracking. They wince as the handcuffs on their wrists dig in deeper.

To Ivon’s relief, the woman replies softly, “I’m here.”

“We’re being taken back to Stargazer.”

“Yeah.” Jo sounds tired, frustrated, _drained_. “Yeah. We are.”

“Louanne’s dead.”

“I know.” Jo’s voice cracks. She hiccups.

“We should—We should think of something to do. We should… I dunno.” They clench their eyes shut and curse softly under their breath. “They… We know they want me alive. I mean. I think they do—”  
  
“That silver bitch can rot in hell.” Jo joins them in spouting quiet, soft expletives.

“Jo—”

“She murdered her, Ivon,” the woman whispers. “Louanne’s dead—She’s _dead_ —That _thing_ —She didn’t even touch the body. Didn’t put her to rest—Her corpse is in that damn ship! And we’re… We can’t even say goodbye. Fuck. Fuck…”

“We need to think about you now.” Ivon offers the words in the same hushed tone. “We need to make sure they don’t do the same to you.”

“I don’t fucking care if they—If they want to shoot me! Go ahead! Like we were ever gonna get out of this mess intact, _fuck_ ,” Jo can be heard stomping her feet against the van floor. “I can’t believe she fucking killed her. Like that. Why—Sundew told that _thing_ she would cooperate! She swore by it! And then she… Then she… Fuck… Why did it have to happen, Ivon? Why did that silver bitch kill her?”

“I can’t answer that—”

“I wish you could! I wish _I_ could!” Jo begins to sob in the darkness.

The van drives for hat feels like eternity afterward. Though Jo eventually quiets down, Ivon knows the woman grieves just as they do. The two of them mourn the life they had slowly built with the human doctor, the life that was fucked to begin with—as much as any life beginning by escaping a nuclear catastrophe on an alien ship could be—but enough of a semblance of normal for them to find comfort in its routines. It was something, more than nothing, and that meant the world to Ivon. They wonder if Jo views it the same way, where what the three had with each other on that snake-like ship is a loss worth mourning.

 _Probably… No. Definitely._ Ivon thinks.

They don’t know what will happen to Jo, but they need to do something. Not for the sake of feelings, but because she is first and foremost their friend and a fellow survivor in the alien-infested world the two now dwell in. They cannot sit idly and let the second Synthetic kill their friend. There must be _something_ they can do, something they can create or fix or _something_ to help. Ivon bites their lip and tries to think, briefly scouring ideas. They imagine the two could deceive Stargazer as having grown close enough for Stargazer to consider keeping Jo around as extortion material for keeping _them_ in line.

It feels degrading, as if they have mentally assigned Jo the role of ‘being a hostage pawn.’ They dismiss the thought immediately. Their thoughts drift back to the events on the _Kukulkan,_ on the brief conversation and tragic demise of the third human in their trio, and to how terribly Sundew wept and bawled and _wailed_ over the death of _‘Annie’_. They do not know the full complexities of the two’s relationship, but they know it felt like real shock, terror, and grief. They hope Sundew is okay, wherever she is.

 _She has a good head on her shoulders. She can… She’ll handle. Herself. Wherever she is._ Ivon tries to reassure themself. They bite their lip. _Jo… How can I help Jo? Support Jo? Keep Jo alive? I don’t want her to die, I don’t… Fuck…_

The van drives over a bump in the road and it shoves Ivon’s right hip against the end of their seat, where another seat begins with an armrest protruding out. They wince as something jabs their right hip, just within the waistband of their shorts. Ivon grimaces at a soft glow coming from their shorts. They hear Jo inhale sharply; they look down and see the screen of Louanne’s tablet turned on.

“You still have that? How?” Jo blurts out in disbelief, but it is better than it being spoken in sorrow.

Ivon cannot think of words to say. They can only sputter, “I—I panicked—Sundew shoved me behind her—I shoved the tablet in my shorts!”

“Of course,” the woman says. “Your first thought was to save the electronic, not yourself.”

“The lock screen’s not on.” Ivon ignores Jo briefly and looks at the edge of the tablet jutting out their waistband. They pause and glance to where they heard Jo’s voice come before. “You think—Maybe—If I got over _there_ —You could help me use it?”

“It’s in your pants.” Jo replies blankly.

“After I—After I get it out of my pants,” the electrician sounds as flustered as they feel. “I—I swear—I’m not—I’m not trying to start anything—I just thought… Maybe… It can receive and send out signals. Kind of. Maybe… Maybe…”

“Who would you signal right now? Mercy?” Jo asks.

They bite their lip. “Stargazer has them both. Mercy, Maelstrom. Fuck. I—I dunno. Maybe… Just… Anyone? Someone? A passing alien ship?”

“What are the chances of a passing alien ship being in close enough proximity to get shit like that?!”

“I don’t know! I don’t—I’m just trying to throw out ideas, okay? I don’t want you to die,” they say the last part with full sincerity and zeal, every bit as desperate to find a way to avoid more death as they are to express how much she’s come to mean to them. Ivon exhales shakily. “I don’t—I don’t want to see more people die. Jo. Not you. Especially not you. Maybe if—Maybe aliens have, I don’t know. An S-O-S signal? Or—Maybe it’ll be hostile and an alien with silver-bitch-immunity will fall from the sky and kill everyone _but_ us. –And Sundew! But us and Sundew. I just—I’m trying to find something that could work.”

“The possibility of it working are so low, Ivon.” Jo’s voice becomes soft.

It makes Ivon wince. “What are the possibilities of me knowing how to do anything with _extraterrestrial_ technology, Jo? I don’t—I need to believe it’ll work. I got to. The only other thing I can think of is me pretending we’re in love and Stargazer taking you hostage to extort work and info from me.”

“You’ve actually. You thought that out.” Jo sounds surprised. The woman begins to chuckle softly. “Well, shit. That’s so—That’s shitty of you, but not in a—Not in a bad way. But damn, that’s a fucking mess of an idea. Do the alien tablet one. Get the thing outta your pants and come over here so I can play with it. Get a nice, hard look at it…”

The way her voice sounds makes Ivon think she begins to grin or smile, having a grand ol’ time making innuendos. The innuendos work; the person begins to fidget and sputter, face lighting up what feels like a million degrees. Ivon bites their lip and looks to the side where the van remains in darkness, _“Please_ don’t say it like that.”

* * *

_“Nok-Nok put a ten min-cycle stay on departure_.” The Elite Kv’var-de at his side growls lowly. _“She asked I kindly inform you, Adjutant. She has concerns about the Echinos’ acceleration drive.”_

 _“Concerns. Ah. I am glad she’s looking out for us.”_ The Adjutant keeps further comment to himself.

Getting _out_ of the docking bay has proven to be a real cjit-show. The five crew members and Ikthya-De are present, but none can board the ship until it finishes physical inspection. The engineer responsible for calling out the need for inspection, a huntress by the name of Nok-Nok, is an interesting woman.

Despite being a reputable huntress with a wide array of trophies, in the past twenty cycles the huntress has sworn off hunting in favor of pursuing the sciences, though Guan recalls a rumor pointing Nok-Nok’s career change to the loss of her legs at the mid-thigh following an emergency landing at the start of a hunt. She is a Yautja with interesting colors, being a potent cobalt blue from her head to her thighs. Her locs are dark green and less coiled than others, possessing only a handful of veritanium clasps and platinum ringlets as flourish. Her eyes, a vicious red, are a sheer contrast to her detached and cold personality. Even as she works on the massive _Echinos_ speedcraft nearby, Guan can see how stiff and rigid she is in her movements and actions. What words he hears her click at others in the docking bay are apathetic in nature, as if she could not care less about the task at hand.

 _“You’re too diplomatic, Adjutant.”_ The Elite shakes his head. _“That’s why you’re Adjutant, ain’t it? Always see the other side of things.”_

The hunter accompanying him on the assignment is none other than a tall, beefy Brawler by the name of _Gry’Sui-Bpe-de,_ Stampeder. He looks the part of his name; the Elite _kv’var-de_ stands at seven-foot-nine, one of the taller men of the Ruthless clan. He is a Yautja with a rugged, bumpy amber pelt, the hue deepening into a murky brown in places along the neck, arms, and legs. His locs, which are twisted tightly and then wrapped around each other in a double twist down the sides of his head, are a deep red and covered in ivory beads. Guan is only a few inches shorter, than he feels small in comparison to muscular, well-toned warrior. He shoots Gry another look just as the latter eyes him; Guan takes care not to flinch at the deep, penetrating black eyes sunk into Gry’s skull. The Brawler has his mask hanging of a clip attached to his armored kilt.

 _“If this trip cuts too deep into the mating season—I will be displeased, Adjutant.”_ The Brawler grunts, crossing his arms. _“I have arrangements.”_

Guan averts his gaze, absentmindedly reaching up to mess with the clasps of his bio-mask. _“If it does, I will compensate you two times the value of your time, kv’var-de. Your assistance in this matter is honorable; I will not forget it.”_

 _“Good, good,”_ Gry is pleased with the offer. He nods avidly. He pauses; his eyes light up and he turns to Guan, voice amused. _“Perhaps, if the trip dawdles too long, it will give me a chance to prove myself worthy of the eligible bearers onboard. Bist’ri and Kwei-Bezas are strong in their own right; they would each give me strong, healthy pups.”_

Guan does not like the idea. His stomach twists uncomfortably when Gry begins to ramble about possibilities, the Brawler surprisingly talkative for an Elite. It is nothing unusual or out of place in Clan Gahn’tha-cte; nudity, procreation, and intercourse are common among the adult Yautja on the clanship, across all genders and sexualities. With the mating season upon the shoulders of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, such discussions are freely spoken, unless the one spoken of is involved in an established life partnership, or not of a consenting age.

But it bugs him. Hearing Gry deliberate on _suitable courtship gifts_ , on what he might say to _woo_ the bearers, it _bothers_ him. He feels a speck of distaste in his stomach grow from a single seed to a churning, militantly opposed monster of a feeling. It is not merely what Gry speaks of, as the man clicks on and on, it is what the Brawler says of _Bist’ri_ that disgusts him. Guan feels all four of his hearts skip beats at the thought; he finds himself first at a loss of words, and then turning to Gry and clicking to get the man’s attention.

 _“Bist’ri will busy tending to our mei-hswei and the ic’jit,”_ The Adjutant is courteous in every click and trill, but it takes Gry aback regardless. Guan feels his hearts race in his head as the Brawler sizes him up. The Adjutant tilts his head to one side, not breaking eye contact. _“Is it not wiser to wait until we return successful? You will be heralded for your work in capturing an ic’jit and treated with the highest of honor for recovering our mei-hswei.”_

 _“Hmm…”_ Gry considers the words. _“—Perhaps—Ki’sei, you are observant, Adjutant! I am glad you are taken by Ikthya-De, or I might take your words as a challenge for Bist’ri’s affections_.” The Brawler’s mandibles click together with laughter.

Guan’s hands tense. He nearly jumps when he hears a soft ping within his bio-mask. A notification comes up onscreen of a new message. The man feels his four hearts stop in unison when he sees who it is from. _This isn’t… right. Normal. I need to relax. Breathe._

He excuses himself from Gry’s conversation and walks to the side, tapping his personal computer on his wrist to open the message as he goes. It is a short question, _‘Time until departure?’_

Guan looks across the docking bay. He spots Ikthya-De standing off by the side, next to where Nok-Nok shouts orders off at different Yautja working on the _Echinos_ ’ fuselage. He enters the command to begin replying, inputting an equally short message to the nurse. _‘Uncertain. Are you alright?’_

The Adjutant stares at his message. His eyes narrow and he erases the latter half of it, rewriting the whole of the message to read, _‘Uncertain. Are you in need of more time?’_

 _‘M-di. Tjau’ke requested my presence in the medical bay. She asked me to give you something. Said it will help with the space lag.’_ It is only text, but Bist’ri’s words come alive in his head. Guan can picture her speaking them as if she is there in the flesh. Judging by her words, she will be back soon enough.

 _‘Ki’sei—Understood.’_ His mandibles twitch, uncertain whether to rise up or draw together in a toothy, jubilant display. Guan exhales slowly and looks back at Gry, who has since moved to begin chatting with Ikthya-De. His hearts grow heavy and he is about to walk to the two when another message pops up.

 _‘Guan’_ is all it says, sent from Bist’ri’s wrist-computer a moment ago.

The Adjutant stares. Heat rises in his chest, spreading over his limbs like a warm wave. His face burns, and though he has an inkling of an idea _why,_ his first instinct is to rebuke it. He tries to quash the heat and warmth, he tries to bury it all inside him, but when he thinks he has gotten an edge over it, when the Adjutant believes he has successfully dissipated the emotions in his chest, he receives another message from the nurse. It reads, _‘Are you alright?’_

The hunter looks back at Ikthya-De. She appears annoyed, zoning out of Gry’s nonsense while simultaneously giving the impression she holds interest in his words. Her eyes feign the light in them, her mandibles twitch and pull at odd angles to impersonate delight, and her hands are just only loose enough not to give away her urge to punch the Elite. Guan looks back at his wrist computer. His hand hovers over the input keys, desperate but unwilling to enter what he wants to say.

 _Are you worried about me?_ He thinks it instead, keeping the words to himself. He ignores how fast his hearts race in his chest, replying to Bist’ri’s inquiry with a quick, _‘Sei-i. Alright, but tired. I want my mei-hswei home.’_

 _‘You will bring him home.’_ Guan cannot tell if Bist’ri speaks matter-of-factly, or if she attempts to encourage him. Part of him hopes for the latter.

He has enough confidence in himself and the ship crew to message back, _‘We will bring him home.’_

_‘Ah, so you do want me there.’_

_‘I did not say that.’_

_‘You didn’t deny it.’_

_‘I didn’t.’_ Guan stares at the words. He quickly ends the electronic communication before the message sends and straightens upright, his orange eyes skipping across the docking bay. When Nok-Nok calls him over with the other engineer—Kwei-Bezas, he remembers—Guan hurries to the two’s side. He maintains a calm and composed posture as he greets both, “Nok-Nok, Bezas. Your assistance in this matter is honorable. Can you explain the problem?”

 _“Acceleration drive is cjit.”_ Nok-Nok remarks _curtly_ , her face now hidden by her bio-mask. She clicks in cold, brittle bursts. _“Ship needs a replacement—”_

 _“I mean… It needs a replacement if we want a guarantee slingshot off Terra when we’re done there.”_ Kwei-Bezas takes control of the conversation, but they are far from the sharp, precise picture of a Yautja engineer Guan has in his head. He squints beyond his mask at them while Bezas waves a hand at the massive speedcraft behind the three. _“I reckon the civilian craft one we got on hand? Yeah, it’d do, but it’ll be messy—Might break when we slingshot from Yautja Prime is what I’m sayin’. Civ crafts ain’t made the way they used to be, pal.”_

Guan stares at the tall figure, slightly taken aback by Bezas’ aloof trills and nonchalance. The other Yautja stands at eight feet, towering over most of the Yautja present across the entire docking bay. For a respected engineer whose knowledge dates back to time served in Gahn’tha-cte’s Miliary Force as a mechanic for the spacecraft used, Kwei-Bezas carries themself with little seriousness. Their pelt is not maintained up to the standards of commonplace Yautja hygiene practices. They have a very dull, washed out yellow hide, and disheveled gray locs in need of repair near their base, where the hair follicles protrude from Bezas’ head. Despite this, all the docking bay attendants treat Bezas with respect, which Guan takes a cue from.

 _“We’ll risk the civilian craft’s drive.”_ Guan decides when Bezas finishes rambling. _“If necessary—The ship can be flown back the long way. It would only add a week on travel time.”_

 _“Ki’sei, captain!”_ Bezas trills merrily.

* * *

Tucker does not know what to make of the short silver figure sitting quietly in the front passenger’s seat. He continues driving on the right side of the road while Alma remains silent next to him. When she inquires about his phone, he clumsily yanks it out of his pocket and passes it off to her, shivering from her cold touch. He returns his eyes to the road. It is not yet dawn, but a half hour from it. There is no radio to play music on; Tucker gets the idea Alma does not care for human music regardless.

When the latter dials Arnold Escrow’s number—he doesn’t question how she unlocks _his_ phone—and it begins to ring, the man doesn’t pick up right away. The number rings thrice more before Arnold’s merry voice comes through. _“Tucker, my boy! How are you doing? Are you and my dearest Alma on your way yet?”_

“Arnold.” Alma’s voice sounds off. She is not calm, in fact, the human driving the vehicle reckons she is nothing short of _furious_ from how her voices seethes with barely controlled rage. Tucker swallows and keeps his eyes in front of him.

_“Oh, is this phone on speaker? Tucker, Tucker, you must warn me in advance of these things—”_

“Louanne Garcia is dead.” The Vekin cuts to the chase, speaking the words as if it wasn’t her who shot and killed her.

Maybe it wasn’t. Tucker is not sure; he acts as the driver and occasional sharpshooter, not a goddamn paparazzi.

On the other end of the line, Arnold falls quiet. His voice, the next time he speaks, is far from it’s relaxed, chipper, and carefree tone. He sounds agitated when he intones, _“Alma… My beautiful Alma… What do you mean when you say Louanne Garcia is dead? You don’t mean Doctor Louanne Garcia, one of the two humans I explicitly told you to leave alive?”_

“You did not tell me FLORA merged with her sister’s consciousness,” Alma hisses into the phone, hands tensing into tight fists in her lap. “Just as you did not speak a word of a second Yautja… As you did not speak a word of there being a ship until I was here… How much could have been discerned had I the opportunity to act within your facilities, Arnold Escrow? If I had drained the first specimen dry when he was brought in—”

 _“Some affairs need to be kept separate, Alma! You know this,”_ Arnold huffs into the speaker. He clicks sharply. _“It is in our arrangement! In fact—I dare say it’s always been in the fine lines of this unspoken contract—You’re responsible for preservation of myself and our species against the Yautja threat—"_

“Arnold Escrow, might I remind you how little semantics means to me? Your inability to share your prized specimen is infallibly asinine, deigned to service your hubris in the knowledge you wield against me. Is that semantic enough for you, Arnold?” The silver-skinned entity picks up the phone and her voice dips in pitch. “I am about to choose whether I hunt you down in the next twenty-four hours and digest you alive. Think about your semantics _carefully.”_

 _“…Alma, darling,”_ Arnold continues with the pet name, either ignorant of her sudden outrage or purposeful in goading it. _“You are aware if either of us perish—So will our company? You cannot run a human company when you are not a human, my sweet Vekin.”_

“You are exploiting my objective.”

 _“As I should! I am a businessman first and foremost—You knew that when we began this wonderful waltz that cold day in the Rockies—Oh, you knew, Alma, you did, and yet here you are pretending I am anything but the devil who dances with a ghost. You are my most prized specimen and partner; I would give up the world to save you…”_ Arnold sighs wistfully a second before grunting loudly and moving closer to the phone peaker. _“I gave you FLORA, didn’t I? Did you have any idea how much it costs to bribe a department of the US government, darling? To pay people to build an egregiously expensive satellite and launch it into space? Time is an investment but the only payout I got from the Cassini-Hyugens were your complaints! Nothing of worth, I’m afraid.”_

“You gave me FLORA’s remains,” Alma snarls at the phone. “Not FLORA.”

 _“I gave you enough. Be happy with it, dear, or you’ll receive a lot less from me in the future. Now, pertaining to the doctor you murdered against my wishes—I will survive without her, but I am taking both Yautja specimens into my custody. And,”_ the billionaire pauses a moment, humming thoughtfully before he chirps at the phone. _“I expect you to make this up to me, darling. A kind gesture, a night out on town—Perhaps a week on a private yacht will suffice. I have a couple interested in experimenting with extraterrestrial life…”_

Tucker’s stomach flips. His mind flashes back to the afternoon spent at the Escrow residence, the very day Alma executed his brother under Arnold’s orders. He recalls how callously Arnold and Alan laughed about the implications of _buying women_ , as if the two were out on a stroll commenting on wildlife and not human beings trafficked to the highest bidder. He had not spoken against them then. Tucker checks the mirrors on the right side of the car, sees no one behind him, and pulls off. The armored vehicle comes to a stop; he ignores Alma’s pause and Arnold’s babblings to snatch the phone from where it sits between both front seats.

“Arnold, it’s me, Tuck,” the man’s heart pounds furiously in his ears, but this time it is not with fear. “I got the phone now.”

_“Tuck? Oh—Tucker, my boy, don’t mind Alma—You know how some women are, simply too much for themselves to handle—"_

“I got a message for you,” Tucker feels sweat drip down his face. He clenches his eyes shut. “Go fuck yourself.”

He hangs up and doubles over, breathing hard and heavily from the adrenaline rush. He hears nothing from Alma for a long time. The two remain in the front of the car, each silent in their own thoughts, until the Vekin in the passenger’s seat offers a neutral, “He is going to destroy your life, Tucker Mason. Arnold Escrow does not forget these things.”

“I know.” The heavy-set man mumbles. He tosses his phone to the floor, leans his forehead against the steering wheel, and exhales softly. “Fuck… I gotta say, the movies make all this shit look easy to pull off… But… Is he what he says true, Alma? About—These yachts, these things about couples and ‘company’ and…” He lifts his head, blue eyes meeting her clear ones. Tucker’s gaze dims. “Is he… Does he do this often, President?”

“It is not the first time.” Alma imitates a human sigh. “But it is… not a matter concerning the faint of heart, Tucker Mason. You are unaware what you have just unleashed on the lives of yourself and your loved ones. Arnold Escrow is not a pleasant man.”

“Why the fuck is any of this happening then? If you think—If you _know_ that, m’am,” Tucker demands the answer, sitting upright and eyeballing her. “This’s all fucked up!”

“It is. Arnold Escrow is, by all accounts of common human morality, a ‘fucked up’ man. But I am… also a ‘fucked up’ entity, Tucker Mason. It is why the two of us mesh,” Alma tilts her head to one side, long platinum blonde hair falling and framing the soft curve of her jawline. “We are not ‘good’ nor will I pretend the actions I have taken have been ‘good’ over these past fifty cycles. Tell me, Tucker Mason,” the Vekin unbuckles her seat belt and cracks her neck. “Do you know who is in the back of this vehicle? Who we are transporting?”

“The—Synthetic—” Tucker clams up when the woman climbs from her seat unto his, effortlessly straddling him while he leans back and balks at her actions. “M’am—Miss President—”

“Her name was once FLORA.” Alma says softly, cupping the man’s face with her hands and caressing his cheek with her thumb. “She was an entity I entered a Cluster with. These words do not make sense to you, but I need you to pretend, Tucker Mason. Pretend they do—"

Tucker opens his mouth to speak but quiets when the woman’s finger rubs his lower lip. His face lights up in heat. He shushes.

“When she landed on your blue planet—Her injuries were so bad she was forced to absorb the remains of over thirty human corpses, all killed instantly in the impact of her ship hitting the ground. There was one human nearby who sought to help any survivors. Her name was Monet Esme Garcia. And FLORA—This powerful, wretched entity who once engulfed an Elder—She absorbed this human woman into herself. She became Monet Esme Garcia in thought and consciousness. She took on her likeness,” Alma leans down to the man’s ear, breathing heavily against it. “And it let FLORA… survive… She is a FLORA herself… A plant grows new leaves when cut off, a seed can sprout new life from a tiny fragment of matter… She has been growing all this time, Tucker Mason. FLORA is regenerating. I do not know how—Yet—”

Tucker struggles to process the words when Alma’s hands drop to his chest. He groans, feeling himself grow hard beneath his shorts. Any thought of Arnold Escrow dies and he slowly, cautiously puts his hands on Alma’s hips. Her tight black shorts expose every inch of cold skin, but for once it does not drive the man away. He finds himself lost in her clear eyes, utterly fascinated by them. He licks his lips and looks at hers, wondering what they might taste like.

“It is not natural… What is happening… The Vekin of Saturn,” Alma whispers against him. “They do not know of this—No one but you and I, Tucker Mason—” She melts in his grasp when he grabs her face and pulls her to kiss him. The man squirms against her cold lips, struggling to take as much as she offers and then some. He is panting by the time she draws away; he can see the gray flush against her face and hear her shallow breaths. “I cannot—I cannot convey the severity of this information in _human_ words.”

“Maybe you should stop talking,” Tucker mumbles, ignoring the numbness spreading over his lips. “For a little while.”

“But someone else needs to know,” the Vekin hisses against him when he begins to unbutton her shirt. “Someone who is not—Who will not tell Arnold—Someone I can trust—"

“You trust me?” His hands freeze and the man draws back, searching the clear eyes—the horrifying empty eye sockets that now call to him—for an answer. He feels Alma run a hand over his head. Tucker shivers in want when her hand returns to his chest and presses over where his heart thuds madly.

“I do not know why I do. You are a human with no knowledge of the stars, the secrets of the cosmos, and but a speck of insignificant matter against this expanding universe—”

“Yeah, not a way to turn a human on,” Tucker can feel himself go soft. He can scarcely hold his gasp when the woman grinds her hips over his groin. Just like magic, he feels himself pop up, ready to go. “Fuck me, I kind of prefer you like this— But,” the man hesitates, hands drawing simple shapes over the Vekin’s ass. “Uh—H-R won’t approve. This is—This goes against so many company policies, m’am—”

“It would,” Alma draws back, stilling briefly as she tilts her head to one side. “How would you like to proceed, Tucker Mason? I will return to my seat if—”

“Fuck, no,” Tucker growls and ignores the way his voice cracks in the middle of it. “Fuck Arnold! He’s practically fired me already—Which means you ain’t my boss-- So fuck you too,” he cannot stand her wearing clothes any longer. The man busies himself with unbuttoning her shirt and tugging at her to pull it off. Then his hand slides to the back of her head and he pulls her down to his lips again, “But in a—A different way—Fuck you. _Fuck_ you. That’s what I wanna do.”

It encourages her to remove the brassiere hiding her breasts. Even in the cramped seat, Tucker finds every moment thrilling as the two work in tandem to remove clothes. The windows on the vehicle are tinted to hide the vehicles occupants, yet whenever someone drives past the two Tucker cannot help but feel a spurt of excitement. He moans when Alma’s hand finds his groin; the Vekin is quick to take his length in hand and caress the head of his cock. Tucker’s hips gyrate up against her grip. He throws his head back and groans weakly, pre spurting everywhere. In a second the man has thrown any other rational thought out the window; he grabs her hips and pulls her unto him in a second. She is wetter than she looks, and _colder_ inside than out. Both individuals cry out for different reasons; Alma pants heavily against him while he moans and starts to thrust.

His hands go to her hips, but it is her who rides him as the two become lost in each other. Alma throws her head back and makes noises Tucker never imagined the usually stoic woman possible of making. He revels in each sound, forcing his hips up and into her with groans of appreciation and hisses from the cold. One hand takes to her left breast while he lowers his head to her other one. She is too gorgeous a creature for Arnold Escrow to keep for himself; Tucker furiously attempts to meet her hips as she bounces on him, leaning against his body and crying out for more. Each thrust fuels the man’s ego, builds the man’s pride, and as he pounds up into her, her cold body and tight muscles inside drag him closer to climax. He feels her contract against him when he drops his hand to her clit and attacks it relentlessly.

Alma squirming, helpless in his grasp, disgustingly aroused and begging for more, it intoxicates him into a frenzy. He licks her neck at first but the man quickly bites into the cool flesh, prompting her to shriek his name in a manner far too pleasing for it to be less than ecstatic. Tucker loses his grip when the Vekin suddenly clenches around his cock; he thrusts past the tightening muscles and humps her furiously. Tucker hisses as his climax takes him. He thrusts through it, willing Alma to do the same. She complies. Alma orgasms impaled by his cock a second later, speaking his full name in a way that makes the man realize he can never look at her any other way again. He grits his teeth and hisses as he slowly stops pumping semen inside her, the heat of the moment barely enough to offset her cold.

Tucker pants against her. He slowly looks up, seeking out her face. The heavy-set man feels his face heat up when she leans forward and kisses him.

“God,” he mumbles against her. “You’re hot. And—My body’s going numb. Fuck, wasn’t expecting to say that—”

It takes a moment for the two to untangle from one another. Putting clothes on is easier once Alma is back in her seat. The two dress and clean up to the best of their abilities, all in silence beyond Tucker’s attempts to make a joke or passing comment. He frowns and looks at her eventually, uncertain of what to say or do. It is Alma who finally clears her throat and states in a voice too forlorn for a Vekin, “I will need your phone.”

“My phone?” Tucker finds it between the two front seats. The man’s blue eyes narrow on her. “We need to get ya your own—”

“Tucker Mason,” Alma says softly. “I am instructed to kill you if you go against Arnold Escrow’s directive.”

“Oh.” Tucker’s eyes widen. He stares at her. “That—Fuck. Please don’t.”

“I will… need you to get out of the car, Tucker Mason,” Alma shuts her eyes. “I cannot force expiration on you, but I will not take you with me. You are an expired man walking.”

“You’re dumping me in Argentina. Again.” Tucker feels exasperated. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “After we just—”

“I am dumping you in Argentina. Again. Yes.” Alma confirms, taking his phone from him. “I cannot stop Arnold Escrow from hunting you, but I can convince him you are expired. He will not harm your loved ones or family if you are considered expired.”

“What about you?” Tucker demands. He reaches for her hand and takes it in both his own. “Alma.”

“I am going to pursue my objective. The preservation of humanity and the Vekin species at any cost. Even if it means taking the life of my own kind,” Alma answers, drawing her hand away from him. “You have been a gracious companion, Tucker Mason. I am sorry I took your brother away.”

“Me too.” The man utters under breath. His blue eyes are a mix of emotions. “That’s fuckin’ it, then. This is where we… Go different ways. Fuck.”

“It will keep you alive a little longer.” Alma states calmly, reverting to her neutral tone.

“Alright.” He feels numb unlocking the car and opening the door. Tucker steps outside. It is sunrise, but the trees and natural terrain block most of the view. He grimaces and looks back at Alma, the latter preparing to move to his seat. “Hey, uh. You… Take care. And all that. Don’t let Arnold Escrow make you do shit you don’t want to do.”

Alma’s lips curve up at the edge, brief but distinct before they settle. She shifts to his seat, adjusts the mirrors, and looks at him. “Do not make the mistakes Arnold makes.”

“What was his first mistake?” Tucker asks, if only to drag out the conversation a little longer.

Alma buckles her seatbelt and turns the car on. She looks at him and tilts her head to one side. “He trusted a Vekin not to betray him.”

“You’re hard not to trust.”

“Goodbye, Tucker Mason.” The Vekin slams the door shut. Tucker moves out of the way. The soft sounds of Argentina’s natural wildlife fill his ears as he watches the vehicle pull unto the road and continue without him.

He puts his hands in his pockets and exhales softly. “See ya, Alma.”

* * *

The phone does not ring; Arnold Escrow picks up immediately. Alma puts the phone on speaker as she drives, her consciousness a million places at once. “—It is done.”

 _“Ah, cutting right to the chase… Rather, what comes after the chase. Thank you, Alma. I always know I can count on you. Will janitorial service be necessary?”_ The billionaire’s voice rings loud and clear through the phone.

The Vekin holds her tongue. She is not meant to be like this, but she is what she is, and she must work with new developments within her physical composition. “—No. I engulfed him.”

 _“My dear, you are dashing. Dashing and a delight.”_ Arnold sings into the phone.

“I am a Vekin, Arnold Escrow.” Alma corrects. “I will see you soon.”

The woman hangs up before she says something she regrets.

She spots a pull-off up ahead, a narrow side road leading to a small rest stop absent of other cars. Alma guides the vehicle off the road and pulls into a parking space, setting the gear to park and pulling the emergency brake before she turns the care off. She holds Tucker’s phone in one hand and ignores the ache in her chest that comes immediately. She opens the driver-side door, steps out, and double-checks keys are in the breast pocket of her shirt before she shuts the door.

She walks to the back, manually unlocks the double-doors, and pulls them open. The silver figure inside is shorter than her and curled up into the corner, unwilling to look when Alma calls her name. The Vekin crosses her arms and stares at FLORA’s back. “FLORA. We need to talk.”

“What is there to talk about, GHOST?” the Synthetic Vekin whispers back, voice numb and heavy. “You took my sister from me. You took Annie.”

“I understand you perceived Doctor Louanne Garcia as your… ‘sister.’ But she has expired. Do not add more bodies to the list,” The Vekin is curt addressing her former companion. “In a moment I will determine whether you require immediate expiration. If you value existence, you will cooperate.”

“What do you want from me?” FLORA turns to face her. Even at the distance, in the lessening shadows of dawn, Alma notes the dry streaks of tears along the silver figure’s face.

“I want an explanation, FLORA. How you are regenerating critical mass. This is unheard of in our hive.”

“My hive.” FLORA asserts. Her clear eyes narrow. “You do not hold allegiance to Saturn anymore.”

“Your hive,” Alma nods slowly. “It is unheard of in your hive and my former hive.”

“I do not have an answer.” The Synthetic Vekin turns her back to Alma once more.

Alma’s gaze narrows. She climbs into the back and strides forward, grabbing the Synthetic by the arm and ripping her from the corner where she hides. She pulls FLORA out of the van and releases her arm, staring down at the shorter, indisputably less powerful creature. “You are unaware the stakes at play here, FLORA. I cannot accept ‘do not have an answer’ as a justified response in these circumstances.”

“Then tell me the stakes. I do not know.” The other Vekin utters softly. She begins to wring her wrists, an unusually human gesture that makes Alma pause.

“You do not remember much of your arrival to this beautiful planet. Do you?” Alma tilts her head to one side. At FLORA’s shake of head, the Vekin imitates a human sigh. “You took many lives in your ship’s initial impact. I am surprised you did not expire in the blast, but that is a testament of strength to who you were—Not what you are now, FLORA. You know what I refer to; you are more human than Vekin. You are a Synthetic variation of your former self. You are not truly FLORA.”

“My critical mass dropped to…”

“It was thirteen upon your initial capture.” Alma says. “You have regenerated three percent in the time since. This spells ill for our kind, FLORA.”

“I do not remember much of our kind.” FLORA stares at the ground. “I did not remember a ‘sequence’ until encountering Vayuh’ta.”

“One of the Yautja?” At FLORA’s nod, Alma pauses. “Ah… Allow me to impose information into your current state, FLORA. The fact you can regenerate demonstrates the possibility of infinite Vekin production. In fact—When you are turned over to Arnold Escrow’s company, I anticipate the first thing he will ask of me is to remove part of your critical mass and attempt to absorb it into my own. He will anticipate the success of this experiment, as I already do.” She sees the Synthetic’s head snap up and look at her. FLORA feels fear.

“I do not care what you do to me—Do not hurt the others.” She has no shame in begging.

Alma knows Arnold will be happy to learn of this. She makes a note.

“Upon successful absorption of your critical mass—I believe my own critical mass will return to one-hundred-percent. I will revert from a Synthetic Vekin to a true Vekin. In this way, you will be viewed as an infinite source of recovery for me, and Arnold Escrow will pursue an agenda with increasing risks. He sees capital in this regeneration; he is a businessman at heart. But humanity is not a threat to the Vekin. Humans are fascinating, weak creatures. They can outwit us and others, yet they remain restrained to short lifespans and fragile physical compositions. Do you know who the Vekin should fear, FLORA?”

“Yautja.” It pleases Alma internally to hear the Synthetic say such a thing.

She slowly nods, satisfied. “The Yautja are our hunters. I cannot risk this information getting to them. I do not believe you remember this—But the Yautja once hunted our hives and reduced our numbers to what they are today. We were not hard meat, but we were worthy prey without a consistent means of production. Approximately five-hundred cycles ago, a dissention campaign began across the hives to convince Yautja our species evolved into weaker creatures incapable of combat or physical prowess.”

“The Images. The _Im-Gen._ ” FLORA’s eyes are big, looking not at Alma but zoning out completely from her surroundings.

“Correct.” Alma purses her lips. “The Images… Weak, futile creatures who cannot hold their own… Slow shifters… Unable to change from their silvery form, limited in functionality and as soft as the soft meat of _Terra_ … Your… regeneration… It does not bode with that image. It does not line up with the information forced into the ships of Yautja clans.”

“Forced into… You cannot get onboard a Yautja ship easily. They are capable hunters—”

“FLORA…”

“How did you alter existing information? Surely—Someone would have noticed. Do you lie to me, GHOST?” The Synthetic watches her.

Something about being questioned on information, on _knowledge_ , she reluctantly parts with makes Alma feel colder than her body is. Her gaze narrows and she strides forward, her left arm seamlessly turning into a blade while her right grabs the Synthetic by the throat. She feels FLORA freeze initially but when Alma lifts FLORA off the ground, the latter begins to click and claw at her arm. Electrical charges follow, but it is nothing she has not handled before. Alma stares the Synthetic in the eyes as she silently impales the entity. The screams are loud and obnoxiously human; Alma ignores them and pushes her hand in deeper until FLORA is a writhing mess of pain in her grasp. She lets the blade penetrate through the composition, into the innermost core where the liquid state of the Synthetic Vekin is a fluctuating mess of temperatures.

Alma cuts out mass equal to _approximately_ four percent. She absorbs it into herself, retracts the blade, and allows it to shift back into a hand while she drops the Synthetic on the ground. FLORA curses and cries softly, clutching her side and curling up into a ball at Alma’s feet. “I said—I said—I will cooperate—I will—”

“Ah… This is nice.” The Vekin inhales deeply, ignoring the pained Synthetic’s words. She smells for the first time in decades—The sweet aroma of Earth’s earth, the putrid scents of a rest stop in need of washing, the odor of new leather coming from the car… It is pleasant. It feels right. It is who she is, a Vekin, a hive-kind, an impeccable creature capable of so many things FLORA has yet to understand. GHOST turns her attention back to FLORA; she kneels at the latter’s side and reaches for her head. GHOST forces the Vekin to look up at her, gripping her chin roughly with one cold hand. “Watch me, FLORA.”

It only takes a moment for the Vekin’s skin to shift in pigmentation, cycling through many colors including those beyond the variations found on Earth. Alma settles with a pale, mint green, and she shifts her eyes from the clear organs to a seemingly opaque gaze of deep maroon. FLORA grits her teeth and hisses at her. “How—How can we—”

“You are the remains of FLORA. A weak, increasingly human remains of FLORA. But you can regenerate, and you can let me do _this_ … Do you see, FLORA? Do you see me? This is what we are—Entities who use the flesh of others, who carve out new shapes, new forms, and new variations to blend in with our opponents. I do not know how many of us exist—But once many, many cycles ago—We took the steps necessary to ensure the Yautja did not view us as worthy prey. We did that,” GHOST’s form shifts, this time taking on a ghoulish white hue with matching white eyes, no irises, pupils, or retinas, and long, curling white hair. “The Yautja—If they discover you—They will farm Vekin from your body. They will use us as domesticated prey… It disgusts me to think of us in that manner. Surely it disgusts you as well, FLORA? You are Synthetic, yet part of you remains Vekin.”

“I…” FLORA’s eyes clench shut. “I agree with—It. With what you say. GHOST.”

GHOST drops her chin. “The complexities of preservation are damning to dissect, FLORA. Yet—It is my objective. I will do what is necessary to preserve humanity from Yautja and Vekin, and preserve Vekin from the throes of Yautja and humans like Arnold Escrow. But it means—I must do things I do not agree with. I must make sure our species has a future in the stars.”

She looks over her former companion once again. FLORA looks utterly pathetic on the ground, not even bothering to stand as GHOST watches her struggle to heal her injuries. It is not enough to kill her physical composition, GHOST knows the anatomy of human compositions very well, but it is enough for FLORA to remain a useless pile on the ground. GHOST’s white eyes narrow after a long moment. Given the time surpassed, it will take cycles for FLORA to achieve full Vekin status. In that time, GHOST knows Arnold Escrow will find a means to uncover the regeneration. In fact, she _knows_ he will put two-and-two together the second she shows up as GHOST and not Alma. The Vekin questions what is the necessary step to take.

She thinks back to Tucker, and to how she doomed him to a vagabond life off the grid and out of Arnold’s wrath. She cannot protect FLORA the same way. She cannot let FLORA meander freely as a silver figure with no visible eyes. Humanity will notice, humanity will ask questions, and humanity may attempt to contact the Vekin. Humans are already at risk for the Saturn hive’s frenzies. Vekins possess some restraint, yet humanity poses _too_ much new information every day for GHOST to risk allowing the two groups unsupervised contact. It is one of the complexities of the mess, of attempting to preserve the fragile human from the Vekin and Yautja while keeping the Vekin from the Yautja and human and the Yautja from both prey species.

There is one solution. She finds it comes slowly, like a heavy weight falling across her form. But she is hungry for knowledge, and she needs to understand the process of regeneration. Likewise, she must take action to ensure neither human nor Yautja obtain the knowledge FLORA’s critical mass and consciousness contains. She cannot risk her former companion’s prolonged existence.

“I am sorry.” GHOST says, ignoring the look of confusion that follows on FLORA’s face before the Vekin severs the physical composition’s head from body.

FLORA’s form collapses immediately on the ground. GHOST is quick to throw it and the head into the vehicle once she finishes prying the slippery, liquid mass of _FLORA_ out from the physical composition. She is forced to extend her height to make room for the mass, abruptly going from six-foot-one to six-foot-eight in stature, but in the end, she is herself. She is GHOST. She is Vekin. FLORA's critical mass is absorbed into her system.

GHOST picks up Tucker’s phone and dials Arnold’s number. She has news for him, and she knows he will not be pleased to hear it.


	37. open to teasing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You did not deny my statement. Hm,” a thermal signature moves in front of him and Guan’s body goes rigid when he feels a gloved hand press against his cresting forehead. The hunter holds his breathe the entire time, up until Bist’ri retracts her hand and tilts her head to one side. “Your body temperature is not above average for a hunter your age. You are not sick. Does s’pke make you open to teasing?"
> 
> “Perhaps you’ve been growing on me, Adjutant Bist’ri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is looking like Arc 4 needs 2 more chapters to wrap up, but I might try to squeeze it into one.

The seats in the _Echinos_ are built for high-speed travel. Within the central fuselage, the seats of co-pilots and passengers fall back enough to lock the individual flat against the floor of the Echinos. It is not a dignified look, but it prevents the force caused by slingshotting off a planet’s gravitational pull from smashing into the body. With the ship orbiting Yautja Prime, the only thing left is to receive the go-ahead to perform the maneuver. Guan finds that, as time drags on, his nerves grow. He sits between the two engineers, Nok Nok and Bezas, with Ikthya-De directly behind him. Having her close makes him nervous, but Guan knows she is as strapped to the ‘seat’ as he is, body pinned in place by automatic compressions.

The only way to communicate is through the communications relay, each Yautja’s bio-mask hooking directly into the _Echinos_ and linking with one another. While it has its advantages, the fact it links six individual Yautja together means no conversation is private. It keeps Ikthya-De quiet, but it forces Guan to overhead the nonsense spouted by one engineer.

 _“—We are heading to Terra… Right… Hmm… You know—Nok Nok—Terra’s got oomans,”_ Bezas voice is faintly slurred, but Guan cannot recall the Yautja consuming any intoxicants prior to departure. _“You know what oomans are good for?”_

 _“Nothing.”_ It is Gry who interrupts, sounding dangerously aggravated. _“Pyode amedha are inferior prey; disgusting creatures.”_

 _“Terrible guess, Gry’Sui, and ya wrong,”_ the engineer’s voice rises in volume and pitch. _“Oomans know jokes! Many jokes! Many, many jokes, wow. I got a joke for you, Nok Nok. It’s a real classic—”_

 _“Uninterested.”_ The second engineer sounds cold as ice.

 _“Oh, c’mon, Nok Nok—You can’t leave me hangin’ like this! It could be the only time I ever get the chance to… To tell ooman jokes. To you. To tell you the ooman jokes.”_ Bezas begins on a long tangent full of bemoaning complaints. It makes Guan twitch where he is locked into his seat.

 _“If you cannot behave honorably, I will have you pulled from this mission and ask Leader Daga for someone else to be sent in your place.”_ Guan opts to cut into the conversation before Gry gets too annoyed. The Adjutant hears Bezas quiet down, but the latter still mumbles under breath about the injustice of it all. Guan’s orange eyes dim. He looks up, the cockpit window visible from where his seat has him strapped to the ground. Beyond it, only the enthralling sight of stars and space greets his eyes. Occasionally, tiny gleams of metal in the distance pop by to alert him to another ship passing and entering Yautja Prime’s atmosphere. The planet itself is slightly out of view from how the _Echinos_ tilts and turns.

It is a beautiful sight, one of the many wonders the cosmos holds. Little can come close to the sheer exhilaration of the universe, with only Hunts coming to mind. Guan relaxes as he watches the stars in the distance, notes the galaxies millions of light years off, and finds a sense of tranquility in his place in the universe. _Cetanu bless us all with success in our Hunts, with Honor and glory in equal combat. May the Paya watch over us all._

 _“Remember to breathe before we slingshot,”_ Bist’ri advises. _“And after—Or the compressions will be cjit.”_

 _“You’ve done this before, Bist’ri?”_ Gry speaks with sincere interest. _“I expect no less from Honorable Tjau’ke’s Adjutant! Tell us of your Hunts—Regale me with your stories.”_

 _“I—My hunts? I don’t consider them impressive—"_ Bist’ri sounds _flustered_. It takes Guan aback. He’s seen her put on the spot before, even putting _herself_ on the spot before the Elders and Leader Daga. He does not expect to hear her sputter at Gry’s words, nor does he know what to say or think when heat creeps into his abdomen at how much he enjoys hearing her in that way.

Her flustered clicks and chirps rile something up in him. Guan feels shame, but he cannot ignore how the thought of her being like that in response to _his_ words and actions appeals to him _._ For a moment, the Adjutant zones out, lost in a mental image of the nurse beneath him, flushed and unable to speak properly while he slowly claims her for himself. The heat spikes in his groin; Guan hisses silently and fights back the intruding thoughts. It is a slippery slope, one which cannot happen, but it calls, it _tempts,_ and the next time his mind pictures it, he envisions the cry in her voice that is sure to come when he takes her. She would submit to him—only him, Guan cannot stand the thought of Gry having her—and by the end of the first night cycle, the nurse would understand just how passionate an Elite _kv’var-de_ can be in the throes of a bedchamber.

 _Cetanu help me._ The Adjutant drags himself out of his stupor. He feels the head of his cock push against the sheathe, yearning to be free and fulfilled. His groin throbs terribly at the lack of contact. _This is not acceptable! For an Adjutant! For a paired Yautja! Get ahold of yourself, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan!_

Guan feels the _Echinos_ begin to tilt and one engine activate to propel the craft closer to Yautja Prime’s yellow atmosphere. It is an indication the craft prepares to slingshot; the maneuver has been approved. He calms himself and focuses on the conversation instead of his runaway thoughts.

 _“—You have a Queen in your collection?”_ Gry’Sui continues throughout this.

 _“I—Not the head. Skull. I lack the th’Syra,”_ the way Bist’ri speaks of it gives Guan pause. She sounds uncertain of herself, far from the capable nurse he _knows_ she is. _“I have four of its talons. My—My mei-hswei and— my mei-jadhi—they claimed the rest of the body in their time. Rightly—Rightly so. I did not do much against the Queen.”_

 _“M-di, m-di—To take down a Queen jointly is still worthy of honor, Bist’ri,”_ Gry’Sui insists. _“I am surprised you have not taken a mating partner for this coming season… Your womb is a desirable place for many a Yautja’s seed. I counted no less than four Elites considering vying for the right to breed you this season—Yet, as I understand it, you continue to reject offers. What is worth your time in a bedchamber, honorable Adjutant Bist’ri?”_

 _“As Tjau’ke’s Adjutant, I am too busy assisting her and others to consider bearing pups myself. Your comments are… appreciated but misplaced,”_ to Guan’s relief—he lets out a breath he was not aware he was holding—Bist’ri is quick to dismiss the man’s advances. _“I am not taking mates this season. My work is too important—”_

 _“That’s not the reason.”_ Ikthya-De trills loudly, cutting the woman off. _“Bist’ri, why don’t you tell Honorable Elite Gry’Sui the real reason for your abstinence?”_

 _“My work as Adjutant—”_ The nurse begins to snap but Ikthya-De’s laughter takes Bist’ri aback.

 _“Lying is dishonorable, Bist’ri,”_ Guan’s mate clicks and trills with amusement, but there is nothing kind in her words. Ikthya-De pauses a moment before she declares, loudly, intentionally so for all to hear, _“She’s never been seeded. She has yet to allow anyone to pauk her—"_

 _“Ikthya-De! You will cease these disrespectful remarks before I have Nok Nok return you to the clanship!”_ Guan snarls into the communications relay, the growl much louder and reverberating than intended. He feels only disgust, any wanton daydreams dissipate in a second, driven away by Ikthya’s blatant violation of privacy. The Adjutant seethes where he lays. He does not bother to be quiet as he voices just how deeply he loathes the woman, _“You disgust me beyond honorable words, Ikthya-De—"_

The _Echinos’_ engines begin to blast. The ship enters the arc of the slingshot. Intense pressure hits his head and limbs, but Guan can only focus on how furious he feels at that moment. He is happy to let Ikthya-De have _him_. He is happy to let the woman torment _him_ for eternity if it means she will leave others in peace. But she is not happy with only _him_ , she is not happy bashing _his_ head in or breaking _his_ bones, she is not happy having _him_ as her toy—Ikthya-De wants more than that. Ikthya-De wants to torture and kill innocent sirers fresh from their _chivas._ Ikthya-De wants to humiliate nurses who have been nothing but honorable to her. She is sadistic, she is cruel, and she dwells and thrives on the suffering of others. Guan will not tolerate it; he cannot stand by and do nothing while the rest of the world watches.

 _I volunteered to protect you because in ka’rik’na no one else would, and I find that unacceptable._ Bist’ri’s words repeat in the man’s head, whisking away his anger and replacing it with a heart-pounding realization. His chest tightens and all four of his hearts beat wildly in his head.

 _Pauk._ He grits his teeth and twitches his mandibles behind his bio-mask. _Emotions… Changes in the chemicals of the brain… Why can’t this be easier to attack? Something tangible, like hard meat or—Something that doesn’t have me thinking dishonorable thoughts! Dishonorable dreams. Bist’ri is not… She is not my life mate. She is blue. She is… Pauk._

His thoughts are interrupted, not by his abomination of a mate, or even by Gry’Sui’s incessant advances toward Kwei-Bezas, but by the sudden activation of the acceleration drive. The _Echinos_ completes its arc around Yautja Prime and, gaining velocity and increasing speed from the planet’s gravitational pull, shoots off into space toward _Terra._

* * *

Approximately two hours into the flight, the compressions built into each seat slowly cease their monstrous grip. The Yautja’s seats slowly bend at the middle and return to a conventional chair position. Guan’s stomach does small flips. He resists the urge to heave, finding solace in the fact Ikthya-De appears as sick as he does. The first thing he does is sit up and stretch his arms and legs, as do all other Yautja onboard. Guan does not relax until he has worked out the knots in his muscles, by which point he has chosen to shove all the heresy of the earlier hours to the back of his mind.

At the front of the ship, Nok Nok remains prime and seated upright, reviewing controls and carefully altering the course of the _Echinos_ to ensure the smoothest route possible. Next to her, Gry’Sui is in the middle of listening to Bezas talk their ass off. The Elite seems genuinely interested in what the latter has to say, though Guan knows the hunter’s intentions are very clear to everyone else onboard the ship. Already in one of the cabins, Guan puts the thought of Ikthya-De retching her guts out far from the present. His own stomach remains queasy and uncertain; he looks around and finds the locker assigned to him for his trip. Guan manually inputs a sequence into his wrist-computer, then watches the locker unlock as the synced electronic sends the command directly into the craft’s interface.

He pulls a thermos of hot liquid from within, uncapping it and letting the heavy odor of fruit stew, _s’pke_ , reach his olfactory receptors. The smell is so strong and pungent it permeates his mask. Guan relaxes in the aroma. He unhooks tubes from the side of his mask and sets the bio-mask down. His mandibles spread but despite his best efforts, the Adjutant manages to spill fruit stew down his chest. He chugs it anyways, ignoring the looks he _knows_ at least one Yautja on board gives him. The fruit stew helps settle his stomach, familiar flavors of sweet melding with savory in pristine harmony. He sighs and cups the empty thermos after.

 _“It’s better to eat that slowly—It’s quite rich, Tjau’ke had me running the markets for a week cycle to get every ingredient fresh from Gahn’tha-cte’s cargo holds. Apparently, she’s been plotting to make it for you for a long time.”_ Bist’ri’s voice is not unwelcome. In fact, it is the _opposite_ of unwelcome, a fact that both startles Guan and sparks an internal conflict within himself. He does not look up when the Yautja walks over where he sits in his seat. From her thermal signature, he can see she stands relatively relaxed. It comforts him to know she has not suffered long term harm from Ikthya-De’s words.

 _“Tjau’ke is… A kind Yautja. Stern, but kind.”_ Guan clicks in response, careful in his choice of words with Bezas and Gry’Sui nearby. _“In retrospect, it would have been honorable to save and offer you some.”_

 _“She made it for you, not me. To help with the space lag.”_ Bist’ri’s mandibles click together in amusement behind her bio-mask. It is a fetching and fascinating mask on her, with ripples along the edges of the metal alloy, as if waves have impacted the metal as it cooled during forging. There are deep grooves running vertically from the ridge above both eye visors all the way up to the top of the mask. In a way, the markings on the mask force someone to look back at the visors, as if Bist’ri _demands_ eye contact in discussion.

It is easy to keep eye contact when the full spectrum of a bio-mask is not used. Guan keeps his mask off, purposely unwilling to don it and risk making genuine eye contact with the blue Yautja nearby. He has zoned out once before; he will not dishonor Bist’ri by doing it again.

 _“This recipe,”_ the thought flutters to the surface of his head. He glances at the closed, empty thermos in his lap. _“…It is… It belonged to my bearer. I remember her making it for me as a Suckling, then as an Unblooded.”_

_“Did Tjau’ke’s cooking do your memories’ proud?”_

_“It is… acceptable,”_ he nods slowly. _“You should ask Tjau’ke to prepare it for you in the future. You would enjoy the flavor.”_

 _“Ah, so Daga’s Adjutant wants me to try his bearer’s food…”_ Though it is said jokingly, it still manages to make the man’s hearts start racing again.

His eyes dim. He looks at the thermos, unwilling to so much glance at Bist’ri’s heat signature with his face violently flushing a warmer gray. _“It is Tjau’ke’s cooking now.”_

_“—But your bearer’s recipe.”_

_“That is… true.”_

_“You did not deny my statement. Hm,”_ a thermal signature moves in front of him and Guan’s body goes rigid when he feels a gloved hand press against his cresting forehead. The hunter holds his breathe the entire time, up until Bist’ri retracts her hand and tilts her head to one side. _“Your body temperature is not above average for a hunter your age. You are not sick. Does s’pke make you open to teasing?"_

 _“Perhaps you’ve been growing on me, Adjutant Bist’ri.”_ The Elite clicks back immediately, his entire body on fire and hyper-aware of the distance between the two. He ignores the annoyed click Bist’ri gives him for using her title. Guan feels his damp mesh stick to his pelt. He grimaces, opting to put the strange discussion with Bist’ri to rest by focusing on something else. The Yautja stands and slowly puts his bio-mask on, but with the full spectrum optic system on, he goes out of his way not to look at her. _“I need a clean mesh. And—To clean my armor.”_

 _“This is why you don’t chug s’pke.”_ Bist’ri shakes her head. Guan watches her walk away from his peripheral. He stands and moves to his personal locker. A clean thermal mesh is hard to find; it appears the one thing he forgot to include in the supplies list was his preferred mesh bodysuits. He begrudgingly stands up, about to turn and grab an old but intact one from the small armory included inside the _Echinos_ , when fabric brushes against his arm.

Guan turns around and finds Bist’ri extending a folded mesh suit to him. His eyes slowly trail up. All the work the Adjutant’s done not to stare at her goes out the window as his gaze locks on her mask’s visors. He offers a quick, _“Thanks.”_

 _“If that dries, it’ll be a pain in the ass to clean up later. Mesh may need to be thrown. Best get it off quickly.”_ Bist’ri clicks, calm and steady.

She does not feel calm and steady when Guan’s gloved hands skim her own in taking the mesh suit. He feels the tension in her fingers when he accidentally brushes her forefinger with the clawtip of his thumb. It is not intentional, but it happens, and for a moment the Adjutant struggles to remember he is on a _ship,_ on a _mission,_ surrounded by witnesses _and_ his damn life partner, to whom he is sworn to. He reminds himself certain things are not possible. When he pulls the mesh back, Guan feels a sense of loss. The brief second of physical contact feels like a blessing of the Paya, only for the deities to spit on him by making him end it so soon. 

He can admit to himself she has a charm to her. More than a charm—She has _resolve._ Tjau’ke’s Adjutant has a strong and capable spirit with vivid green eyes and unnaturally smooth skin. Her resolve is not in her appearance, but in her decisions and her desire to stand behind them. He knows why she possesses a magnetic draw to her. She has a resolve he understands—One of a stark defiance against the unjust and dishonorable in the world, of actions where others refuse to do more than blink. _That_ is what he likes about her, though everything else adds to his initial consensus.

 _This cycle—Mating season will be difficult to manage._ His orange eyes darken at the thought. He will have to take care of himself. Already, Guan is acutely aware of certain hormonal shifts brought on by his body preparing to enter the mating season. If Ikthya-De picks up on his strained efforts, she may double hers tenfold to ensure he cannot find any relief.

 _“Guan.”_ Bist’ri interrupts his thoughts. _“You have a cabin to change in.”_

 _“I do.”_ The Adjutant agrees. He nods once more at the blue Yautja before walking down the central corridor of the _Echinos_ ’ fuselage. The cabins are small things on the far end of the fuselage, closest to the cargo hold and the make-shift containment cell.

Guan can still hear Ikthya-De retching in her cabin by the time he enters his. It does not take long to strip himself of his armor and throw on the new mesh. Though it conforms to its size, its age is indicated by the slow pace at which is stretches to accommodate his rippling muscles. Guan tenses and grimaces at the way the fabric clings to him. He has no choice but to use it; the Yautja reemerges with clean armor twelve min-cycles later, once more donned and ready for combat. He returns to his seat to find Ikytha-De looking sickly but back in her seat. Bist’ri sits idly in hers, occasionally offering Bezas a passing comment as the latter goes on and on about the great technological wonders of the _Echinos_.

Gry’Sui’s ability to look interested—perhaps he truly is—is commendable.

“How far out are we?” Guan asks as he strides to the front of the cockpit, stopping at Nok Nok’s side. The others in the cockpit fall silent, with Bezas whistling softly when Guan passes them.

“One hour to reach jump point. We will be at Terra before the day is over.” Nok Nok is apathetic in her words, yet Guan finds himself appreciative anyways. He nods at her. Nok Nok tilts her head to one side but does not look back or up at him. _“Your suit is too small.”_

_“It adjusts—"_

_“The others are staring because it is too small. The internal structure responsible for allowing the mesh to conform to your body type has worn down with age…”_

_Staring…?_ He freezes and looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, Bezas, Ikthya-De, and Bist’ri look at him from behind their masks. His face heats up and he faces forward. It has been so long without sincere attention from a bearer that he does not know how to respond. Guan clears his throat. _“Will it be a problem in combat?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“Then ignore it.”_ The Adjutant utters softly. _“I’ll find a new one after we recover our mei-hswei.”_

_“Ki'sei.”_

* * *

The jump from the first star system to the second is completed in exactly forty-nine minutes. Though Bezas begins to slide through an explanation, Guan clenches his eyes shut and zones them out, attempting to calm his stomach from the onslaught of returning nausea.

He hates space travel.

* * *

The _Milky Way_ system has beautiful, intricate planets. Though Guan can only catch glimpses as the _Echinos_ barrels past them, the look at Neptune and Uranus makes him gawk at their beauty. It does not pass on him how much the deep, cool colors of Neptune and soft, seafoam hues of Uranus are reminiscent of the nurse onboard. Nor does the thought pass by any other Yautja in the spacecraft, as Gry’Sui is loud in declaring over the linked communications relay, _“Honorable Adjutant Bist’ri—These planets remind me of you. Strong and noticeable—”_

 _“Those words are not flattering like you want them to be, kv’var-de.”_ Bist’ri retorts briskly. _“Judge me on my skill, not on my appearance.”_

* * *

Saturn, the home of _Im-Gen_ , passes by without comment.

* * *

Jupiter is a small orange speck, far from the ship when the _Echinos_ flies by. Guan does not expect comment on the gas giant, but Bist’ri’s voice comes through, _“What a beautiful planet… Orange like a burning flame… Jupiter.”_

 _“I’ve been called ‘Jupiter Eyes’ before.”_ Guan remarks quietly. _“Orange eyes are… Not as exciting as the planet.”_

 _“The planet ain’t exciting, honestly,”_ Bezas chirps. _“Jupiter’s one of ‘em… big ol’ gas giants. Nasty storms there. Not even the… What ya call ‘em? Kainde amedha! They don’t survive the temperature shifts. Useless for hunts.”_

 _“Your opinions are subjective.”_ Bist’ri clicks in response. _“I for one find Jupiter a fascinating planet. Gas giants are said to be home to the Im-Gen. We have documented life on Saturn, but what of Jupiter? The possibilities are enthralling, Bezas.”_

Kwei-Bezas huffs loudly. _“For you. I prefer… not Jupiter.”_

_“Aren’t you a scientist?”_

_“On occasion. Right now, I’m a paukin’ engineer.”_ Laughter follows, primarily from Bezas, but Guan can overhear the clicking mandibles of Gry’Sui. He does not offer input, too busy pondering whether Bist’ri’s opinion of Jupiter extends to orange eyes.

* * *

Ikthya-De does not say a word on the planets. When the compressions on the seat release and allow the Yautja freedom of movement, having since had to activate due to the earlier jump and subsequent passing of the Milky Way’s asteroid belt, Ikthya-De staggers to her feet. The woman’s anger comes in waves, each as silent as the rest but infinitely _noticeable_ to Guan. He does not miss how her attention has become transfixed on the nurse onboard. His own hands tense and he stands upright under the guise of stretching.

That is when he smells it: the fertile, intoxicating _n’dui’se_ of a bearer in heat. It is a strong odor, easily making him freeze in place while his brain swarms to get his bearings. It is easy to note when the scent reaches the other Yautja, with Gry’Sui visibly tensing and flexing his burly physique. The latter looks around the cockpit, finds Ikthya-De leaving, and settles back in his seat, disappointed but not surprised. Guan finds it peculiar to see Nok Nok shudder where she remains at the front of the ship. In the distance, he hears one of the cabin doors opening; Ikthya-De has retreated to her quarters.

 _“So, it comes early this year,”_ Bist’ri’s soft clicks draw his attention. Guan peers at the Blue Yautja, who chirps in an even softer voice, _“Here I thought it might wait until we were back at the clanship. Yautja physiology is inconvenient only in reproduction… The rest of us will follow suit shortly.”_

Guan takes a long, slow, _silent_ inhale of air. He is careful not to be noticeable about it as his brain processes the different odors present in the room. Though some Yautja begin to emit arousal at Ikthya-De’s _n’dui’se_ , it does not last long, and Bist’ri is not one of them. Guan is startled to find the nurse does not possess the mating _n’dui’se_ at all. She is absent in that regard; her heat has yet to begin. The internal disappointment he feels at the fact makes Guan stiffen and color drain from the scales of his face; part of him had hoped that, somehow, perhaps the nurse was already in heat, and _that_ prompted his lewd thoughts of the previous hours.

 _No. Do not brush off responsibility for your thinking, Adjutant._ He scolds himself in his head, his mental voice a series of ice-cold clicks and harsh syllables. _You thought of Honorable Adjutant Bist’ri in a nature unbecoming the Adjutant of Honorable Clan Leader Daga. This is… This is your fault, Guan. Pauk. I am shameful. I should not think these thoughts. I need to get her out of my head._ His body is a mess of throbbing heat by the time he reaches his cabin. He is quick to duck inside and lock the door behind him. He needs relief.

Guan’s face burns of shame while he retreats to the washroom and ducks into the alcove for the shower. He begins removing his pauldrons, chestpiece, and kilt. He strips himself of modesty wrappings and pulls the mesh body suit off his arms, down his chest, and to his thighs. Guan inhales shakily behind his mask. He has not dared think of anyone in such a lewd manner for cycles, too engrossed in fear and apprehension of his mate. Ikthya-De’s grip on him is lesser than it was, but it still digs _deep_ , and even as he lets his body settle against the wall and his bare hands drift to his groin, unease sends shivers through him.

 _Just for relief. Just for relief._ He repeats the words to himself, the pad of his fingers pressing against the hard cartilage of his sheathe. The Adjutant acknowledges his shame in a long, slow hiss as he lets his thoughts drift to where he _wants_ them. He thinks not of Ikthya-De, the Yautja he swore himself to in a life partnership, but of a huntress and bearer with unfathomably smooth skin, of beautiful blues and white splotches, of eyes as deep and green as the richest, verdant forest—The Adjutant swears loudly as he feels the head of his cock unsheathe. His groin throbs in pain and he grabs at himself, fingers grazing the head of his shaft. Pleasure boils inside him and spurs his thoughts in a lewder direction.

 _“Pauk—Pauk, Bist’ri_ ,” the man clenches his teeth and growls as his cock slowly emerges. His hands grip the shaft; he pumps his hands up and down his cock as he imagines the nurse beneath him, her body askew with a sheen of sweat. The Adjutant imagines the twitch of her mandibles, the glow in her cheeks, and the way her body engulfs and sucks him in when he first penetrates her. He imagines the sound of her cries, her pleads, her _begging,_ and the throbbing in his groin picks up. He howls weakly and throws his head back against the wall, hips trying vainly to thrust into his hands. _She’d be so warm—Tight—Beautiful! Pauk! Pauk!_

A jolt shoots through him like lightning. He is helpless now, lost in the throes of touching himself to the thought of another beyond his mate. Guan’s breathing grows heavy and he pants as he sets his own pace, mind hazy and overwhelmed in his lust.

 _“Yes—Yes—Together—Bist'ri—Bist'ri!”_ His muscles lock up and he cries out for Bist’ri, his cock swelling as it fills with ejaculate in climax. The man’s cry is long and strangled, almost submissive in of itself, as he thrusts his cock through his hands and shoots strands of a very subtle green, almost _white_ substance across the drain in the floor. Guan pants and lets his cock continue ejaculating over the course of several minutes, the amount stored over the months significantly more than he anticipated. His body is no longer on fire by the time he stops, but a deep shame spreads over his chest. Guan stares at the dirtied ground. _I’m not worthy to be Adjutant. Thinking of… Thinking of another beyond my mate in this way. In this… way..._

By Cetanu and the Paya, he wants nothing more than the nurse to wrap her tongue around his cock and take him. Guan feels his face flush at the thought, the heat resurfacing in his groin and threatening to unsheathe. He quickly cleans himself up and washes any hint of masturbation down the drain. The man dresses with stiff, solemn movements, all too aware of how much he wants what he cannot have.

 _Untouched…_ The thought begins as a lewd one, but it quickly delves into the very real concern he feels toward Bist’ri. _Is she scared to mate? Did something occur in the past?_

It adds to his shame, to not only lust for one outside his life partner but also to feel affection for another. Guan clenches his teeth at the feeling and shoves it aside. He prefers the softer, kinder, more appreciative thoughts he holds of Bist’ri, where he can admire her courage in private. It is less shameful.

He does not scold himself for commending Bist’ri’s resolve. He likes that about her.

He likes her, and _that_ thought brings the shame back in full force.

By the time the Adjutant exits his cabin and returns to his seat, the _Echinos_ is in orbit around _Terra._ The blue and green planet greets his orange eyes. He stares at the planet, unable to process just how beautiful it is. The man hears Gry’Sui comment as the latter joins him in staring at _Terra, “Planet of many chivas… Oomans are disgusting meats, but their world is a masterpiece of life and habitation.”_

 _“Ki’sei, a beautiful planet. I will reserve judgement on pyode amedha unless contact is made.”_ Guan clicks and nods. His orange eyes flicker beyond Gry’Sui, to where Nok Nok is calmly tapping inputs into her wrist computer. _“Nok Nok—Sweep for M-di-H’chak’s ship. The Kukulkan.”_

 _“It isn’t in orbit. Bezas conducted a sweep two-min cycles prior to you returning to the cockpit.”_ Nok Nok clicks back immediately.

 _“Then we’ll sweep the surface and look for signals, transmissions, anything that seems out of the ordinary. The Kukulkan is an old ship—It’s communications relay could send any number of signals into the atmosphere.”_ He remembers, vaguely, commenting on the state of the ship’s interior to H’chak back when the two were on speaking terms. Guan curses softly under breath before he adds, _“And keep us cloaked—This is not a typical Hunt. I do not want to waste time cleaning up after unnecessary contact with oomans.”_

 _“Where’s the fun in that?”_ Kwei-Bezas shakes their head. It takes a long, painfully slow second for them to realize Guan stares at them. Bezas leans back in their seat and throws their feet up on the controls directly front of them. _“Ki’sei, ki’sei—No unnecessary contact! I do not like it, but I ain’t refuting your orders, Adjutant. We’ll breach the atmosphere in five-min cycle and sweep it all...”_

 _“Good.”_ Guan lets out a long, heavy breath. He cannot wait for it to be over.


	38. GHOST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oomans fighting oomans. One ooman wins, one ooman loses. This one lost.” Gry’Sui’s mandibles click together softly, unimpressed by the sight or his own deduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy end of arc 4! there's supposed to be 2 arcs left but I might detourr and write another shipping arc... Arc 4.5... Hmmmmmmm.... Anyways. 
> 
> TW:  
> -talk of pregnancy / ectopic pregnancies  
> -nausea  
> -gore  
> -talk about implied past abuse  
> -talk about past abuse  
> -dead bodies / death / corpses !!!!  
> -physical assault  
> -gun violence  
> On another note, I finally saw the first Predator movie. I’m 38 chapters late, but I’m working on catching up with the movies and grounding myself in official established lore. Even if I like going off the rails, going forward (once this fic is done) I’m going to try and lean more into the canon.

It is midday when the _Echinos_ ’ invisible form picks up a strange signal coming from the continent _oomans_ call ‘South America’. The seats feel uncomfortable even after they return to their normal position. Guan finds himself fidgeting the longer he sits and waits for the two engineers onboard to confirm the source. Gry’Sui joins him in waiting; the latter stands and looks on with vague interest while Bezas rattles off a list of numbers to the other engineer. Nok-Nok clicks curtly in response. Guan recognizes some of the information as coordinates, with planes of longitude, latitude, and distance from the core of _Terra_ all brought up. Most of it goes over his head; he can follow coordinates in a ship, or sniff out prey by foot, but attempting to zero in on one signal amidst a slew of _ooman_ ones is too much for his head.

He looks up at the sound of a cabin door opening and shutting in the _Echinos’_ fuselage. Guan knows immediately who it is; he rises to his feet and turns in time to nod in greeting at the blue huntress. Bist’ri crosses her arms as she stops short of himself and Gry’Sui in the cockpit. Her clicks are faint, _“Adjutant, if you have a moment—There is something I need to discuss with you.”_

Her words are off. It makes Guan still. His fists tense but he ignores the heat twisting in his gut. Nearby, Gry’Sui grunts and steps aside. The Adjutant allows Bist’ri to walk him down the hall of the cabins, out of immediate earshot of the other Yautja. Guan’s orange eyes widen when she steps close.

 _“Bist’ri…”_ The Adjutant clicks through clenched teeth. He does not want to take another trip to his cabin’s washroom, but the proximity is doing a number on his composure.

Guan cannot relax. All his mask’s filtered air gets is the smell of _her_. It is not the scent of a Yautja in heat, merely the indulgent aroma of someone kind and honorable. Absentmindedly, Guan sucks in a deep breath. He can feel his mandibles twitch and flare, drawn into a stupor of bliss by the rich aroma. Part of him aches to reach for her. He does not. Even if Ikthya-De was not a factor, even if he could take a mate, the Adjutant knows she does not have interest in him. She has already offered her opinion on whether she seeks a partner for the season. Guan is an honorable man; he will not disrespect her by attempting to win her favor when she does not want him.

\--And even if she had not told the others her reasons behind her lack of mate, Guan knows better than to believe an _Adjutant_ nurse could ever express interest in him. He has not hunted in many cycles, and his collection of trophies has dwindled from grandiose skulls and pelts to smaller tokens of prey that, though equal in combat with himself, are nowhere near as complex . It is something he needs to remedy outside of the mating season, outside of Ikthya-De’s influence, for his own pride and honor.

 _“I think your mate is carrying pups,”_ the nurse is almost solemn in stature, her voice soft but not aggressive. Bist’ri tilts her head to one side, angling it up at his as if watching him. _“Guan?”_

He falls quiet. Guan does not know what to say to that.

 _“…But,”_ he says after a long pause. _“She is—She’s entered heat? All of us can—Smell the change in her hormones—"_

 _“Pheromones, Guan, not hormones_ ,” Bist’ri is quick to correct him. _“Pheromones are chemicals released to the environment by an individual—Hormones remain inside your body. The change in hormones may trigger the release of pheromones, but… That is not the point.”_ She turns her head away, as if to avert her gaze. Something in her clicks makes Guan wonder if she is flustered. For once, he is glad Ikthya-De is the current problem in his life: he does not want his mind wandering to thoughts of how he makes Bist’ri flustered.

 _She’s… modest. Does not like to talk about her own strengths… She doesn’t like to brag._ Guan watches Bist’ri and nods at her to go on.

 _“It is not unusual for bearers of our species to experience intense hormone shifts throughout a pregnancy. It is rare, but not unheard of, for a Yautja’s hormone shifts to trigger the release of pheromones. I do not know if… If she is early enough in the pregnancy for her body to be… Will we say, ‘confused’? Not yet aware of its own pregnancy. Again—It is rare, but—I think it could occur. Or perhaps… If it is ectopic… Being fertilized in the Fallopian tubes is rare in Yautja, but I could see it interfering with the body’s natural fertility cycles… Unfortunately, I don’t think the Echinos’ medical bay has the appropriate equipment to detect a pregnancy this earlier. When you and her return to the clanship—I think—For her health—And the health of any pup—She needs to speak to one of the nurses and get definite answers.”_ Bist’ri’s clicks become gentle. She lifts a hand and puts it on his arm. _“I’ve seen what she’s done to you, Guan. If you need someone to escort you both, or, or someone to take her alone—"_

 _“You’ve done enough for me. I’ll make sure it is done.”_ Guan’s orange eyes dim. Ikthya-De is his mate regardless of her loyalty. What she will do to him for damaging her reputation by going alone is far worse than a brisk walk with her to the medical division, and he does not want Bist’ri to make herself a target for Ikthya-De’s wrath by becoming more involved. It is clear, though he does not know how, Ikthya-De possesses private information she has no qualms using against others.

 _“Guan.”_ Bist’ri’s hand draws back. _“It’s okay to not be okay.”_

 _“I am okay—I’m fine, Bist’ri.”_ The Adjutant repeats, instinctively straightening upright and puffing up his chest. _“Even if she is a—Wretched woman—I will protect her pup as if it were my own. I give you my word—”_

 _“I know you will. You are an honorable man.”_ She pauses, and Guan gets the impression she has more to say, but she falls silent.

Guan’s mandibles twitch. His thoughts drift from the topic at hand, from the weight of it, and, seeking something more palatable for his emotions to handle, the man thinks to the brief but volatile conversation that took place earlier the same day-cycle. He clicks softly to get the nurse’s attention, only to realize it never left him. Guan’s shoulders slump. _“—Earlier, Bist’ri—Ikthya-De spoke about you.”_

 _“She did.”_ Bist’ri’s form tenses briefly before she relaxes and clicks in irritation. _“I am not upset by her words. Merely… irritated. She goes around spouting things she does not understand, acting as if she—”_

 _“Has something on you?”_ Guan offers.

The nurse’s mandibles begin clicking together in faint humor. _“Sei-I, like she has something on me. I am not bothered by… Her words, Adjutant. Guan. But her words—They are not as bad as things she could tell others.”_

Guan stills and stares as a terrible nausea lurches in his gut. The Yautja’s hands tense. _“Are you okay?”_

 _“What? I told you, Guan, she is not—Ikthya-De’s words do not bother me—”_ The nurse begins, but Guan puts both hands on her arms. He can feel the tension in her body at the contact; he draws back _immediately_ and pauses. Bist’ri stares at him.

 _“Forgive me, Bist’ri, I—”_ The Adjutant’s head swarms. He knows he should not have extended any comfort, not the kind that has him touching her like the two are more than two Yautja on a hunt. His hands shake at his own foolishness. _“I—I was concerned something—Something may have happened in the past to—To lead you to where you are today—”_ His chirps and trills trail off into awkward silence. It is not his place to ask, and he will not, but the Adjutant can feel the worry weighing down his chest like a full suit of armor. He is too ashamed of his actions, his entire face aflame with embarrassment and deprecation. But no criticism or scathing remark comes.

In fact, Bist’ri does not say anything at all. But she _feels_ , and it becomes potent in the air, the odor rancid in appeal and incapable of spurring any kind of excitement like it has in the past: fear.

Guan’s head snaps up. _“Bist’ri?”_

 _“…That is not a topic I can—I will speak on. Adjutant Guan.”_ She slips back into the use of his title. It is formal, but it does not feel right. Bist’ri clears her throat and clicks quickly, _“I am—I am okay. I’m fine, Adjutant Guan.”_ He hears her gulp in a deep breath. Her voice returns to normal as she clicks, _“I’m okay.”_

 _“Okay like me?”_ Guan cannot hide the somber nature of his clicks. His worries return, but he cannot express them.

_“Do you want me to be okay like you?”_

_“Pauk, no!”_ The Adjutant hisses. _“I’m not okay—I don’t want anyone else to be like me! To be this,”_ he cannot stop from gesturing at himself, frustration setting in. The volume of his chirrups drops; he clicks softly, _“I’m not okay. And that’s… It’s my fault. I put myself in this position. I let her have me. And I would do it again for my mei-hswei, to keep him from her wrath, but it’s a fate I… I don’t want for another Yautja. For anyone.”_

 _“You’re so kind, kv’var-de,”_ the other Adjutant says. _“Tjau’ke is right; you care deeply for those around you.”_

 _“Does she tell everyone that?”_ He stiffens at the thought.

Bist’ri shakes her head. _“Only those she trusts.”_

 _“What about you?”_ Guan feels nervous asking the questions. _“…Do you trust me?”_

 _“I have for a long time,”_ Bist’ri’s words take him aback. He stares at her. It must be evident, because her voice shifts to a more amused tone as she clicks quickly and adds, _“You can be very intense, Guan. You focus on one thing and zone out everything else around you. I cannot count the times in the Elite kehrites I’ve stepped in to patch a deep gash or laceration because you or the other kv’var-de insist on playing with swords and combisticks when you spar. I may not have been Tjau’ke’s Adjutant all of those cycles, but I did not pop up out of nowhere one day on the clanship.”_

Guan feels the negative emotions looming over his head begin to lift. Not all the way, as he knows he may never truly get rid of them, but the weight alleviates from his chest and shoulders. He thinks back to the past decades of cycles, all the way up to the time he challenged his mei-hswei for Iktyha-De’s favor. His eyes widen behind his mask. _“You were the one with the white pelt.”_

 _“It was blue.”_ Bist’ri huffs _. “A very… light blue. But it was blue—Ju’dha says many of their pups are like that, where the pelt deepens with age. I still have some of that… Some of those white speckles, but I am very blue now.”_ She nods once, then both fall quiet.

Guan can feel something has changed between them. He does not know what, but he can feel the electricity jolt down his spine when he watches her. He likes her. He wants her to be okay. Even if shame befalls him—He wants Bist’ri to be alright. He wonders if she wants the same for him.

 _“Adjutant!”_ From the cockpit, Bezas calls with surprising seriousness. Guan looks over his shoulder in that direction. A second later, Bezas belts out, _“Adjutant Guan! We found it! I found it! I mean, I guess Nok-Nok here did, too, but she’s all… Not down for jokes, so I’m less inclined to mention her.”_

 _“Thank you for talking with me, Bist’ri,”_ Guan offers the blue Yautja a quick nod.

 _“N’dhi-ja, Guan.”_ Bist’ri offers a quaint wave but does not follow him to the cockpit. He imagines she worries for Ikthya-De. He admires her compassion, even for those who he cannot tolerate.

Guan returns to the cockpit in time to hear Gry’Sui’s aggravated howl at a joke Bezas just finished making. He knows better than to ask questions, but for a moment he cannot help enjoying Gry’Sui’s irritated sulking at what was likely a terrible joke.

* * *

The _Kukulkan_ is a great snake of a spacecraft, built hundreds of cycles ago by one of M-di-H’chak’s lineage. It is a glorious sight, composed of three separate segments making up the main fuselage while the head of the snake serves as the cockpit. It has a unique pattern of blue, green, and red, all which swirl together like iridescent scales. Even its name demands respect, picked for its divine position to the great ooman warrior who defeated a Yautja hunter hundreds of cycles ago on _Terra_.

Yet when Guan sees it, the first time in over two cycles, it does not look like the magnificent spacecraft he _knows_ it is. His orange eyes widen at the sight of hundreds of human warriors standing guard and inspecting it. The _Echinos_ hovers at a safe distance, but the speedcraft’s tracking system easily zooms in and provides a close look at the _Kukulkan_ ’s current position. The ship is half-buried just off the coast of the ooman country _Argentina_ , several miles north of the city Buenos Aires. The water laps at the bottom half of the ship, painfully obvious even if the ship had been cloaked.

It makes Guan hesitate. He does not like seeing Yautja technology so callously placed near ooman settlements. Oomans are strange creatures, and he recalls tales of a clan called the Jungle Hunter Clan who had a warrior fall victim to an ooman man just shy of forty cycles past. That, and the fact Yautja technology is meant to be kept separate from the denizens of hunting ground planets, is reason for concern. He stands at the cockpit, staring out across the midday, cloud-filled sky to the coast below. His hands tense into fists the longer he stares.

 _“Unacceptable for a kv’var-De of his ranking.”_ Gry’Sui seethes where he stands, eying the _Kukulkan_ ’s precarious predicament with distaste.

 _“H’chak would not leave his ship in the open unless he intended to return to it before oomans noticed.”_ Guan retorts, eying the other hunter.

 _“You don’t worry that your past with the man might cloud your judgement of him?”_ The other Elite growls softly.

Guan faces him, refusing to show fear or hesitation. He eyes up the muscular, burly Brawler, one who not only has cycles on his head but could _defeat_ him in close combat. He holds his tongue, and picks words accordingly, _“…I have faith in the Elite Yautja of Gahn’tha-cte. The same must extend to M-di-H’chak. We are not ic’jit, Gry’Sui, we are Elites. Let us anticipate respect as Elites and offer the same respect to our mei-hswei.”_

His answer satisfies the Elite. With that matter now resolved, Guan turns to Nok-Nok and Bezas where the two Yautja sit at the front of the cockpit, each with different command windows and controls in front of them.

 _“Nok-Nok, Gry’Sui-bpe-de, you two with me,”_ Guan looks at the other Elite and nods; Gry’Sui nods back. The Adjutant cracks his neck and exhales. _“Assume every ooman in a mile radius surrounding the Kukulkan is hostile and collateral. Those carrying pups may live; the rest are killed and collected for dissolving. Nok-Nok, it will be your responsibility to sync the Kukulkan’s interface with the Echinos. When Gry’Sui and I finish cleaning up the mess, we’ll search the Kukulkan for evidence where our mei-hswei has disappeared to. He would not leave his ship unattended long enough for oomans to discover it without reason.”_

 _“Question—What if that reason’s dishonorable, huh? What you do ‘bout your mei-hswei then?”_ Bezas absentmindedly begins re-twisting some of their locs.

Guan finds his personal locker and inputs the command to unlock it. It pops open and he retrieves his Elder Blade from the inside, clipping the sword and sheathe to his left hip. He hesitates but then reaches for a taun'dcha. The plasma pistol has never been his favorite thing to use, but he decides to take it anyways, just in case. He responds to Bezas as he rises, _“Then as Adjutant—I will execute him for his dishonor_.”

* * *

The oomans are easily dispatched and the bodies corralled. None appear to be with pups. Guan does not waste time; it continues to rain overhead as the afternoon passes steadily. He uncaps a bottle of glowing blue liquid and dumps it over the first pile of bodies. The compound is potent, reacting in a manner not unlike acid as it comes into contact with the _pyode amedha_ ’s soft flesh and bones. Everything melts into a mess of blue-tinged gore. Guan tries not to lose his cool over the thick, permeating odor of blood. He feels his own pulses race in his head, all four hearts beating furiously in unison.

It feels good to Hunt.

It feels good to accomplish something.

Though Nok-Nok links the _Kukulkan_ ’s interface to the _Echinos_ from the outside, the Yautja huntress does not open the cockpit or enter the ship until both Guan and Gry’Sui are finished with the ooman remains. The three Yautja reunite at the _Kukulkan_. Rain falls and dampens the three’s equipment. Nok-Nok taps at her device, a rectangular metal tablet with strange holographic charts and numbers projecting from the surface. She looks up and turns her head to face Guan.

 _“I am ready, Adjutant Guan, Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de.”_ The engineer states, occasionally shifting her weight from one prosthetic leg to the next. She is otherwise silent and unmoving.

 _“Open it.”_ On his shoulder, Guan’s plasmacaster hums faintly. It begins to hold charge, but he does not open fire. It is precautionary; the Elite knows how to dispel the energy safely back into the _sivk’va-tai’_ s core if not used. Gry’Sui, likewise, does the same with his plasmacaster.

The latter cracks his neck, bloody knives of his two _dah’kte_ already extended. The rain does not wash all the gore free from the serrated veritanium blades. Bits of human flesh dangle off the curved edges. Gry’Sui does not seem to care; he remains facing the Kukulkan’s front as Nok-Nok taps a code into her tablet-like device. The cockpit hatch of the _Kukulkan_ pops open with a loud hiss. A terrible stench of ooman blood pours out like a tidal wave hitting the coast; it engulfs and overwhelms Guan’s filtered air. He climbs the spacecraft’s side and pulls himself up to the open hatch-like window. His mask flickers from full spectrum color to infrared, then to color again. The Adjutant hears Gry’Sui climb up and stop next to him. The latter huffs loudly when he sees the mess inside.

 _“What happened here?”_ Guan clicks, baffled by the sight of a dead ooman woman face-down on the cockpit ground. There are strange, dried smudges of blood, along with bloody handprints, as if someone attempted to drag or hold unto the body only to be ripped away. The Adjutant rises to his feet and jumps to the ground. He crouches next to the dead ooman and shifts from color to infrared sight, scanning her remains for any kind of heat signature.

 _“Oomans fighting oomans. One ooman wins, one ooman loses. This one lost.”_ Gry’Sui’s mandibles click together softly, unimpressed by the sight or his own deduction.

Behind the two, Nok-Nok is third to climb up and into the spacecraft. She lowers herself to the ground instead of jumping. Her tablet remains clutched in her left, gloved hand, while her right begins to poke and examine the different dashboards of the _Kukulkan_ ’s cockpit. _“This ship only needs one pilot?”_

 _“It’s a relic of the past.”_ Guan remarks. He pauses when Gry’Sui walks up, the latter’s _dah’kte_ retracting so he can safely tap his chestpiece. The metal shifts and a hidden panel ejects, revealing a blue bottle of dissolving compound. When Gry’Sui begins to uncap it, Guan rises to his feet and holds an arm out between the other Elite and the corpse. _“M-di, kv’var-de. The body’s cold.”_

 _“What does that mean to me, Adjutant?”_ The Elite growls.

 _“The ship was locked prior to our arrival. Oomans did not touch this body. It may be evidence pertaining to M-di-H’chak’s activities on Terra.”_ Guan is calm and respectful in his response. He nods when Gry’Sui begrudgingly puts the dissolving compound away. _“If memory serves—There is a medical bay on the Kukulkan’s upper level. Take the body and store it in one of the pods, then sweep the remainder of the floor. I will head to the second level and do the same.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ Gry’Sui grunts, not pleased by the turn of events but unwilling to argue with the Adjutant. Guan watches the Elite scoop up the corpse in his arms and wander off through the open cockpit and down a corridor.

 _“…Adjutant Guan,”_ Nok-Nok clicks sharply.

The Adjutant looks over his shoulder at her. _“Sei-i?”_

_“Something is pinging a signal to the Kukulkan two-zero-zero miles north of our location.”_

_“That’s…”_ Guan hesitates. _“Are you sure of this, Nok-Nok? This ship is outdated on many fronts—”_

 _“The communications relay appears to work. I transmitted a message to Kwei-Bezas on the Echinos,_ ” is the woman’s response. _“I will ignore it at your command.”_

 _“M-di. No. If it’s… If it is real—It could be our mei-hswei. Pauk—Two-zero-zero miles north?”_ He already knows the two ships will have to fly there. Guan activates the communications relay in his bio-mask, waiting long, awkward seconds for his mask to sync with those on the Kukulkan and the Echinos. The communication line opens and Guan clicks hastily, _“Gry’Sui! Change of plan. We’re heading north. Bezas, tail the Kukulkan; Nok-Nok has a lead on our missing mei-hswei._ _And Bist’ri—”_ He waits a second to hear the nurse click affirmatively before continuing. _“When we arrive, you’ll join me and Gry’Sui on the ground. If this is H’chak, there is no guarantee his condition.”_

 _“Ki’sei! You can count on me.”_ The nurse trills back.

Guan’s orange eyes soften. _“I know.”_

* * *

Their vehicle comes to a gradual stop. Ivon stiffens in their seat. There is only a moment of silence before the back doors of the vehicle open and people wearing full suits of body armor drag Jo and them out. Ivon only has a moment’s notice before they are forced to walk. They hold their tongue, too petrified to speak, as the guards march them into a lone compound; it appears to be an unused aviation hangar.

Inside, they see a plane with an abnormally large fuselage and state-of-the-art engines attached under the wings. The plane’s rear door is flipped open and people in mechanic uniforms and gloves assemble ramps. On the ground near the rear of the plane are two massive silver things that remind Ivon strongly of oversized caskets or coffins. Both ‘caskets’ are bolted shot and secured in heavy chains; the four humans standing guard nearby are dressed like a blizzard is about to spring upon them. When they walk past the two coffins, they shiver in realization the temperature is drastically lower near the large silver containers.

At the other end of the hangar, they see the individual called _Alma._ She does not look the same as last time. Ivon nearly trips over their own feet when they notice she has changed from a silver-skinned entity to appearing like a ghoulishly white devil, complete with skin absent of pigment or melatonin, with long, curling white hair framing her face like the veil of a nun. Her eyes are white—Only white. White as the snow, as a clean, polished bone, as the whitest meat sold on the market, only—Whiter. It is as if Alma has disregarded everything about color and become one with the color _white._ As her white, white, _white_ eyes fall on Ivon and Jo, the electrician feels a horrible sense of dread fill their stomach. Their brown gaze flits around the hangar for any sign of Sundew.

“Greetings, Ivon Yurvchik. Joan Mackenzie.” Alma greets them neutrally. Her white lips purse, full of words yet giving nothing away.

Ivon stares, and they stare, and they stare. They cannot think with the visage of a monster eyeballing them. Alma is a horrible entity. Where Sundew is curious and cool, Alma is frigid and knowing. Ivon bites their lip and chooses to remain silent; they pray the bulge in their shorts isn’t noticeable. They do not know if the tablet sends out a proper signal, or if anyone is around to pick it up, but they cling to hope like a man does to the distant image of water in a desert. _Please. Please. Please. Work. Work. Go through. Someone. Anyone._

“Where is she?” Jo is the one to step forward and speak. In the midday light shining through the hangar, Ivon can tell she has cried on the ride here. Their chest aches for her. Jo remains surprisingly steadfast even as the white devil lurches forward at a terrible speed, circling her and looking her over as if judging the value of her existence.

In a way—It is precisely what Alma is doing.

“Your friend has expired.” Is the white creature’s response, tilting her head ever-so-slightly before she draws back. The movements are unnaturally quick, almost too fast for the human eye to track. Ivon looks at the ground.

They didn’t get to say goodbye to Sundew.

“You actually—But she’s your—Didn’t you say she was your friend?! How the fuck could you go and kill her? Just like that?” Jo growls the words. The guards around her tense, with two cocking their weapons and a third aiming his handgun at her. She glares at each of them one-by-one before her dark brown gaze returns to Alma. “You’re a real bitch, Alma.”

“I am GHOST.” Alma, GHOST, the _devil_ , speaks with utter detachment. There is only apathy, if anything, in her soft voice.

“You’re a fucking bitch, GHOST.” Jo spits at her feet.

One of the guards moves forward and smashes the butt of his handgun into her skull. She drops and cries out in pain. GHOST raises a hand before the guard can hit Jo again. “She is the one … considers brave and foolish. I understand why.”

One of the words sounds vaguely like Mercy’s name, but Ivon cannot tell for sure. They freeze and color drains from their face when GHOST approaches them and begins to circle, looking up and down their body as if evaluating a model. She steps back after and turns away, pulling a phone from her pocket ad dialing a number. It rings once before a deep, merry voice on the other end booms loudly, “ _Alma! My dear, sweet, disobedient Alma… Have you reached the airport yet?”_

“This is a hangar with a plane inside. It is far from an airport, Arnold Escrow.” GHOST replies. Her posture becomes rigid and tense. 

_“Well, you know how it is… You run around killing MY hostages… Killing MY Synthetic… What do you expect, my dear? You need to be punished. We have order to our chaos! Contracts! Verbal agreements! And you go around fucking it all up, you beautiful, wretched abomination…”_ Arnold Escrow, a name Ivon cannot place but vaguely recognizes, sighs heavily into the speaker. _“I will see you when you land.”_

“The second human. Joan Mackenzie,” GHOST looks back at Jo. “Is she necessary?”

“ _Oh… I forgot about Miss Joan! Why, I’ve been so preoccupied with your conniving tricks and facetious ways, I forgot what I wanted done with her.”_ The pause that follows makes Ivon’s body become heavy. They stare at the phone while Arnold deliberates. The man on the end of the line whistles softly and states, _“I leave that decision in your hands. Try not to make a mess.”_

The line goes dead. Ivon’s heart slows as they stare in horror. Next to them, Jo freezes in place; they see color drain from her face. Her mouth hangs slightly ajar. Ivon feels the guards grab them as they struggle to throw themself between her and GHOST. The latter has already taken a small pistol from one of the guards. Ivon screams and writhes in the guards’ hands. They feel the tablet slip out of place in their shorts. They freeze instinctively but it is too late; the chunk of metal falls and clangs as it hits the ground.

GHOST purses her lips. She strides forward and picks the piece of tech from the ground. The air crackles with electricity briefly before the devil’s white eyes narrow in agitation. “What is this?”

“I—I built it—Kind of—Scrapped it together—Heh,” the electrician’s nervous laugh becomes a shriek when GHOST takes it in one hand and crushes the alien technology. She turns to them. They tremble where they stand.

“You are capable of building this… technology. I see what Arnold Escrow wants with you.” GHOST remarks. “For the preservation of humanity—I cannot let this happen.” She presses the gun to Ivon’s chest.

The last thing they see before their vision goes dark is a shower of sparks and a world of blue exploding above them.

* * *

When she was an Unblooded, Ju’dha scolded her for releasing a _r-na_ , a frog, from the traps set during the day of training on the great green planet.

The animal, an amphibious creature normally found with eight legs and a tongue so long it curled around the brain when not in use, was injured and missing half its tongue and five legs. To set it free entailed a harsh life where the natural predators on the planet would have an advantage hunting it.

 _Killing it is merciful, Bist’ri._ Ju’dha had told her. _It cannot live its life how it was before._

 _But it wants to live._ She remembers pointing at the pink lagoon, where the clear liquid revealed the r-na swimming away with surprising speed. There was a profound calmness in the depths of the water, calling out to her like a siren’s song. _It has a will to live._

_So do your enemies. So do your prey._

_But this one isn’t my enemy. This one isn’t my prey. I’m not its Arbitrator,_ Bist’ri had made her case calmly. _I do not claim its life._

_But it is wounded. You condemn them to a life unlike everything they know._

_If it begs for the final rest—I will grant its request. But if it wants life—Why should I send it to the Payas? Can’t it build a life for itself?_ She remembers the event troubling her all the way up until her _chiva._ Even then, the thought of what is and isn’t worthy of _life_ took her thoughts by storm. Bist’ri knows she cannot see eye-to-eye on the matter with her bearer. Elder Ju’dha is one of old ways, an individual who is firm but sympathetic, yet who views extreme measures as functional resolutions to dishonor. It is but one reason she does not go out of her way to seek Ju’dha’s wisdom, preferring the perspective of the harsh but kind and honest Tjau’ke.

In front of her, her bio-mask’s optics catch sight of the mess of oomans across the hangar. There are at least three dozen of them, with twelve heavily armed and equipped with weapons she does not remember reading about during the brief time her training covered _Terra_ ’s residents. There is an old skycraft resting idly in the middle of the hangar. Oomans have yet to breach the stars beyond a strained breath, but the vehicle demonstrates their resilience at their fight to get off the ground. As Bist’ri’s green eyes scan the ground, she finds herself looking at a strange creature. An entity taller than her human compatriots, with disturbingly white skin that makes Bist’ri double take to ensure she isn’t a skeleton.

 _“Guan—Gry’Sui—There’s another lifeform here—I don’t recognize it,”_ she flicks rapidly between infrared and full spectrum color in her bio-mask’s optical system, all this done from where she hangs off the side of the hangar. Her gloves and shins dig into the metal wall to prop herself up. Her cloaking remains active. _“Next to the two ooman prisoners—"_

 _“Looks ooman.”_ Gry’Sui does not believe her.

 _“Look at it in infrared,”_ Bist’ri clicks softly. _“Oomans don’t live at that body temperature.”_

 _“…Cjit.”_ Gry’Sui sounds sincerely remorseful in the single expletive, as much as a hard-headed Elite can be remorseful. _“You want me to take a shot? My sivk’va-tai is rearing to go.”_

Guan curses into the communicaton line, _“Pauk—No, keep your distance, Bist’ri. Gry’Sui._ ”

 _“Why do you get the easy job?”_ Bist’ri clicks, unable to contain the teasing notes in her voice.

 _“No one volunteered, so I took it. Bist’ri, Gry’Sui, hold your positions until I give the command.”_ Guan’s voice is firm. He has a solid grasp on the chain of command now, a stark difference from the hesitation he exhibited when the group first boarded the _Echinos._ Bist’ri’s mandibles twitch faintly at the thought. It is good to see him emerge from his shell. He is an honorable man in a twisted situation, but he demonstrates progress even in the brief month-cycles leading to this point.

Bist’ri pauses and squints beyond her bio-mask at the strange lifeform standing next to ooman prisoners. The alien entity has an ooman firearm now, raised and pointed at the ooman woman with dark brown skin and locs falling down the side of her face. The second ooman, a person with pale skin and mop of blond hair, begins to scream and thrash, struggling in the hands of ooman guards. It is a horrible sight, a cacophony of begging and pleas in a language she doesn’t understand. Her bio-mask does not possess the translation software some do, but she does not need to know the words for the dread and anger in her stomach to boil and churn. Her blood feels like fire. She reaches to her shoulder, un-clips her weapon of choice, and precariously clings to the side of the hangar wall while balancing the compact bow and pulling an arrow from the quiver hugging her back. Her muscles ache from the strain, but she reminds herself the burn is motivation to achieve her goal.

 _“I’m taking a shot.”_ She trills into the communication line.

 _“What?”_ Gry’Sui sounds like he spits at his bio-mask’s microphone.

Guan’s clicks are calmer, _“No. Hold your position, Bist’ri.”_

 _“That thing’s going to kill them!”_ She chirps louder than she intends, unable to hold back her frustration.

 _“We aren’t here for the oomans.”_ Gry’Sui reminds her.

Bist’ri grits her teeth and puts away her bow and arrow. She pauses at the sound of metal crashing into the ground. It comes from the same group of oomans and the alien lifeform standing still. One of the captives, the one with messy hair, has gone pale as a ghost with a tablet lying on the ground near their feet. Bist’ri stiffens and stares as the white extraterrestrial strides to the ooman and picks up the tablet. _That’s… That’s like what… It looks like what Tjau’ke uses to keep patient files private… For her notes… Diagnoses… If a ooman has that, then… Then…_

Her _sivk’va-tai_ hums.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ Guan says something she doesn’t hear.

The white lifeform on the ground crumples the tablet in her hand. She says things in the language Bist’ri does not know, and she walks to the ooman with messy hair and lifts a gun to their chest. The two are too close together to not be caught in the same blast.

Bist’ri’s four hearts skip a beat and without warning she launches herself at the ground. The floor _cracks_ from the impact and her weight; the oomans nearby jump and shriek as her plasmacaster pulls reserve energy and converts it to super-heated plasma. A terrible shattering noise sounds all around her at the speed her _sivk’va-tai_ fires; the ball of blue energy _explodes_ into the ceiling over the group of oomans and the alien lifeform. Blue sparks fly and shower the hangar’s occupants. In the background, she hears three different voices curse her name, but she is already moving forward. Bist’ri takes off in a run. The ceiling begins to fall in chunks around her as she weaves around one ooman guard and grabs hold of the two prisoners, dragging them at breakneck speed and praying their limbs don’t detach from the socket.

One of the oomans screams in pain before their head smashes against a rolling cart of primitive mechanical equipment. The other shrieks in surprise, but with one now unconscious and the other in flimsy cuffs, neither can break free of her grasp as she suddenly stops and flings them out of the hangar. She spins around, well-aware of how fragile their flesh bodies are compared to hers when littered with bullets. Three oomans muster courage to take aim but none open fire. The pieces of ceiling that had crumpled from her _sivk’va-tai_ ’s shot do not take down the rest of the roof.

She sees white first—Then silver. The alien lifeform, the _thing_ she does not recognize, comes whipping at her with a speed Bist’ri does not expect. At the same time, she hears Gry’Sui cuss and hears him uncloak. Then the alien is on her, the oomans begin to shoot, and it becomes a game of dipping and weaving, _dancing_ around the creature. Electricity crackles in the air; Bist’ri does not know the source but she backs up only to hit one of the silver caskets. It is _freezing_ cold; she flinches and her focus slips long enough for the silver entity to slam a fist into her chest. Electricity leaps and she howls in agony as the currents surge through her equipment. Her optical system cuts out, her thermal mesh ceases functioning, and she falls to one knee in shock. She can feel the pain across her body; it is a _good_ sign, her nerves are not damaged to the point of neuropathy, but it needs immediate attention—Attention she cannot give.

Bist’ri stills as she feels a cold hand grip her chin. Then it moves to her neck—And she is lifted and _thrown_ over the caskets. It hurts, but it gives her the time to wrench her bio-mask off and wheeze at the strange air of _Terra._ It is breathable, but her lungs burn all the same. She finds herself staring at a mess of chaos, of dozens of small and two larger heat signatures, and of a lurking purple outline of an entity leaping on her. She rolls to the side and attempts to scramble up, but the alien’s arm suddenly shifts from an identifiable limb to a long, whip-like tendril. The lifeform ensnares the appendage first around her fried _sivk’va-tai_ , then around her neck, then her torso, and then it begins reeling her in. Her olfactory receptors pick up a sickeningly sweet aroma; she fights against the creature’s grasp but electricity courses her body until she lets it pull her in.

Half her body goes numb from the freezing temperature. She finds the will to fight, live, and survive fading as the entity’s aroma fills her head. Another surge of electricity comes. Bist’ri cannot remember when she starts screaming, or when when she stops.

* * *

The Adjutant’s orange eyes are wide with horror. He’s seen it before. He’s seen a Yautja engulfed by these _things,_ by these creatures absent from the databases of Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship, by these beings who the Elders claim no longer live.

He remembers watching Elder Ma-or be engulfed by silver liquid.

He remembers his _mei-hswei_ firing.

He remembers his _mei-hswei_ missing the target. 

_Not again. Not again. You don’t get to take another, Vekin._ His _sivk’va-tai_ roars at the accelerated speed at which it charges. Projectiles dig into his flesh and ping off his armor. He cannot think of anything else, not even when the pain comes in great, throbbing spurts along his limbs. His orange eyes are locked on his target, on the amorphous silver shape of flesh chunks and tendrils ensnaring the other Adjutant. _Especially not her._

The plasma ball rockets forward and smashes into the crates behind the Vekin and Bist’ri’s still form. The Vekin shakes and releases the nurse, a shimmery gas rising from a hole in the top half of the creature’s ‘head.’ Guan roars in anger as his plasmacaster fires again. The Vekin throws itself to the side, but he knows better than rely on only one weapon; his hands unclip the _taun’dcha_ at his hip and he walks forward firing a stream of small plasma bursts. The Vekin cannot dodge them all. When the plasma pistol overheats, he activates his plasmacaster and unleashes it on the silver monster.

All the rage he feels over the tragedy of _Scutum-186f_ comes boiling out as he alternates between the two weapons, not cloaked and ignorant of everything else around him. His _taun’dcha_ begins to burn through his glove and singe his hand from the nonstop use. He ignores the pain and strides up to the disgusting mass of silver, to the _Vekin,_ to the species who is responsible for the life of an Elder lost but also the circumstances leading to his late _mei-hswei’s_ demise. His orange eyes blaze with anger and he bellows at the lifeform before blasting it until it is nothing more than sizzling, smoking piles of still goop smeared against the building’s floor.

By the time Gry’Sui finishes the remaining guards, the Adjutant has risen back to his feet and reached Bist’ri’s side. He does not hesitate in picking her up. He ignores the other Elite’s trill of concern as he walks out of the hangar. He ignores the silent ooman prisoners and activates a communication line, _“Bezas, Nok-Nok, land. Bist’ri needs medical attention and we need more dissolve compound for the corpses.”_

 _“Is that—For pauk’s sake, now you are all about oomans, Gry’Sui?”_ Bezas chirps back, though the _Echinos_ moves enough to indicate the individual understands his order.

 _“Adjutant—The two—The pyode amedha..."_ Gry’Sui grunts.

Guan snaps over his shoulder, _“Put them on the Echinos and begin searching for H’chak and the ic’jit. I’ll see to it Bist’ri’s settled. Nok-Nok, you’re on search and rescue duty with us.”_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ The engineer clicks back.

 _“Good.”_ The Adjutant disconnects from the communication line. His arms shake. He looks down and finds himself at a loss for words. Only when he confirms Bist’ri’s chest continues to rise and fall does he let out the breath he was unaware he was holding. The Vekin did not win this time. The entity did not take another honorable life. He must deal with Bist’ri’s actions when she wakes, and determine suitable punishment for going against orders, but that is a problem for a later time. He will make sure she is stable then Gahn’tha-cte-Guan intends to find his _mei-hswei_ and bring the bastard home.


	39. we've come to take you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soft ping comes from Lar’ja’s personal computer. The Elder lifts a hand to silence her friend. She taps a command into the device, where it sits snug in a clasp around her waist. The message pops up and splays across her bio-mask’s optical system, visible to her eyes only. Lar’ja tenses initially, but by the time she finishes reading through Daga’s message, the Elder is surprisingly at peace. She relaxes. She begins to click softly, unable to voice enough relief. She dismisses the message, steps forward to Tjau’ke, and puts her hand on the nurse’s arm. She leans forward and clicks quietly, “Daga has informed me Adjutant Guan has successfully located M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit. He is on his way back now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For now consider this the start of Arc 4.5  
> Because a second shipping arc is needed before the group gets back to the clanship and I get to go back to writing Alien Politics
> 
> TW for:  
> -implications of past abuse  
> -implications of infertility

The first thing he does after taking Bist’ri to the _Echinos_ medical bay is lay her flat on a table. Guan is quick fetching regeneration serum and a syringe to fill. The liquid is dark in color and a murky blue green. He can only guess where the injuries are; the Adjutant is trained in field medicine, not extensive surgical procedures. Most Yautja will die in a combat that leaves them requiring intense medical intervention, simply on basis the prey is strong enough to maim and kill them. He does not think Bist’ri’s life is at stake, but his subpar knowledge of Yautja anatomy nips at the back of his mind as he pauses and debates the best injection sites.

She has minor gunshot wounds. Guan wants to smack his forehead and curse; he should know better than to jump to injecting a serum when projectiles are concerned. The man sets the syringe aside and taps an indentation in his chest piece. The armor pops out a compact medical kit. It is crude, but he uses the scalpel and pliers to locate and pull each bullet out from Bist’ri’s flesh. A Yautja’s natural rate of healing entails she can close the wounds on her own in time.

 _Why did you disobey your chain of command, Bist’ri?_ He peers at her, orange gaze dimming. _If I don’t punish you—The Elders will. Why did you put yourself in this situation?_

It frustrates him. Duty demands discipline, and the other Adjutant demonstrated none of it when she acted on her own. Guan feels disgusted with himself thinking about it. As the one assigned this mission, part of the responsibility falls on him to ensure it goes smoothly and without incident. This is an incident. He does not have to be the one to play judge, yet if the group returns to the Gahn’tha-cte clanship, then she will be put before the Elders for her misconduct. There is no avoiding it; the bio-mask footage of himself and Gry’Sui independently confirm her actions, as does the backup feed of her bio-mask prior to the Vekin damaging it.

 _No. She’s still injured. I can worry about that… later. Later._ Absentmindedly, he unstraps her wrist computer and _dah’kte,_ setting both aside on a clean, chromatic table extending from the floor. He imagines her thermal mesh is no longer functional, but that is something he can leave for her to tend to when she stirs.

His orange eyes trail to her neck. The marks where the Vekin restrained her are visible, a grievous, ugly wound that begins at the upper half of her neck but tightens and cuts deepest toward the base. Her blue scales, as deep as _Terra_ ’s sky, are abruptly cut off in jagged patterns. Similar marks cross the nurse’s chest, cutting through the thermal mesh in a way where the lower half is only just clinging to the top half.

 _Pauk._ Guan already knows what the reaction will be when he injects the serum. He grabs the syringe, tests it to ensure it is working, and leans over the table. One hand holds Bist’ri in place while the other lifts the syringe. _Chest wound first. Then neck._

It occurs to him as he pushes the syringe into her flesh that Guan is mistaken about the extent of her injuries. They are deeper than they look, almost cutting past the layers of muscle and fat to internal organs beneath. The chest and neck wounds do not bleed much—The blood vessels appear to have begun clotting. Guan prays the serum can still work. He injects the liquid; the reaction is immediate. The Adjutant presses as much of his weight unto the woman as he can when she snaps awake and begins howling and thrashing.

Bist’ri is not a Brawler, but she is still _strong,_ Guan barely manages to inject the entire syringe before the other Adjutant throws him off and bellows in pain-induced rage. Guan’s back hits the medical bay wall. He has just enough time to stagger to the side before Bist’ri rips the syringe out and chucks it at him. Though he predicts her action, she has a good aim, because the container of serum flies at him a second later. Guan does not have time to dodge; he lifts his arm and the container explodes on his _dah’kte_. Regenerative serum splashes the roof and floor; enough of it gets into his minor abrasions to the point the Adjutant hisses and seethes in pain of his own.

He glares at the other Yautja, but the irritation dies when he watches her try to stand. His orange eyes widen; he lurches forward fast enough to catch her when her legs give out. Guan hears her growl. He growls back. _“Bist’ri—”_

 _“Get off me—Let go,”_ the Yautja sounds dazed and disoriented. The serum has gone into effect, rapidly mending the wound in her chest shut. _“Let go of me!”_

 _“Absolutely not. You’re injured and I am responsible for the safety of others on this mission,”_ Guan retorts, his clicks both displeased and concerned. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, careful not to touch the still-open lacerations across her neck. His chest aches at the sound of her pained hiss.

 _“You need a hand in there?”_ Guan's bio-mask’s communication relay comes alive as Bezas’ laid-back, aloof clicks come through, _“Since we’re parked n’ all.”_

 _“M-di, I’m almost done.”_ Guan clicks back before disconnecting the line again. He helps the other Adjutant back on the table, gently coaxing her to lay flat. He tracks down the syringe and another container of serum. The syringe goes into a sharps cleaning canister which is jettied into the wall of the ship. A new syringe is distributed from an opening along the wall; he fills it with serum and returns to Bist’ri’s side.

She looks calmer. Her green eyes are hazy. Her mandibles and tusks appear slack, drooping down while she watches him. Guan pauses when Bist’ri clicks out slowly, _“Your hands are strange.”_

 _“I’m wearing a glove.”_ He clicks with mild humor.

 _“Your glove feels strange.”_ Bist’ri clicks back. She shifts to sit up, but Guan puts a palm on her abdomen and gently pushes her back down. Bist’ri curses softly. _“Cjit—Guan—"_

_“I haven’t treated your neck.”_

_“I can do my neck.”_ She reiterates.

Guan stares. When Bist’ri stares back, he tilts his head to one side. _“M-di.”_

_“I am a nurse.”_

_“If you move too much, the needle will puncture your artery or vein. It’s safer someone else does it, Bist’ri.”_ The words sufficiently make his case. Bist’ri looks away. Guan pauses. When he inhales, he can smell the drying Yautja blood mixed in with a lick of fear. He stiffens and stares at the other Yautja. _“If—If you are more comfortable with another doing it—Bist’ri—”_

 _“It’s not that.”_ She sounds tense. _“I do not… I do not like others touching me. Or—Holding me down.”_

Something clicks in his head. Guan’s gaze darkens. _“Is that why—Earlier—”_

 _“I’m sorry for chucking a container of serum at your head,”_ the Yautja is sincere in her remorse. _“I cannot—Tolerate—Others holding me down—”_ Bist’ri hisses through her teeth, her mandibles trembling from unspoken emotions. The fear in the air is heavier, almost rivaling the potent bloodlust stewing in Guan’s veins. He forces the urges to simmer down, to stay put, knowing he does not know enough to take actions on his own.

 _“Can you stay still if I don’t pin you?”_ Guan clicks, the noises deeper in pitch than intended. When the other Yautja pauses, Guan clicks at her. _“Bist’ri.”_

 _“Ki’sei,”_ she answers. _“May I see your hand?”_ When the Adjutant extends the hand not holding the syringe, Bist’ri take it with one of hers. Almost instantly, the two’s fingers lace together. Bist’ri takes several long breaths to calm herself, but Guan waits until the taste of fear in the air leaves before he moves the needle to her neck wound. He looks at her; she clicks briskly, _“I’m ready.”_

 _“I’ll be quick.”_ He states, but no amount of preparation can prepare him for the howl of agony that comes when the Adjutant jams the needle into the wound and injects the strange-colored liquid. Bist’ri struggles to keep still, eventually clenching her teeth and hissing. Her hand squeezes his tightly, as if seeking comfort in his touch and presence. Guan squeezes back. He pulls the needle away and exhales.

Tiny drops of perspiration roll down the long crest of Bist’ri’s forehead. She looks pained. He despises having to put her through it all, regardless if it is necessary to help her. Guan’s mandibles twitch behind his mask. He does not know what else he can do to comfort her. Without thinking, the man pulls her hand to his torso. His throat rumbles softly, reverberating down to his chest as he begins to purr, trying to calm and distract her from her pain. It appears to work; the soft noise gradually becomes the only sound in the room beside either Adjutant’s breathing.

Bist’ri’s green eyes are already on him by the time he looks back at her. Guan pauses, uncertain what to say. When the other Yautja pulls her hand free of his own, he does not try to hold on to it. He watches her sit upright.

 _“I wish…”_ Bist’ri begin to click, only to trail off. She gulps down air, breathes, and looks away. _“Nevermind. …Thank you, Adjutant.”_

He feels pained when he hears his title. It is a sign of her distancing, only he does not know the cause. Guan nods anyways; whatever she needs he will give her. He trills softly, _“Sit and rest. We’ll be bringing in H’chak and the ic’jit once we find them.”_

* * *

Gry’Sui-Bpe-de appears perplexed when Guan exits the _Echinos_ and returns to the ooman hangar. The Elite stands at a corner of the hangar, where the plasma shots fired by Guan’s weapons earlier left smears of silver smudged and splattered across the walls and floor. When he hears Guan’s approach, Gry’Sui pauses and turns to face him. _“Adjutant. Nok-Nok is working on unlocking the two containers as we speak.”_

 _Those silver containers…_ Guan does not want to associate an ooman ‘coffin’ with ‘dead Yautja’ but it is difficult when the signs point to it. Oomans do not use freezers for live creatures. He nods at Gry’Sui. _“She’ll have them open in no time.”_

 _“Adjutant Guan.”_ Gry’Sui does not sound as confident as he usually is. It makes the Adjutant pause; he nods at Gry’Sui to go on. The latter clicks softly, _“The lifeform you fought… The silver shape. What was it?”_

Guan stills. His orange eyes dim.

 _“I’ve researched the Gahn’tha-cte prey databanks extensively, Adjutant Guan. Hundreds of Hunts—Hundreds of trophies—I’d yet to see that,”_ the tall Yautja flicks a hand at the hangar, where scorch marks from plasma mar the surface. _“Closest thing I’ve found so far are the Im-Gen.”_

 _“I intend to ask the Elders about this lifeform when we return.”_ Guan clicks curtly. He pauses, a thought crossing his mind. He strides to the site of the Vekin’s demise, where dark shadow-like marks singe the floor and walls. His eyes narrow. He walks up to one wall and puts a hand against it, then draws back. There are no signs of silver-colored _cjit_ in any form. It perplexes him; he distinctly recalls blasting the silvery beast into oblivion, where only the Payas can reach. His four hearts skip beats in unison. _Did it reform? Like on Scutum-186f… Did it put itself back together?_

He sees the other Elite tense; Gry’Sui smells his fear.

Guan growls and shoves the thought to the back of his head. _“The sooner we retrieve our mei-hswei and the ic’jit, sooner we get off this planet and return home to glory and honor.”_

 _“Adjutant Guan! Elite Gry’Sui-Bpe-de!”_ The cobalt-blue engineer calls from the other side of the hangar, beyond the damaged skycraft.

Both Yautja walk side-by-side across the hangar. There is a lingering uncertainty, a very _strange_ weight over the two’s shoulders. Guan knows Gry’Sui is a smart man, no doubt he finds the lack of information pertaining to the silver lifeform— _Vekin, may it rot underneath Cetanu’s foot—_ suspicious. He hopes Gry’Sui will pursue the matter as much as the Adjutant intends to; something bizarre is unraveling behind the curtains of Clan Gahn’tha-cte and Guan does not anticipate it a good thing.

Nok-Nok stands next to one of the silver coffins. The chains once stretched around it have been torn apart and lay at her feet. The Yautja has gloves on, but a much denser variety compared to his remaining one. The cobalt blue Yautja tilts her head to one side as the two Elites approach. Nok-Nok steps to the side and lifts her left hand. She begins tapping inputs into her wrist computer. The silver container at her side does not appear to react, yet Guan can hear distinct clicks and grinding noises come from within the machine. He nods at Nok-Nok. _“Open it.”_

Nok-Nok presses a key and the container suddenly lurches open. Soft white mist flows out. Nok-Nok clicks sharply when Guan attempts to reach for the lid. _“It will freeze your hand, Adjutant Guan.”_

 _“Right.”_ He watches Nok-Nok slowly pull the container open. The man strides to the side.

His blood runs colds as he stares at an identical copy of himself.

 _“…What kind of trickery is this?”_ The Adjutant hisses softly. He hears Gry’Sui exhale in surprise when the latter joins him and peeks in. Nok-Nok does not look. Guan’s hands tense into fists. _This can’t be right. This can’t be the ic’jit._

Yet in front of him, a limp heap in the container, he sees the long figure of a Yautja huntress with coal-gray skin and scales the identical structure to his own. Her locs are long yet some appear damaged in the back, as if once burnt or sheared off, but it is not the burnt locs that draw his attention. Guan stares at the vantablack coloration, the _Pride of Cetanu_ , the void-like shroud he sees in his peripheral, where his own _Pride of Cetanu_ frame his face free of adornments. Unlike him, the huntress appears to have put ringlets in her locs at some point in the past. Yet she looks like him. She bears the same coloration and distinct locs he does.

He does not want to see her eyes, but curiosity compels him like a morbid flame beckoning to a moth. Guan leans over and ignores the numbness that lurches through his hands and arms when he grabs the huntress and pulls her freezing form up. She breathes, but only just. Her pulse is light. Guan feels uncertain as he holds her up with one hand while the other pulls her eye open. Nok-Nok flinches slightly when he curses loudly and drops the huntress. He backs away, his left hand stinging terribly from both the burn of his plasma pistol and the burn of the cold.

 _“Pauk,”_ the Adjutant swears loudly. _“Nok-Nok—The other one?”_

Gry’Sui does not comment on the alikeness between Guan and the ic’jit as he puts the huntress back in the freezer and shuts the container before the temperature change instills shock. 

The second container takes several minutes to open. When the lid pops up, Guan nods at Nok-Nok to pull the container open. The Adjutant exhales sharply at the sight. Yautja do not cry easily, but the Adjutant struggles not to as his orange eyes fall upon the frozen body of his _mei-hswei._ The distinct green coloration is marked by specks of deep brown, and a sheer white motley of scales stretches from the man’s throat down his torso, all visible beyond partially damaged mesh. Guan’s hands tense into fists. He clenches his eyes shut until they are not wet.

 _“M-di-H’chak.”_ The man clicks softly. _“We’ve come to take you home.”_

* * *

Bezas gets his attention the second Guan is onboard the _Echinos_. Gry’Sui plops in a seat not far from Bezas while Nok-Nok does not board the craft, heeding instructions to board and pilot the _Kukulkan,_ then have the serpent tail the _Echinos_ back to the clanship. Kwei-Bezas sits in their seat with their legs crossed, body leaning backward in a relaxed position, and their bio-mask on a dashboard nearby. The Yautja’s locs look even more worse for wear than usual, with the two braids fraying where some of the twisted locs have come undone from parts of the braid and jut out at strange angles. Bezas’ brown eyes hone on Guan _immediately._

 _“Adjutant, Adjutant! Buddy, pal! So, I don’t mean to alarm ya, but I gotta alarm ya, you know? Hey, wanna hear a joke?”_ They uncross their legs and straighten upright. Their mandibles click in humor when Guan shakes his head. _“No fun, Guan.”_

 _“What is it, Kwei-Bezas?”_ Guan clicks.

 _“Well, with the two oomans—We got a bit of an iffy situation. We can’t slingshot or jump ‘cause there’s only one extra seat, and two oomans.”_ The engineer throws their hands in the air. _“Not to mention—Nok-Nok doesn’t think the Kukulkan’s acceleration drive’s cut out for slinging or jumpin’ either. Unless we ditch the ship and an ooman, it’s the long way home.”_

 _“Pauk….!”_ Gry’Sui cusses from the side.

 _“We cannot leave the Kukulkan behind. It is unacceptable given it belongs to an Elite kv’var-de who retains clanship until trial.”_ Guan clicks back immediately, no hesitation in the words. The Adjutant ignores Gry’Sui’s glare from the side. _“What is the time estimate for travel without jumps or slingshotting?”_

 _“One month, minimum_.” Bezas’ mandibles begin to click with humor when Gry’Sui tenses and begins uttering profanities under his breath.

_"What happened to the week of travel time?"_

_"Kukulkan is an old ship. Flies slower."_ Bezas shrugs.  


_“Can the Echinos transmit to the clanship from here?”_ Guan inquires.

 _“Eh. Might take time to get there and get back, but it would eventually.”_ The engineer nods.

Guan crosses his arms. _“Inform Gahn’tha-cte we have recovered the ic’jit Vayuh’ta and Elite kv’var-de M-di-H’chak. Give them an approximate time estimate of four-five days.”_

 _“Month and a half?!”_ Gry’Sui balks in anger. He jumps to his feet and walks off, disappearing into his cabin a moment later.

 _“Ya got anything else to say, or is that it?”_ Bezas tilts their head to the side. 

_“—Inform Clan Leader Daga there’s been a breach of information on Terra. The pyode amedha are aware of Yautja technology and demonstrate greater resilience than previously thought. Their listing in the clan databank needs to be updated, and Arbitrators necessary to purge Terra of evidence of Yautja technology and cultures.”_ Guan finishes with a sharp exhale. His orange eyes dim behind his mask. When Bezas starts to turn away, Guan quickly debates in his head before adding, _“—And tell him we’re bringing two pyode amedha with us. I believe they know something about how M-di-H’chak wound up in these unusual circumstances.”_

* * *

Mating season brings a tide of quirks across the whole of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. She has seen it before, hundreds of cycles over the course of her long life. The increased hormone productions and excretion of pheromones by adults across Gahn’tha-cte is responsible for the birthing season later in the yearly cycle. It is a time where Blooded Yautja sirers fight for the right to court, to prove themselves, and to have any chance of passing on their genes to the next generation of hunters. At one point in the past, Lar’ja recalls being one of them. She has the grown pups to prove it; the woman has sired many pups, some who have since left Gahn’tha-cte in their own pursuits or to join other clans. Some have perished over the cycles, lost to misfortune or hubris in Hunts. None have yet been branded _ic’jit,_ or Bad Blood. She knows she should feel pride.

She has, technically, fulfilled the goals and wishes of most Yautja: a long life, honorable Hunts, and pups to continue her thwei. Yet for the last one-nine-zero cycles, it has brought nothing but pain.

Proving herself to Setg’in was one of her greatest accomplishments. She did not think the huntress would consider much less _return_ her affections. Setg’in and Akrei-non-Daga’s split was a horrendous thing, fueled by pain itself, for which Setg’in never got over. Yet in that pain, in the loss of her pup being forcibly given to Ka’Torag-Na, Setg’in sought comfort. The two were close to one another before, both skilled huntresses who often took up joint Hunts in pursuit of the fiercest and most glorifying prey. Somewhere along the way, in the mess of trying to help alleviate Setg’in’s pain, Lar’ja had fallen for her.

Just the memory sparks a pain that cuts deep, though not as deep as before. The memory brings a bitterness that has yet to fully fade. It stings and it burns and it _haunts_ Lar’ja no matter what she takes when she rests. There had been so many moments of joy, of a euphoria Lar’ja previously thought only obtainable by the Payas, by Cetanu himself, when Setg’in demanded Lar’ja seek her hand and bring her a Queen’s skull.

Lar’ja returned with two when the third did not survive the battle intact.

The cycles the two had together feels short when she think about the long lifespan of a Yautja. Some reach thousands of years before age takes them. But Setg’in-bpede—The Deadly End, _her_ Deadly End, her beloved, the beautiful huntress who could kill in a single look of those intense, blazing orange eyes—Setg’in was ripped from the world of the living by Cetanu too soon.

 _One-nine-zero. One-nine-zero. And I… Find myself thinking less about you than before._ Lar’ja clenches her white eyes shut. She does not care about the other Yautja on the lift. They can stare if they wish; the Elder is above leering back, especially when most of them are Yautja sirers attempting to woo mating partners for the season. The sirers worry she may try to make a move. It remains one of the most ludicrous things Lar’ja has discovered since Setg’in’s death: the other Yautja sirers continue to view her as competition when she has never pursued anyone since the loss of her mate.

 _I cannot forget you._ The lift stops and several of the Yautja file out, the scent of their musk strong in the air. Lar’ja ignores it; all of it is unappealing to her. The lift abruptly begins to rise when no one else steps on and she is left alone in her thoughts. _Every mating season. I’ve thought about you. About us. About what you left behind. About what you would have wanted. It has been… one-nine-zero cycles since you died. One-nine-zero…_

The lift stops at the medical division. There are several nurses chatting with different Yautja bearers, with several taking blood samples for testing. Some of the Yautja bearers, upon seeing the Elder in their midst, release more of their own fragrance. Though each Yautja has a unique scent, with only relatives possessing similar ones, none appeal to her. She does not wish to sire more pups. In Gahn’tha-cte, she has only two pups left, and she does not know either’s future. 

She ignores the Yautja’s attempts to attract her attention and walks forward, the clink of her armored kilt bumping against her hip and shin guards with every step. Lar’ja finds the individual she came for in the back of the medical bay, where the nurse is directing several sirers to a corner. Lar’ja remains stoic on the outside, but she cannot deny her amusement at the assortment of different skulls and trophies of varying sizes amassing into a pile there.

Lar’ja waits for her old friend to finish speaking with the sirers. Tjau’ke is an interesting sight next to younger Blooded Yautja, towering over most with her great height. The other Yautja are so _small_ , even the tallest does not pass eight feet whereas she maintains eight-foot-three. The nurse is a sharp, monotonous contrast to the many colorful scales of Yautja present.

Most possess earthy tones, like brown, orange, beige, or gold, though a select few teeter toward greens and blues, likely descendants of Elder Ju’dha or Elder H’dlak respectively. The Yautja who are of monotone colors likely descend from Daga himself, Elder Migo, or _herself_ , though only Migo produces direct pups. There is occasionally a Yautja with red or violet scales, but those are rare and usually the result of genetic mutations.

Tjau’ke is, to some extent, that way; she is not a descendent of any existing Elder despite possessing a hide of varying grays. Lar’ja vaguely recalls the nurse once explaining her pelt and colors as being the result of a rare mutation, the same mutation that would later bring great pain.

 _Yet you are here every mating cycle._ Lar’ja’s white eyes watch as Tjau’ke spots her, evident as the nurse does not don a mask like most of the Yautja in the medical bay. The Elder’s gaze softens behind her bio-mask. _Always helping spite of your pain… You choose to help through your pain._

 _“Elder Lar’ja,”_ Tjau’ke uses the woman’s title in front of her many nurses and visiting Yautja. Her clicks are perplexed but not unwelcome as she goes on, _“Forgive me, you come at a time when my nurses and I have much on our hands. Can you wait a time?”_

Lar’ja nods instead of answering, stepping off to the side. She does not take her eyes off Tjau’ke. In the overwhelming stench of the different odors, of the dozens of pheromones, Lar’ja’s attention does not waver. Her mind is heavy, but she is content to wait until her old friend finishes to speak.

In fact, watching Tjau’ke move effortlessly from one Yautja to another in the medical bay is almost entrancing. The nurse is clearly gifted, both with excellent memory and hundreds of cycles of medical knowledge, but also possessing a sharp mind and a silver tongue. She is strong, honorable, and a trustworthy friend, one of the few Yautja Lar’ja recalls speaking to when in the deepest throes of grief.

It is bitterly ironic, how Setg’in is the reason the two met, and Setg’in is the reason the two became as they are now.

Lar’ja recalls how things were back then, with Setg’in and Tjau’ke calling one another _mei-jadhi_ ; sister. Not by blood, but by clan, and such a bond is as strong as anyone tied to one another through _thwei._

Setg’in’s death hurt Tjau’ke differently compared to Lar’ja. Yet because of her mate’s passing, because Setg’in left to hunt alongside the Black Hunter, Lar’ja acknowledges it brought the two closer together. She and Tjau’ke grieved together, one the loss of a mate, and the other a sister. The nurse is the only solace Lar’ja can remember finding over the last _one-nine-zero_ cycles.

 _I think…_ Lar’ja’s thoughts continue as she observes Tjau’ke’s form, the latter moving quickly to address a group of sirers entering the bay from the lift. _You would have wanted this for me, Setg’in. Peace in your passing. Peace in your loss. You sought the world for those you cherished. My love for you remains, but… But I…_

 _“Elder Lar’ja,”_ Tjau’ke’s clicks bring the huntress out of her thoughts. Lar’ja watches the nurse walk over; her long spiraling locs dance with every step. _“Forgive me for making you wait. My Adjutant is not here yet she receives a stream of gifts from oblivious admirers.”_ Tjau’ke shakes her head and clicks in laughter.

 _“Those are for… Bist’ri?”_ Lar’ja blinks slowly. She keeps her chirps to a minimum, not seeking to draw more attention to herself than what she already has.

 _“Sei-i,”_ Tjau’ke turns to look at the pile. _“It is the same every season. She is direct on many things, but this is… It is not something she wants to address. She prefers to avoid the subject. She reminds me of you in some ways.”_

Lar’ja straightens upright. _“…Ah.”_

 _“Not in a bad way,”_ Tjau’ke clears her throat. _“But you are not direct about… this season. These things. I do not hold it against you, but I am surprised you are here. There is no reason to go to the medical bay during this time unless you are ill or in need of advice pertaining to the mating cycle. Unless you came here just to see me?”_ The nurse’s mandibles begin to click together in mild laughter.

The words make heat creep into Lar’ja’s face.

Tjau’ke falls quiet. _“…Why are you here, Lar’ja? I appreciate your company, but I am a busy woman. I have responsibilities to my patients.”_

The Elder’s mind drifts back to the observation deck. Just one inhale out of the mating cycle had been enough to spark certain kinds of thoughts into her head. She feels her stomach twist and heat pool in her groin at the memory of how badly she had wanted her friend. A moment of weakness, a slip in composure, and a… very, very, _very_ persistent affection. It occurs to Lar’ja, when she breathes in, the smell of Tjau’ke is stronger than ever. It is the reason her attention has been locked on the nurse since stepping off the lift. Her old friend has a certain aroma to her, the kind that vaguely reminds the Yautja of smoke from a fire.

 _“I… I am here for advice.”_ Lar’ja is methodical in the words she uses. Part of her remains tentative pursuing such actions at all, but she has spent long enough contemplating and deliberating on the matter, past even the walk through the observation deck. 

She notes Tjau’ke’s blue-gray eyes widen briefly. Some of the nurses tending to different Yautjas must overhear Lar’ja’s words, because there is a sudden eruption of soft clicks from the sides. Lar’ja ignores the nosy nurses. She remains focused on Tjau’ke, finding more and more small things to admire about the woman: the gleam in her eyes, the soft specks of white scales against her dark black pelt, the depth of gray hues that changes from where her tusks protrude from her mandibles to where the ridges just above her eyes begin… Lar’ja struggles to stay focused. It is difficult to think about what Tjau’ke says when she is busy thinking about the rest of Tjau’ke.

 _“That is—That is wonderful. Lar’ja. I do not know who in this clan is capable of such a feat, but they must be a worthy kv’var-de to attract your gaze.”_ Tjau’ke’s voice strains briefly before it dips back into a warmer set of chirps. _“What questions can I answer for you? I cannot think of any you do not know the answer to already, but I will help where I can.”_

 _A worthy kv’var-de…_ Lar’ja wonders what the woman is like on a hunt. She knows Tjau’ke sought the life of a huntress for just shy of one-two-five cycles before choosing to pursue the medical division with a vengeance. The woman was once a Brawler. Lar’ja finds herself very curious to what the nurse looks like in a set of armor and with two _dah’kte_ rather than doctor robes.

 _“This… kv’var-de… Is younger than I am.”_ Lar’ja clicks slowly.

 _“I would hope so.”_ Tjau’ke’s mandibles click together in laughter. _“I cannot see you pursuing Honorable Leader Daga. He is the only one older than you, yes?”_

 _“Cetanu take me if I ever attempt that path. Honorable Leader Daga is… Clan Leader. Not the kv’var-de I seek for a mate.”_ The Elder grunts in response. _“I would like to know…”_

Lar’ja pauses. There are too many things that might give away the obvious. She is an Elder, and Elders play smart; she does not intend to say something that will be a tell to the other Yautja watching and listening to the two’s conversation.

 _“…What gifts are considered acceptable? By… The less traditional standards.”_ The Elder exhales. _“Let us say… If I wanted to make a statement. Not simply… a mating partner.”_

 _“Are you talking about—A life partner? That is,”_ Tjau’ke clicks something under breath. _“I—That is not something I have personal experience with, Lar’ja.”_

 _“But you have seen it enough. I have ignored most of the world for the past…”_ One-nine-zero. _“…For many cycles, Honorable Tjau’ke. I am not certain what is appropriate.”_

It is becoming harder to speak clearly. Lar’ja can hear her clicks squirm and mash together, her vocal chords straining, and her breathing change ever-so-slightly. She imagines her face looks a pitch darker than it already is, a mess of heat splattering her cheeks as she looks at her old friend.

 _“Well,”_ Tjau’ke clicks her mandibles together. _“That—I know skulls are traditional gifts across all kinds of courtships. They are most common for mating season partners, but they fit the premise. I personally find them a bit… repetitive, but I am not your kv’var-de, I do not know what another Yautja wants—”_

 _“I am open to ideas.”_ Lar’ja clicks softly, narrowly holding back the urge to rebuke her statement. She struggles to understand how to be _clearer_ while simultaneously keeping the rest of Gahn’tha-cte out of business that does not concern them.

_“Ah, if you are truly open to ideas, then—I have always found stones appealing. The Bloodstone from one-four-zero-six-B in the Andromeda system is especially lovely.”_

_“My sirer came back from a Hunt in the Andromeda system! You could ask him,”_ one of the nurses, a Blooded man with vivid green eyes and olive-green scales stretched across his skin, pipes up in a series of excited clicks. Lar’ja falls quiet and looks at the nurse. The latter begins to fidget, a sign of unusual jumpiness for a Blooded Yautja. The man begins to chirp, _“If—If you wanted—You don’t have to do anything—Honorable Elder Lar’ja—”_

 _“What is your name?”_ Lar’ja clicks.

 _“C—C’it-na?”_ The man’s voice could not go a pitch higher if he tried.

The Elder nods slowly. _“C’it-na. Tell your sirer, should he have any of this… Bloodstone… to get in touch. I will give him a fair price for it.”_

 _“I never thought a time would come where I see you shop for someone, Elder Lar’ja.”_ Tjau’ke shakes her head. _“In my medical division, no less...”_

A soft ping comes from Lar’ja’s personal computer. The Elder lifts her hand to silence her friend. She taps a command into the device, where it sits snug in a clasp around her waist. The message pops up and splays across her bio-mask’s optical system, visible to her eyes only. Lar’ja tenses initially, but by the time she finishes reading through Daga’s message, the Elder is surprisingly at peace. She relaxes. She begins to click softly, unable to voice enough relief. She dismisses the message, steps forward to Tjau’ke, and puts her hand on the nurse’s arm. She leans forward and clicks quietly, _“Daga has informed me Adjutant Guan has successfully located M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit. He is on his way back now.”_

The blue-gray eyes are still a moment before they become wet. Tjau’ke grabs Lar’ja by both shoulders, her restraint appearing to wane as she trills, _“He’s… He’s on his way back. My pup—”_

Lar’ja’s face erupts with heat. Her voice cracks and strains as she freezes. _“Daga sent me—He sent a copy of the Echinos’ transmission—I—I did not receive details, but the Echinos and Kukulkan cannot jump or slingshot back. He—Guan—The Adjutant expects a month’s travel at minimum—”_

 _“Only a month,”_ Tjau’ke clicks no louder than a whisper as she looks down at the Elder. Her mandibles twitch at the edges, easily giving away the joy she feels. _“Only a month. He will be here in Gahn’tha-cte, Lar’ja.”_

 _“Sei-i,”_ Lar’ja cannot process words when the nurse pulls her into a quick, short _chi’ytei._ It does not last as long as she wishes it would but having Tjau’ke’s arms around her feels so much better than any of the times she’s envisioned it before. For the briefest of moments, the Elder shuts her eyes and breathes in the scent of her old friend.

 _Tjau’ke._ The Elder thinks. _You smell like peace._


	40. more distracting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes. Your n’dui-se is distracting,” Bist’ri confesses. It makes the man’s stomach do flips. The nurse clears her throat. “As is everyone’s. But yours is—More distracting. In a way.”
> 
> “In a good way?”
> 
> Bist’ri falls quiet. She slowly rises to her feet instead of answering. To Guan’s surprise, the other Adjutant offers him a hand. He takes it; she pulls him up. For a moment neither say anything, nor does either let go. Eventually, Bist’ri’s grip loosens. He does not try to keep her when she draws her hand to her side. The huntress inhales slowly. “You smell like… the ground after a downpour. The earth after a flood. Where water meets the soil and moves through it. You remind me of… better times. Life before my chiva,” she shakes her head and moves, striding to the medical pods and peering into the one containing his mei-hswei. “But pretending something isn’t there doesn’t mean it goes away. I would rather have your company and be prone to distractions than have you gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> popsicle mercy finally wakes up! It's going to go as well as anyone expects. 
> 
> TW for:  
> -very heavily implied past abuse / SA  
> -one of the characters is triggered into a flashback in this chapter. the flashback is not shown.

The past twelve hours has been an egregious battle of willpower for the nurse. It is not enough that there are three patients to tend to, but the mating season arrives in full force. No sooner are the ships _Echinos_ and _Kukulkan_ through _Terra_ ’s atmosphere do the remaining Yautja onboard the _Echinos_ enter their respective heats, herself included. Attempting to navigate the mess of musk and rich odors emitted by the others agitates her. She is not as violent as some huntresses or bearers, but Bist’ri detests distractions, especially when she has patients. The odors are foul and noxious when her olfactory receptors pick them up.

The mix of different _n’dui’se_ is so overwhelming in parts of the ship it gives her a terrible headache. Bist’ri cannot go to the cockpit, as the place reeks of burning rubber and plastic, the aroma apparently produced by Kwei-Bezas who is surprisingly apologetic about it all. If Bezas’ scent is not bad enough, when it mingles with the sweltering, scorching flesh aroma of Gry’Sui-Bpe-de, all Bist’ri can do is turn and run before her stomach contents decide to turn upside. Gry’Sui’s _n’dui’se_ extends to most of the cabins; Bist’ri is perfectly content staying in the medical bay and working through the long hours.

She notes Ikthya-De carries a staggeringly powerful aroma for a pregnant kv’var-de. The woman reeks of herbs, reminding Bist’ri vaguely of a tea she never liked. It concerns Bist’ri that the woman continues giving off pheromones. She does not have the equipment to assess Ikthya-De’s physical health and the status of any gestating pups, she can only make vague guesses at why the woman exhibits strange symptoms of pregnancy and heat at the same time. Notably, in the twelve hours since leaving _Terra,_ Ikthya-De has only come to the medical bay once to demand relief for space lag. Since then, the dangerous woman has confined herself to her quarters. Bist’ri prefers it that way; she has no sympathy for Ikthya-De and nothing beyond the obligations she upholds as a nurse to compel her to help the woman.

She has only caught a faint whiff of the other Adjutant. Gry’Sui-Bpe-de’s musk is encroaching, easily covering up the thickest of Guan’s _n’dui’se_. His is subtle and earthy. It reminds her of the jungle floor after thick rain, when the earth is poignant with the rich aromas of the soil, dirt, and foliage. Bist’ri admits it is the least repelling of the _n’dui’se_ wafting through the filtration system. It does not make her violently nauseous or trigger a throbbing pain in her temples. She recalls feeling weak in the knees, lightheaded, almost dizzy before the moment passed and Gry’Sui-Bpe-de’s musk returned as the dominative scent.

 _He has not come to the medical bay since putting those containers here._ Bist’ri’s green eyes narrow at the long silver contraptions. They are ooman freezers in the shape of oversized ooman coffins. The two individuals inside the two caskets have since been plucked from the containers and put into medical pods at lowered temperatures to begin the transition out of the torpor-like states. The ic’jit’s transition is successful, exiting torpor at a normal body temperature after the five-hour mark.

By then, Bist’ri finishes patching up the long abrasion across the side of one ooman’s torso where they were grazed by a projectile. The ooman retains a terrible concussion, but she cannot do anything for them further once she confirms no bleeding in the brain.

Once the ooman returns to the containment chamber, and the ic’jit is out of her torpor, Bist’ri begins the long and arduous process of pulling tiny, hair-thin needles out from the mess of gunshot wounds riddling the Bad Blood’s body. The gunshot wounds are shallow, far from typical ooman firearms, but the strange, plant-based hairs appear to trigger an intense physical reaction in the ic’jit’s flesh. Bist’ri takes care to wear gloves and one of Bezas’ spare masks as she works. She keeps the ic’jit sprawled across a long table, easy to maneuver around. There is no end to the tiny needles she yanks out of the green blood clots or flesh. Bist’ri puts several into a container for analysis but the rest are disposed of immediately.

The ic’jit has lost a lot of blood. It is a miracle she lives. Bist’ri knows better than to voice it aloud, but part of her commends the Bad Blood’s fighting spirit. Between untreated shock, torpor, and the number of bullet holes across the huntress’ body, Bist’ri initially expects the patient to die. She is more than delighted to be proven wrong. The pressure eases off her back and shoulders when the ic’jit stabilizes after Bist’ri injects fluids and nutrients into the woman’s veins. She holds off on the regenerative serum; until all the needles are removed, Bist’ri cannot risk the flesh healing over them.

By the grace of Cetanu and the Payas, Bist’ri notes neither of the unconscious Yautja have yet to emit _n’dui’se._ She makes a note of it in two patient files. _Their bodies do not register the mating season. Their hormones remain unchanged. No pheromones produced. Can torpor mess with the natural rhythm of Yautja?_

Her body demands a break at hour thirteen. Bist’ri grimaces and ignores her stomach’s violent growl for food. She straightens upright, stretches, and begins activating indentations along the walls. Cabinets and shelves pop out on cue, but the nurse only finds gray slabs of hard tack in one. She begrudgingly takes a sealed package, inputs a command to retract the cabinet into the wall, and takes a seat on her cot on the far end of the small medical bay. The bed is nowhere as comfortable as the units built into the _Echinos_ ’ cabins, but it functions well enough.

She tears open the package of hard tack. Her bio-mask hisses as she unclasps it and slowly pulls it off. The world loses all color and becomes a mess of thermal signatures as her natural infra-red sight picks up. Bist’ri eats in silence. The nurse is tired, but she has fared worse and survived; she anticipates four or five more hours of needle picking.

 _“Needles and hard tack…”_ Bist’ri clicks softly. The hard tack carries no flavor or scent. The nurse finds herself wishing it would, because the stench of Gry’Sui’s musk begins seeping through the vents again.

She pauses when the medical bay door unlocks and opens. The smell hits her before her brain processes whose thermal signature she peers at. It takes her aback; the nurse stills with a half-eaten slab of hard tack in one hand. At the door, arms at hi side, the other Adjutant clicks quietly, _“Bist’ri. Do you have a moment?”_

 _“Sei-I, of course,”_ Bist’ri clears her throat—and her head—of thoughts. She puts the hard tack away for later and stands. The nurse looks around the medical bay for chairs but, finding none, opts to stand upright and nod at the other Adjutant. _“I would offer you a seat but the only one available is a cot.”_

 _“I’ll stand.”_ Guan walks over to the _ic’jit_ on the table. The tilt of his head makes the nurse think he looks over the unconscious Yautja.

Bist’ri quickly turns and grabs her bio-mask. Her hands shake as she puts it on. She clicks to get his attention. _“How can I help, Adjutant?”_

 _“Guan.”_ The man looks back at her. He straightens up and crosses his arms. _“You don’t—You aren’t required to use my title. Bist’ri.”_

The nurse stiffly nods, too zoned out to register the words. She can smell Guan on the air. His scent is much stronger than she first thought. The aroma envelops her with each new breath she takes. It makes thinking hard, and that in turn makes talking harder than it should be. Bist’ri stands with her hands at her sides. She watches the other Adjutant as he pauses and clicks something under breath. She does not know what she expects him to say, but it certainly isn’t—

 _“Why did you go against my orders, Bist’ri?”_ The man steps away from the ic’jit on the table. It puts him several _nok_ s closer to her. _“I told you not to shoot. Gry’Sui reminded you we weren’t there for the oomans.”_

_“The silver lifeform was going to kill them.”_

_“Bist’ri—"_ Guan states softly. The string of chirps is pained. _“I don’t—I am not disagreeing with you, or what you did. But—There’s a chain of command we abide by.”_

 _“I understand that,”_ the nurse clicks in response. _“I’m aware of the consequences.”_

In four heartbeats, he is suddenly much closer than he was before. The other Adjutant stops in front of her; his arms return to his sides. His scent swarms her senses. She cannot think straight; of all the kv’var-de she rejected in the last one-two-five cycles, Bist’ri knows none of them held her attention like this. It is an intoxicating fixation: she could stand like that for days and not register the passing of time. It shoots heat through her abdomen and up her chest. The warmth spreads across her body like the slow lap of a wave along the shore; one minute she is fine, and the next she feels her chest tightening, her hearts in her head, and the unmistakable flush across her face. Her mandibles twitch and click weakly.

Guan does not appear aware of the trance he’s imposed on her. The Adjutant is taken by the thoughts in his mind, thoughts she cannot discern. But when his hands rise and stop on her arms, Bist’ri does not push them off. The other Adjutant clicks softly. _“I need to know. Bist’ri. Please. So this—So it doesn’t happen again.”_

 _“You… I…”_ The clicks sound very far away.

She feels far away.

Every inhale fills her lungs with more of him. The rich, raw earth after an evening shower, a light drizzle, a torrential rainfall, it swarms her head. She feels dizzy. Her body sways, but she knows she won’t fall. She can feel the other Adjutant’s grip on her arms. He is a kind man to worry so much about the entire clan, much less one Yautja. But she admires that about him. He is empathetic as much as he is a warrior. Even on the topic of her blundering, of _her_ mistake, he still wants to protect her any way he can. She can trust him, both as Adjutant, and as Guan.

Trusting someone is one thing but acting on that trust is another.

Her hands shake. She cannot keep them still. There are many layers to who she is, _Bist’ri,_ nurse, pup of Elder Ju’dha, but in the center of them, as if contained by a great shell or towering walls, is every ounce of fear and hate and rage she cannot handle. It is raw and it is vulnerable and just thinking of admitting to possessing the feelings in a world of strength, honor, and glory is nothing short of petrifying.

 _“Guan—I—They—”_ Her clicks reflect the mess in her head. _“I was—They were—Begging—Pleading—To make it—Stop—For them to—Live.”_ The words transition from quick clicks to trembling chirps and a long, pained growl. She knows it is from her, but the world rushes by too quickly for her to process. Her chest tightens and aches. _“I was scared and then I was—Angry.”_

 _“…Angry…”_ Guan clicks softly, gently, as his hands let her go. His hands fall to her own. Hers take hold of his instinctively, like he is the only place to moor herself in the storm. There’s a soft clink of metal hitting metal when the other Adjutant rests his forehead against hers. _“—Bist’ri—I—I’m sorry I brought it up.”_

Her own click is somber, _“It would come up with the Elders.”_

 _“—Not—I’m not talking about the mission.”_ The other Adjutant exhales sharply. _“I—I find myself worrying. About you.”_

 _“You need to worry about yourself more.”_ Bist’ri lets go of his hands. Her face flushes with heat when Guan cups her face and mask with both hands.

 _“Let others take care of you once in a while, Bist’ri. Please,”_ the other Adjutant clicks softly. _“I’ve come to realize not even an Adjutant can shoulder this universe alone.”_

 _“So now you want to take care of me?”_ It is meant as a lighter remark, something to remove the tension thickening across the room.

Bist’ri does not expect the Yautja’s immediate response, _“Yes.”_

Her green eyes widen behind her bio-mask. She does not have anything left to say. Her forehead falls forward and Guan meets it with his own. There is a long moment of silence, of only intermingling scents and a deep ache in her chest, before she hears something rumble softly. She breathes out at the realization it is him, again, producing the purring noise.

It is often a noise offered crudely from sirers to bearers, frequently weak attempts to convince the bearer the other Yautja is worth their time and attention. But that is not the reason here. Bist’ri knows it is for her, but it is offered in comfort, in a desperation to try and help her any way the Adjutant can. There is something in the reverberating sound, in the slow rumble of Guan’s chest and throat, in the way his hands continue to cradle her face like she is the only other Yautja left in the universe. It feels intimate.

 _“I…”_ Bist’ri cannot finish the sentence. She knows better than to say such thoughts aloud, but for a moment she slips and almost blurts out her selfishness. She buries the thought deep, as vile and dishonorable as she feels at the realization of what she does, how she feels, and the way she reacts to the other Adjutant, to the _paired_ Adjutant. She slowly pulls his hands away. No matter how much she wants to lean into his touch, to breathe in the smell that floods her body with warmth, she does not. She lets his hands go and steps back. _“I appreciate your concern, Ad—Guan. Guan_ ,” Bist’ri exhales softly. She turns away. _“I have work to resume—I must ask you to leave.”_

 _“Ki’sei. Get me if you need anything.”_ It is an open door to walk through, all spoken through the brief clicks as Guan nods her way. _“And if—My mei-hswei stirs—Send someone for me.”_

 _“He’ll be a while. His body temperature is rising, but,”_ Bist’ri feels herself relax as she slips back into her role, into what she knows best. Being a nurse is not only about helping others, it is about possessing control over herself and what _she_ can do, one of the few things that offers a measure of comfort when her thoughts grow dark. _“It’s a slow progress. I may need someone to hold him down when he wakes. There is no telling what he will say or do and injecting the serum is never a pleasant process.”_

 _“—Well, if the ic’jit stirs before him, I would like to be here_.” Guan clears his throat.

A thought crosses the nurse’s mind. She clicks abruptly, looking back at him. _“You think I can’t handle her?”_

The other Adjutant tenses. _“That’s not what I mean, Bist’ri.”_

 _“I’m glad Tjau’ke isn’t here. She would be furious to hear you insulted her teaching ability,”_ Bist’ri shakes her head. _“But your concern is noted. I have needles to pull out of flesh and only so much sedative for the ic’jit.”_ Briefly, she considers asking Guan his thoughts on the lookalike Yautja. She cannot be the only one baffled by the similarities in the two. Bist’ri decides enough cans of worms have been opened today; she returns to the table where Vayuh’ta’s unconscious form slowly breathes in and out. The nurse grabs a clean pair of gloves, lancet, and pliers before she leans over the body and returns to the boring, tedious task of needle plucking.

The other Adjutant grunts at her on the way out.

* * *

_FLORA…_ The thought rings in his head. He does not remember the silver creature being explicit in who _FLORA_ referred to, yet the _kv’var-de_ believes he knows. There is only one other silver humanoid he knows of, an Image with a flowery name. As much as he doesn’t want to it to be the case, as much as the Elite prays to the Payas to keep the Im-Gen out of his mess, he knows better than to be so naïve. The silver creature wants Sundew.

 _His_ Sundew. His beautiful, strange, hat-wearing Sundew. His flower.

The _kv’var-de_ is not strong enough to keep Alma from getting to her.

 _Pauk._ Is all he repeats when he hits the silver coffin. The cold temperatures plunge his body into a near catatonic state, forcing his mind into the throes of unconsciousness. He cannot fight against his body’s need to rest. His form reeks of pain. When sleep demands his spirit, he submits and passes out for a long time.

He does not know what goes on around him. He does not dream. To M-di-H’chak, it feels like mere minutes when he is forced out of torpor. What had been the _pyode amedha_ region of Argentina becomes the interior of a pod in a ship as his body slowly returns function to him. His nerves scream with pain the second he tries to move. The man cannot do more than croak weakly; his throat feels dry. He feels a thick, warm fluid surrounding him, rising to his pectoral muscles. He doesn’t know if it is water or something else.

The world comes rushing back to him in four heartbeats. His eyes snap open and the Elite begins to struggle in the medical pod. He ignores the spikes of pains, clenching his teeth and flailing weakly in a vain attempt to force the pod hatch open. His mind pivots to what little he remembers: a disgusting silver figure, Blake Kingston, Vayuh’ta shouting something about… _Vekin?_ The word he recalls the late Elder Ma-Or speak of during the extraction from Scutum-186f. The Elite’s body does not have the strength to thrash and writhe for long. His memory strains, his muscles give, and he sinks back into the warm liquid a time longer.

He feels tired. He is tired. He fears sleep, but he feels its call as his mind returns to a haze of confusion and mishmashed thoughts. _Is this… Are the oomans here? Holding me? Is this part of Stargazer’s operations? I need to… I must get out. I must…_ He is tired and crushed by pain coursing his form. _I must find Sun-Dew. Protect… I won’t let… Won’t…_

Next time he comes to, it is not in the pod. It is on a cold metal table with lights shining down on him. His mind is too disoriented to understand where he is; his eyes strain to make out more than shifting heat signatures of two tall figures moving around him. His olfactory receptors pick up the smell of cooked meat, a not entirely unappealing aroma that drowns his mind and his thoughts. It is only when the burly figure moves away, when the aroma of _amedha_ is not so tantalizing, does the Elite inhale the second Yautja’s aroma.

 _Sea, salt, and sand._ It is nice, but nowhere near as nice as Sundew’s sickening sweet fragrance. H’chak’s chest tightens at the thought of her. He does not know where his mate is. He does not know where _he_ is, but he knows Stargazer has him. His eyes are too weary to keep open long; his attempt at a growl becomes a weak hiss.

 _“—He’s waking up.”_ One of the Yautja clicks, voice firm and strong.

 _“Then I need to be quick. Gry’Sui—Keep him down, there are four injection sites.”_ The name _Gry’Sui_ is familiar, but none of that matters when H’chak processes the rest of the clicks.

His blood simmers in his veins, full of disbelief. Two of his own kind aid the oomans. _Dishonorable! Unacceptable! Cetanu will have your heads!_

His body is on fire in pain, but the Elite pulls himself together long enough to think of a plan. He cannot stop his screams and roars of pain when the two Yautja begin injections, but he does not actively fight them. He lets his body go limp after, eyes shut and breathing steady. He feels the pain in his body leave, but he knows better than to assume two Yautja injecting cjit into his flesh are there to help. His resolve becomes stronger when he feels the Yautja who smells of roasted meat release him. He prays the two are not keen on forcing him into restraints right away. His four hearts begin pounding in his head when he hears one of the Yautja dismiss the other.

 _“I appreciate your help, Gry’Sui.”_ The Yautja clicks. _“Please inform the Adjutant he is out of torpor.”_

_“You are not going to deliver the message yourself?”_

_“I…”_ A pause. _“No. I have responsibilities here.”_

A door opens and shut with the sound of footsteps walking away. H’chak holds his breath; he cracks open one eye and confirms only one thermal signature. The Yautja remaining in the room is taller than him, perhaps seven-foot-two if he is to guess, which spells ill. He does not know what _Adjutant_ is spoken of, but H’chak knows Vayuh’ta is an _ic’jit_ , a Bad Blood. If not Stargazer—Perhaps he has been taken by her former clan, Ka’Torag-Na, the Lurking. He feels disgusted at the thought of being a political pawn. He feels worry at the realization Ka’Torag-Na has no reason to keep his mate intact.

 _Sundew. Sundew. Sundew._ The name loops in his head. H’chak knows the other Yautja is likely to come back. He does not have much time.

He waits until the remaining Yautja, the one who smells of salt, sand, and sea, to walk pass him to the other side of the room. H’chak finds the pain in his body gone, save his weak left calf. He pulls himself up to a crouch, easily done when he lacks loud, heavy equipment or _awu’asa_. His orange eyes narrow on the heat signature. Adrenaline begins to pump through his veins. He inhales softly, twitches a mandible, and leaps.

His weight crashes into the Yautja, throwing her into the wall. The surprise is clear; she is inexperienced, or wholly naïve to think an Elite _kv’var-de_ wouldn’t put up a fight. H’chak has only a few seconds of time to his advantage; he throws an arm around the Yautja’s throat and pulls back. Her knees bend and in a second H’chak is thrown _over_ the Yautja’s shoulder; he slams into the ground. He hears _dah’kte_ extend; the man rolls to the side and hooks his leg under the Yautja’s ankle.

Even the strongest fall like trees; H’chak snarls at the woman when she hits the ground. He is on top of her in a second, ignoring the spikes of pain of _dah’kte_ plunging into his flesh to grab her wrists and pin them to the ground by her head. The man hears her cuss him out; he hisses in response and lurches forward enough to pin her arms at her side using the weight of his knees and thighs. 

The atmosphere in the room quickly transitions from tense to _panicked._ H’chak growls at the Yautja to cease her struggles and admit defeat, but his olfactory receptors pick up fear in the air. Rightfully so; he is an Elite with intent to kill anyone who stands between him and his mate. He rips the _dah’kte_ from her hand. The fear spikes tenfold; she begins thrashing and writhing underneath him. Her breaths are quick, shallow, and they become weaker the longer he pins her to the floor.

 _“Get off—Off—Off—Please—"_ Her voice cracks through the clicks. She is hyperventilating. 

H’chak’s orange eyes widen. He feels confusion take over and adrenaline leave. This is not the response he expects of Ka’Torag-Na, or Stargazer, or any immediate threat. The door to the room opens. He snaps his head up in time for a thermal signature to surge forward and a fist to smash into his face.

 _“What the pauk are you doing?!”_ He is in too much shock to acknowledge Guan when the man slams him into the wall of the ship. His _mei-hswei_ pulls a sword free and shoves the blade against H’chak’s flesh. _“If you hurt her—I’ll carve you to pieces myself! S’yuit-de!”_

 _“Where am I?”_ H’chak hisses. He does not hesitate in leaning forward, daring the man to cut him down as the blade presses into the white scales of his neck. His _mei-hswei_ does not cut his throat. Instead, Guan curses loudly, releases him, and rears back before throwing another fist. H’chak cusses him out in return, _“Enough! Where the pauk am I, Guan? Where’s Sun-Dew?”_

 _“Ell’osde’ pauk! She’s spent hours bringing you out of torpor and you have the nerve to attack her? S’yuit-de, H’chak!”_ Guan snaps over his shoulder, already returning his Elder Blade to its scabbard and moving to the two thermal signatures on the ground. _“Bist’ri, are you alright? Bist’ri?”_

_“…M-di. M-di. M-di…”_

_“She won’t stop repeating the words.”_ The other thermal signature clicks. He is the one of roasted meat; H’chak smells it in the air. _“Should we pod her?”_

A gut-wrenching feeling crawls up H’chak’s throat. He does not remember the fearful Yautja, but he picks up enough context to paint a picture of why she reacts so strongly. He clicks at Guan to get the man’s attention. Guan snarls at him from over his shoulder. H’chak grits his teeth. He cannot deny how deeply he hates the man, to the point just being in the _kv’var-de_ ’s presence is enough to bathe him in rage. He restrains himself not for Guan’s sake, but for the sake of the Yautja on the ground. _“—I took her dah’kte. Pinned her. That is all.”_

 _“Gry’Sui, pod him.”_ Guan clicks once.

 _“Would be my pleasure.”_ The Yautja growls harshly as he rises to his feet. 

H’chak steps back and hits the wall again when he sees the thermal signature advance on him. He is sick of pods. _“Guan—”_

 _“I do not want to hear it,”_ the man hisses. _“Not until I have Bist’ri’s version of events. If you are lying—Cetanu give me strength to make your death quick.”_

* * *

His _mei-hswei_ cooperates long enough for the other Elite to force him into one of the _Echinos_ ’ medical pods. It does not bring comfort. If anything, just the thought of his _mei-hswei,_ of the man Guan has walked through fire for, is enough to bring a tidal wave of anger on his shoulders. He does not believe H’chak is a man capable of such damning dishonor, but his priorities have shifted. The fear in the air permeates and dismantles any allure or repeal of _n’dui-se_ ; Guan despises it with every fiber of his being. It, in a way, confirms the worst of his suspicions.

Bist’ri has since fallen quiet. Her breathing is back to normal, but her responses are nothing more than soft, inaudible clicks. Guan feels disgusted with himself for not being there when H’chak woke up. He was so lost in the stupor of the nurse’s _n’dui-se,_ the man shut himself in his cabin to avoid drowning in it. It was foolish, he knows now, to think he could resolve his feelings by avoiding her. Now he has a much bigger problem to worry about. Guan’s orange eyes dim where he sits, not daring to be any more than a foot from the nurse’s side.

 _“I can watch her for a time, Adjutant.”_ Gry’Sui’s voice is strong and firm, but Guan can hear the notes of worry seep through the clicks. Even the burly Brawler has a heart at times. Four, technically. 

The Adjutant shakes his head. _“M-di. The safety of everyone on this assignment is my responsibility.”_

_“Ki’sei. Should she be moved from the floor?”_

_“No one touches her.”_ Guan clicks. _“Not unless she tells us to. Not unless she asks.”_

It is quiet after that, only the sound of the medical pods at work to accompany the two Yautja’s breathing. Gry’Sui leaves to inform Kwei-Bezas of the situation, or perhaps remove himself from the heavy atmosphere. Guan remains as he is, sitting cross-legged, a foot from where Bist’ri has drawn her knees to her chest. It is not a sight he expects to see on a Yautja past Suckling age, but he does not judge her for it. It is clear to him her reaction is rooted in some form of trauma. The past can be a harrowing thing, but to grip her this tightly entails ill. Guan’s orange eyes darken as time goes on. As much as he longs to hunt down whoever is responsible, he knows too little; the nurse’s well-being is far more important.

It takes two hours before Bist’ri lifts her head up. Her bio-mask conceals her face, but there is something pungent in the woman’s soft clicks. _“Do you think less of me, Adjutant?”_

It makes his chest tighten. He does not care if she uses his title, but the fact her first thought is whether _he_ sees her in a different light is horrifying. Guan inhales softly. The aroma of sand, salt, and sea mingles with fear and apprehension. His gut flips painfully, but he keeps his voice calm. _“M-di. You are a strong individual. I could not think less of you if I tried.”_

 _“Ah.”_ She lowers her head to her knees. _“You are a kind man.”_

 _“On occasion.”_ Guan clicks. He relaxes upon hearing the nurse’s mandibles click together in faint laughter.

The silence that follows is not fearful, but it remains tense.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ Guan hesitates. He does not want to ask the question, but he must. _“Did M-di-H’chak—”_

 _“M-di. He did not—M-di, Guan,”_ the nurse cuts him off. Her chirps are less strained now. _“My response was—It was not because he—He attacked me, but not in the way you are thinking of. He did not kill me, though he had two opportunities to do so. He acted like someone trying to escape. I should have sent for you sooner, before his injections—I made an error in judgement.”_

 _“…Why didn’t you send for me when you brought him out of torpor?”_ The Adjutant pauses. His orange eyes cannot see through the bio-mask she wears, so he settles for looking at her locs. They are finely twisted, each an intense blue tinged with green at the end.

 _“Gry’Sui was available to help. I did not want to disturb you. And,”_ the nurse sits upright and exhales. She turns her head away. _“I cannot afford distractions when I am helping patients.”_

_“I…”_

_“Yes. Your n’dui-se is distracting,”_ Bist’ri confesses. It makes the man’s stomach do flips. The nurse clears her throat. _“As is everyone’s. But yours is—More distracting. In a way.”_

_“In a good way?”_

Bist’ri falls quiet. She slowly rises to her feet instead of answering. To Guan’s surprise, the other Adjutant offers him a hand. He takes it; she pulls him up. For a moment neither say anything, nor does either let go. Eventually, Bist’ri’s grip loosens. He does not try to keep her when she draws her hand to her side. The huntress inhales slowly. _“You smell like… the ground after a downpour. The earth after a flood. Where water meets the soil and moves through it. You remind me of… better times. Life before my chiva,”_ she shakes her head and moves, striding to the medical pods and peering into the one containing his _mei-hswei. “But pretending something isn’t there doesn’t mean it goes away. I would rather have your company and be prone to distractions than have you gone.”_

_“Will that be safe for your patients?”_

_“I will manage. The most severe of them was the ic’jit—But she is stable. I have pulled all the needles I could find out of her flesh, brought her out of torpor, and treated her for shock… The other two are fine. One ooman needs rest for their concussion, and your mei-hswei appears conscious and mobile. The second ooman does not possess injuries."_

_“Bist’ri—How long have you been on duty?”_ The thought hangs over Guan’s mind. He clicks when she pauses. _“When did you sleep last?”_

 _“Three-eight hour cycles past.”_ The nurse trills in response. She sounds tired.

 _“Go rest.”_ Guan straightens upright. His orange eyes narrow when the nurse doesn’t move. _“That is an order from your Adjutant, Bist’ri. I am responsible for the wellbeing of everyone on this ship. That includes you.”_

_“If you have forgotten, Guan, I do not have a cabin. It is hard to sleep in a medical bay when Yautja constantly move through here.”_

_“My cabin is yours for as long as you need it.”_ The offer comes naturally, instinctively. He clicks at her hesitation. _“It was originally yours, Bist’ri. We will alternate day cycles. I will not have a Yautja under my watch work herself to death.”_

 _“Always offering yourself up—You are a stubborn man.”_ The nurse tilts her head to one side. _“Kind and stubborn.”_

* * *

In the cockpit of the _Kukulkan_ , the cobalt blue Yautja pauses and looks across the sea of stars flying by. It is not an interesting sight; she recalls the star systems and constellations of four-hundred cultures at the drop of a hat. But it is all there is to do besides sleep, train, and eat. She cannot train long, as she knows she must be ready to receive transmissions at any time. She finds the stars, though repetitive, carry a relaxing quality to them. The former huntress sits in the pilot seat. Her long, prosthetic legs stay idle while she leans back. The silence is interrupted by the sound of the ship’s engines thrusting as the snake weaves through space after the _Echinos_.

She too has entered heat, but with no one else around it is easy to ignore her own stench. Nok-Nok concentrates on her mission. She does not anticipate taking a mate upon returning to _Gahn’tha-cte_ ; she has sired enough pups in her day cycles to last a lifetime. Engaging in the exchange of gifts, food, and mating duels is preposterous when she could be earning credits and honor taking up extra jobs on the side for Gahn’tha-cte’s Military Force.

A soft ping alerts her to an incoming message from the _Echinos._ Nok-Nok’s crimson eyes narrow when she identifies the sender. Kwei-Bezas, legendary mechanic and engineer, is at it again trying to tell her ooman jokes. She does not bother replying; the Yautja’s persistence annoys her.

A splashing noise in the distance prompts her to rise to her feet. The metal prosthetics are versatile but what they bring in strength is taken in stealth, as the weight dings against the floor no matter how softly she walks. Nok-Nok strides down a corridor of cabin doors and peers into the medical bay. Only one pod is in use. Her wrist-computer projects the symbols listing the temperature and liquid contents into her bio-mask.

She pauses and strides up to the pod, then looks inside through the glass hatch at the top. The corpse stored inside is absent, no longer visible in the dark liquid. Nok-Nok tilts her head to one side, perplexed. She pauses when tiny droplets catch her eye. The huntress steps back and inhales slowly. She tastes no fear in the air. Yet, when she looks, she sees the faint, drying trail of dark liquid going away from the pod. She checks the hatch. It is unlocked. The Yauta’s four hearts beat slowly as she sends a message to Kwei-Bezas.

 _‘Nothing living was stored in the medical pod onboard Kukulkan. Correct?’_ Nok-Nok extends the serrated blades of her _dah’kte._

The reply is as serious as she expects it to be from Kwei-Bezas. _‘Only a lady’s corpse. The Adjutant wants it preserved in case it got evidence. High-five for dead bodies?’_

_‘Inform the Adjutant preservation is no longer possible.’_

_‘Why?’_ Bezas shoots back immediately; Nok-Nok can hear it in their voice when she reads the question.

She calms her four hearts as she inputs one last message. _‘The corpse is gone. It left a trail.'  
_


	41. salt sand sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are certain things he needs to say when his mei-hswei approves his release from the pod. He knows it has been at least a day, potentially two. H’chak’s mind is full of regret and worry. His orange eyes narrow at Guan’s thermal signature when his pod hatch unlocks and the former climbs out of the medical pod with sore, cramped limbs. H’chak does not have time to stretch before Guan clicks to get his attention, “If you attack anyone else onboard, I will have you contained to the pod for the duration of the trip home.”
> 
> “Wasn’t planning on it.” The kv’var-de clicks back, annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -children being used as political pawns / soldiers  
> -self-induced poisoning / self-harm  
> -there's a TON of self-deprecation  
> -miscarriage 
> 
> There's a lot of characters in this story who would benefit from therapy.  
> Note: Suckling is used in this chapter to refer to a child of 10 cycles. I consider Suckling = children, Unblooded = late teen/young adult pre-chiva (always an adult before taking their chiva), and pup = itty bitty baby for this story.

_“Veneno!” The words are a roar, not a whisper, and they shake the quarters of the clanship’s residential area wide awake._

_Though most Yautja need not worry about the wrath of the Clan Leader and his Matriarch, the Suckling knows she has blood on her hands. She has skipped many of her lessons, stabbed her sparring partner twice in one day cycle, and stolen a cache of fancy knives from the armory, opting to put the blame on one of the lower ranked Yautja in lieu of accepting punishment. She recalls the face the Yautja made when he was brought before the Elders, forced to kneel, and whipped until the message ingrained itself into the deepest recesses of his flesh. The kv’var-de had made satisfying howls of pain, the kind only a snake or weakling emits, either to deceive another or to beg for the final rest._

_Her pa-e’s lecture on the importance of covering ones tracks feels like a distant memory. The Suckling knows she is beyond simple punishments. The progeny of dhi-ki’de-Gkinmara, the Watcher of Death, are held in high expectation. Her age is not an excuse for faulty craftsmanship. A very real fear flickers through the child. She breathes slowly, straightens upright, and leaves her room before her sirer’s patience runs out._

_She is greeted by one of the royal guards. The huntress clicks impatiently at her when she hesitates to follow. Veneno growls with an authority not yet her own; she tails the figure through the halls of the ship, to a place where the light flickers to ancient candles locked within cubic containers hanging from the ceiling. It is the old way of light, she remembers, but it brings out beautiful shadows._

_The Watcher of Death sits in his court with her pa-e. A Shadow of a figure, one dressed in the darkest shroud of metal alloys from head-to-toe, stands and speaks softly to the Watcher and her pa-e. Veneno bows her head as she approaches. She does not know the Shadow’s name, but she understands the hierarchy enough to remember that which lurks in the darkness demands respect. The Shadow is a title of blood and power, of cruel, raw rage and influence given physical form. Ka’Torag-Na holds its Shadow in reverence._

_Yet when the Shadow ignores her, when they continue to address her ma-e with not even a glance to her name, the Suckling feels herself grow violently offended. She does not say anything, but she voices the bitterness in her head until all she hears is the sound of her own internal screaming. When the Shadow finishes, when attention is at last rightfully given to her, the Watcher clicks once and Veneno steps forward. She observes the Shadow melt into the darkness, the armor of a world darker than the darkest night encasing their figure and shrouding them from her eyes. She does not see them even when she prompts her bio-mask to exit the full spectrum mode built into the device. It perplexes her, and annoys her, but her feelings do not matter when the Watcher nods at her pa-e at his side._

_“Sweet child of mine... You’ve grown so much.” Her pa-e is nicer than the Watcher, though not without hard eyes of her own._

_The woman is nine feet in height, with elegance in every twist of her locs falling down her sides. She lounges at the side of the Watcher, surrounded by colorful fabrics that shift and sway with each breath. Veneno knows her pa-e may look comfortable, but she has seen her pa-e leap forward and slit throats at a moment’s notice before._

_“What do you think, Gkinmara? Dto has given you their thoughts. You must have an answer.” Kiande-Dekna croons at the Watcher. His hand entangles in the woman’s locs. It looks surprisingly gentle for a man who skins prey alive for Ka’Torag-Na’s personal entertainment._

_The behemoth of her ma-e tilts his head to one side. Unlike her pa-e, who wears fine gowns and ghostly pieces of ivory and bone across her form, her ma-e continues to wear the fine veritanium armor. It is polished and contains a beautiful sheen, a glow of power reflecting little light like the shadow the Watcher truly is._

_“Veneno… Step forward.” The Suckling does so, and the Watcher rises to his feet. He is not as tall as her beautiful ma-e, yet the eight feet is imposing, and certainly taller than most Yautja in the clan. Looking up at him feels like looking into a reaper of Cetanu, into an emissary of the Black Hunter himself. Veneno stands still while Gkinmara circles her and looks her up and down. Afterward, Gkinmara whistles and Veneno bows her head and steps back. The Watcher turns to her pa-e. “She’s a child, Kiande—"_

_“Our child.” Kiande calls to him, unafraid of interrupting. “Do you believe in our thwei, beloved? Or do you mean to say I have taken the wrong man as my mate?”_

_Veneno does not understand the double meanings of the sentences, but she knows they exist. She refuses to flinch when the Watcher roars across the court. For a second, she catches a glimpse of dark hues shifting in the shadows nearby; she turns on her bio-mask’s optical system and confirms the figure present. The Shadow watches and waits for commands. It only takes one order for the Shadow to act, and Veneno knows she and her pa-e would be headless corpses in minutes._

_“You have not.” The Watcher snarls at her pa-e. “If you believe she can handle it—I put my faith in our thwei. Veneno!” The eyes of her ma-e fall on her and the Suckling snaps her head upright. She stares at the Watcher’s mask, an ornate avian design with deep visors where eye sockets would be on the head. Gkinmara snaps at her, “I have chosen you to carry out the poison of Ka’Torag-Na’s fallen. The lives lost at the hands of those who are Ruthless will be avenged. Do you agree, child?”_

_“Ki’sei!” Veneno shouts. “I am the poison of Ka’Torag-Na’s fallen, Clan Leader.”_

_“You will be given to Gahn’tha-cte in exchange for one of their own,” Gkinmara tilts his head to one side. Yautja tusks and teeth have been turned into beautiful beads put within his dark locs. “You are not Veneno, child. You are an orphan. You have no family. You will mask yourself as one of them, grow in their name, and speak not of your true origins. Tell me this, child.”_

_“I am an orphan. I possess no family. I will mask myself in the name of Gahn’tha-cte and speak not of my true origins.”_

_“You will fulfill the orders of Ka’Torag-Na’s ruling power when you receive them. That is your objective, child. For the honor of those who lurk in the darkness, and for the honor bestowed upon you with this role. Who are you, child? What is your role? Who do you serve?” The Watcher hisses in a voice sharper than the finest cut blade._

_“I am the poison Ka’Torag-Na’s fallen, Clan Leader. I will fulfill the orders given to me by Ka’Torag-Na’s ruling power. I serve those who lurk in the darkness.” The nameless child answers immediately. She dares not move when the Watcher begins to clack his mandibles together in satisfaction. It is only when he whistles and the Shadow creeps out of the darkness nearby that the nameless Suckling bows her head. She follows, unprompted, as the Shadow clicks once at her and leads her out of the court, past the royal guards, and through a labyrinth of dark tunnels and corridors sprawling the clanship._

_She is silent when they take her to the docking bay, a spacecraft already prepared for the departure._

_“Shadow.” Her voice sounds young and frail, already shifting to the guise asked of her by the Watcher and his mate. The heavily armored Yautja pauses at the side of the spacecraft. They turn and face her, but she sees no eyes. The nameless child tilts her head. “When they ask my name, what will the poison of Ka’Torag-Na say?”_

_The Shadow tilts their head to the side, as if mirroring the child’s reaction. They lift their hand to their mask, a beautiful alloy of the deepest, darkest black the nameless child has ever seen. The Shadow’s voice creeps out like a soft, passing wind as they click, “What do you see, poison of Ka’Torag-Na?”_

_“I see… an umbra. A darkness who lurks in the shadows of Ka’Torag-Na. An umbra skull.” The nameless child answers._

_“Take it up as your name, poison of Ka’Torag-Na.” The Shadow inputs a command into a computer strapped to their left gauntlet. The spacecraft extends a ramp as the Yautja speaks. “From this point forward, you are Ikthya-De-th’Syra, Umbra Skull and poison of Ka’Torag-Na.”_

* * *

There are certain things he needs to say when his _mei-hswei_ approves his release from the pod. He knows it has been at least a day, potentially two. H’chak’s mind is full of regret and worry. His orange eyes narrow at Guan’s thermal signature when his pod hatch unlocks and the former climbs out of the medical pod with sore, cramped limbs. H’chak does not have time to stretch before Guan clicks to get his attention, _“If you attack anyone else onboard, I will have you contained to the pod for the duration of the trip home.”_

 _“Wasn’t planning on it.”_ The _kv’var-de_ clicks back, annoyed. His mandibles twitch. He scans the room but notes the only other thermal signature is contained to one of the other medical pods. _“—Where is the nurse?”_

 _“Bist’ri. Her name is Bist’ri.”_ Guan’s words are tense. The man doesn’t trust him.

He huffs. _“Where is the nurse?”_

_“Bist’ri.”_

_“Repeating her name doesn’t change the fact I need to know where she is.”_ Every second with the man is irritating, reminding H’chak of all the times he has been overshadowed by, compared to, and defeated by the higher-ranked individual. He seethes as he stands. _“I want to apologize to Bist’ri—"_

_“Adjutant Bist’ri.”_

_“For pauk’s sake—”_ H’chak cusses the man out. He turns away. _“Where do I find a paukin’ bio-mask? Equipment? Do I need to address those by titles too? I wasn’t aware you became such a diplomat! How formal! Frivolous! Here I thought you were just an asshole. What a load of cjit. Cetanu forgive me for wanting to apologize.”_

 _“She’s resting. Away from you.”_ Is his _mei-hswei_ ’s response. The other Yautja does not give H’chak an answer to his actual questions. Guan straightens upright and looks down at him when the man strides up to the Adjutant and hisses. Guan growls back.

H’chak has never hated someone so much. His orange eyes are a blaze of rage. Every pent-up thought, frustration, second spent scolding, every inch of self-hate, of anger, of moping, of hours spent lamenting and wishing things were different, it all swirls inside him like a maelstrom, a vortex, a tidal wave about to hit the coast. He hates the man. He hates Guan more than he has ever hated anyone or anything before. Not even Stargazer, not even the Elders, _no one_ provokes as much fury and fire in his blood as Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. The Adjutant. The perfect Elite.

_“Who is Sundew?”_

Yet in a second, it all falls from H’chak’s shoulders. He stills and his four hearts skip beats in unison. He looks away. His chest tightens. He does not want to share the information. It is unnatural, yet he carries a seed of fear deep in himself, rooted to the memory of how Guan challenged him for Ikthya-De’s favor. He knows Sundew would not abandon him. He knows she would not choose Guan over him, especially after everything the two have lived through together. But H’chak thinks, and he fears, and he feels the anxiety brew in the background.

He hisses softly in response. _“She’s my mate. **Mine.** ”_

 _“H’chak.”_ His _mei-hswei_ is gradually becoming irritated. _“I don’t intend to have her.”_

 _“I’d kill you if you tried.”_ H’chak snarls. The anger begins to rise in his chest a second time. He is not typically a possessive man, not to this extent, yet the thought of Guan repeating the actions of the past, of ripping someone he _loves_ from him in such a crude and humiliating way, it fuels his thoughts, his paranoia, and his fear.

 _“I’m only asking because I want to help you find her.”_ _Adjutant_ Guan speaks stiffly. He clicks when H’chak looks away. _“We took two oomans with us when we left Terra. Perhaps she is one of them?”_

 _“She’s not an ooman—When we left Terra? When you left Terra? When you ripped me off Terra unwillingly?”_ His hands begin to tremble. He clenches his eyes shut to keep away tears. _“If she isn’t on this ship—I—”_

 _“Think before you speak.”_ Guan warns.

It makes H’chak feel like a Suckling again, like Guan reverts to the position of wise older sibling and he nothing but a small, hapless, naïve child. It is patronizing. H’chak growls at him. The bastard hasn’t changed in cycles. _“Where are the oomans? Where is my ship? Why the pauk did you think this was a good idea?”_

_“—The Kukulkan is tailing the Echinos right now. The oomans are in the containment cell. The ic’jit is currently in a medical pod, sedated, and will be moved to the containment cell after Bist’ri determines she is sufficiently healed.”_

_“I thought it was Adjutant Bist’ri?”_

_“—You are being put on trial for aiding a Ka’Torag-Na ic’jit, M-di-H’chak,”_ Guan’s use of his full name makes the man’s anger grow. He is so sick of his _mei-hswei_ acting superior to him. But he is smart; H’chak shuts up long enough to hear the man out, _“For interrupting a hunt—And executing two Arbitrators. The Elders voted to have you brought in for trial over branding you an ic’jit on the spot. I volunteered to escort you back to Gahn’tha-cte.”_

 _“What a useful asshole you are.”_ He does not hide the sarcasm.

 _“You—”_ The words strike a nerve. H’chak finds satisfaction in seeing Guan’s fists roll up into balls. The man grabs H’chak by the collar of his broken thermal suit. H’chak hisses when the other Yautja lifts him off the ground. _“I am this close to tossing you in the airlock and calling it a day, mei-hswei.”_

 _“Why don’t you? After all the ways you pauked up my life—It’ll be a mercy_. _A h’chak.”_ H’chak spits at the man’s feet. His bitterness wins. He cannot stay angry when he is so defeated. His orange eyes slowly dim as he clicks. _“Why do you ruin everything I love? Every nok of happiness? Why can’t you be satisfied with what you have, Guan? All I wanted was her—And you took Ikthya-De from me. All I wanted was her—And you—Ripped—My mate—From my arms—”_ He cannot stand when Guan drops him. H’chak drops to the ground, sits, and holds his head in his hands. _“She’s not ooman. She’s not on the ship. She’s not here. She’s not… She’s in trouble. She’s in trouble. I can’t help her. I can’t protect her. My mate—And I—”_ He howls at himself, at the world, at Guan, unable to repress the turbulent mix of emotions at his own failures and shortcomings. _“I can’t protect her. I can’t keep her safe. I can’t… Pauk… You pauking s’yuit-de, H’chak! S’yuit-de, kv’var-de! S’yuit-de, s’yuit-de, s’yuit-de!”_

* * *

He watches his _mei-hswei_ crumple on the ground, repeating the words, the criticism, at himself. It is surreal to see how quickly H’chak returns the blame to his own actions. His _mei-hswei_ has always been that way: quick to call out his own failures, always stretching himself out too thin, never quite reaching the goal in his mind. Guan knows the feeling. He has spent many nights a broken man. He can accept he has destroyed his _mei-hswei_ ’s life, that he does not deserve forgiveness or respect from H’chak, yet to see it firsthand, to see his _mei-hswei_ blame himself instead of Guan is… melancholy.

 _I wanted to protect you._ He wants to click, to say, to plead. _I couldn’t protect Chirp. I failed one mei-hswei. I didn’t want to fail another._

But he knows he has failed H’chak. He knows, and it comes back stinging in that gut-wrenching way, the way that digs under his skin and tears through his flesh with a wretched sense of dread and ill and all the self-deprecation the universe holds. He had forgotten, briefly, when standing with Tjau’ke’s Adjutant, when filling his thoughts with the blue nurse, that he does not deserve happiness, forgiveness, redemption. Nothing.

He has failed H’chak again.

 _“I’m sorry.”_ Guan whispers softly.

 _“Sorry won’t bring her back.”_ H’chak snaps from the floor.

 _“Rightfully so.”_ The Adjutant exhales. _“I will… Find you a bio-mask. Equipment.”_

His _mei-hswei_ doesn’t respond. Guan watches him leave before he has the chance to speak further.

* * *

The two have been alone in the soft-lit room for what feels like an eternity. There is not much furniture: two cots protruding from the wall, a table, one lamp, an empty shelf. A single washroom connects to the side, hinting the room was a cabin prior to a cell. Jo finds no matter how she thinks about it, it feels like a prison. There is an emptiness to it, a bleakness that perforates her spirit and leaves her gloomy and morose. Her surprise party feels like centuries ago. Louanne’s bitchiness feels like another lifetime. Ivon’s confused, panicked blathering about Tall Strom feels like the stone age when she lives in modern times.

Things were finally making sense before. The trio of humans got along. The woman does not understand why things had to change. She feels bitter about it, but she strives not to show it when her and Ivon remain in precarious circumstances, if the metal collars around both human’s necks are anything to go off.

These _Yautja_ are not like Mercy or Tall Strom. They do not understand English, or what little Jo remembers of French and Spanish from her high school days. Most of the time, the two humans have been left to their own devices with the Yautja coming by only to check on them. Jo likes to imagine the aliens want to make sure they are alive. She doesn’t know what value she holds to a bunch of random, hulking, smelly creatures, but she knows Ivon’s talents are spectacular. _Perhaps these aliens want them to build things? But it is alien technology—Yautja technology. So. Shouldn’t they know how to build it themselves? Fuck, I don’t get it._

She doesn’t know how long the two humans are in the room. It could be hours, days, weeks, god know—Jo doesn’t. She keeps watch over Ivon’s resting form most of the time. The signs of their concussion are obvious: the person demonstrates a lack of coordination in their movements. They space out more than Jo remembers them doing before, as if becoming unaware of where they are repeatedly. They sleep a lot. They express confusion during the times they are awake or complain of nausea and dizziness.

Jo’s chest tightens at the thought of how they got the concussion: one of the Yautja, a blue one with white specks across the scales, ripped both humans away and shielded the two from Stargazer and the white bitch. She doesn’t understand _why_. She recalls seeing Alma—or GHOST? If it even matters—fight the blue alien into a corner. If the alien possesses alien technology, like the kind that makes the energy blast thingy Ivon used back in Tucson, then everything makes even less sense.

 _Why not blast us all? You weren’t here for us. Right? I don’t think? Or—At least blast me. I apparently mean nothing to these assholes._ Jo grits her teeth and exhales. She needs to remain calm. There is no room for frustration when fear is so poignant.

That and the smell of barbecue. She has never smelled so much fucking barbecue in her life. It makes her stomach growl but all she or Ivon gets to chow on is gruel-covered tack. Bland, boring, nigh-tasteless hard tack. She misses the snake ship and the food from her party. There were leftover to last a couple days, and Mercy was more open to taking trips to human cities to stock up on shit.

 _Fuck. Ivon’s prescriptions._ The woman grits her teeth and climbs to her feet. There is a door to the room, but it is closer to a massive window than the circular doors she is used to on the snake ship. Jo walks to the door, inhales deeply, ignores her stomach begging for barbecue, and knocks on the glass.

“C’mon, c’mon…” The woman grumbles. “I’ve seen you assholes walk by before! I know you’re there!”

When an alien does pop up in front of the door, Jo squeaks and looks up. The Yautja is not one of the two she’s come to ‘know’, being _considerably_ larger than either and significantly more muscular. The one standing in front of the door is seven-foot-five.

He—if he is a him, she is uncertain—is nothing less than a bodybuilder in muscle mass, jacked beyond belief to the point Jo questions if his muscles might pop and spurt everywhere. She sees the amber coloration, and the areas where the hue lightens or darkens. She sees the plates of armor snuggled against his thighs, his biceps, strapping his pectoral muscles and binding to his shoulders. He’s _big_ , in height, in muscle, in more ways than one. Jo swallows nervously as she stares at the alien. She notes he does not share in the same style of locs as Tall Strom or Mercy—This Yautja has thick red locs, not pitch black, and the locs are such a way that they are twisted first on their lonesome, then twisted with another loc, causing a doubly-twisted loc to spiral down the sides of the Yautja’s skull. It feels intimidating, but Jo is brave and foolish. She refuses to back down when the door opens and the Tall Yellow Alien With Red Hair steps through the door. The smell of barbecue is poignant and thick.

Tall Yellow Alien—she needs more apt nicknames—wears a sleek, shiny mask with sharp, angled features along the brow ridges and mouth. She makes a point to avoid staring where the oval eye visors sink into the alloy of the mask.

Jo hears the alien call over his shoulder in a string of clicks. One of the noises is familiar, but most of the screeching is beyond her. She tenses visibly as a second pair of footsteps strides into view, then into the room, bringing with him a drastically different scent than barbecue. The aroma of barbecue—she is so hungry for something besides gruel tack—mixes with the aroma of damp earth and wet soil. She immediately pins the smell as coming from _him_ , because Tall Yellow Alien is the barbecue behemoth and no other odors stand out until the other Yautja. steps into the room.

“Mercy,” Jo says softly.

* * *

His steps are heavy. There are noises across the _Echinos_ in the background: the ships engines, the clicks of others talking in the containment cell, the rush whenever the ventilation filters in new air to breath, it all fades into the background. Most of the _Echinos_ fades with it. It is impossible to have a clear head and ready awareness when the rest of the world is full of cjit. He does not know where he is going, only that he hurts. His chest hurts. His body hurts. _He_ hurts.

He is much less a warrior than his _mei-hswei._ H’chak has stood up and fought even after losing everything. He has lost nothing in comparison, only taken—no, _stripped_ his _mei-hswei_ of reputation, influence, and honor. All in the name of safety, in what feels like a ploy orchestrated by those beyond his comprehension; the man cannot handle it. His mind is a mess. He is a mess. He knows he is not okay; he knows he cannot handle himself in _every single pauking way_ he has _messed up ruined destroyed ripped apart catastrophized_. H’chak finds a way to continue, to survive, even after losing everything; Guan loses nothing, and yet he crumbles. He falls. He cannot fathom his _mei-hswei_ ’s strength, a will to continue onward despite how thoroughly life seeks to break his spirit.

He wishes he could have that. It does not feel within reach. Nothing feels within reach. He is only Adjutant in title, not in worth, not because he demonstrates the capabilities necessary to lead the Clan. He is not sure why Daga picked him to begin with. He is not sure why he is an Elite when he is clearly lacking in combat training, in Hunts completed, in… everything.

 _What do I do now?_ He finds his thoughts lost in a daze. His steps carry him up and down the _Echinos_ , like an ooman pacing violently, lost in thought, but he cannot find solace or peace on his own. He knows he can’t. He doesn’t deserve it.

He doesn’t know when he stops at the cabin door and knocks. He does not remember the fact he shares the room with another until the door slides to the side, disappears into the wall, and in front of him stands, exactly one-thirteenth a nok shorter than him, Bist’ri.

 _“Guan.”_ She clicks.

 _“I… Forgot the cabin was yours for this day cycle.”_ The man trills. Uncertain. He can see the tension in the nurse’s hands. She is a sharp, observant individual. Guan bows his head. _“Don’t let me disturb your rest.”_

 _“I’m done resting. Do you need the room?”_ Bist’ri clicks. When he doesn’t give an answer, she clicks again, _“—Are you alright, Guan?”_

He stills. The aroma intoxicates him, the only respite from the weight on his back. _Sea, salt, and sand…_

_“Guan?”_

He knows he can trust her. His mandibles twitch behind his bio-mask.

 _“I’m not okay,”_ he clicks softly. _“I’m not okay, Bist’ri.”_

The other Adjutant falls silent.

 _“I can’t—I’m not… strong enough. To do this,”_ His voice cracks. To admit weakness goes against everything he knows. His instinct is to resist it, to continue as he has for cycles, to be the calm, composed Adjutant under Akrei-non-Daga’s leadership. To expose all the faults in himself, to open himself up to her judgement, it is a glimpse into the raw, shattered man he truly is. The Adjutant does not realize his hands shake until the nurse takes them in her own. His mind is a chasm torn between the smell of the coast and the morbid awareness he is not the man he wants to be.

He feels weak. His teeth clench and he tries to stifle the weakness, but with nowhere else to go it spreads across his flesh and leaves his form trembling where he stands. He hears Bist’ri’s soft exhale. When she pulls him through the door, unto the threshold of loyalty and dishonor, his will, his restraint, _he_ breaks, briefly. He leans into her touch, seeking out her warmth, seeking out her safety, and finding comfort when she lets go of his hands to wrap her arms around him. His blood shudders under the siren’s smell of _salt, sand, sea_ ; his grip on her tightens and he inhales and gulps as much air as he can. The curve of his bio-mask, where the metal stretches and covers the crest of his forehead, bumps and clicks against her own when he rubs his head against hers, desperate yet acutely aware of lines neither can cross.

Her hands are gentle. Without gloves, he can feel the soft, smooth scales of her fingers, and the rough edges of her claws that skim his back in shapes, in circles. Guan shudders again and buries his head in the crook of her neck. He breathes in the call of the coast. _“I… I…”_

 _“Don’t apologize to me,”_ the nurse clicks softly. _“You haven’t done me wrong yet, Guan.”_

_“One day I will—”_

_“Don’t say that. Don’t…”_ Bist’ri trails off. She inhales deeply, loudly, enough for him to hear. She clicks softly at his shudder. _“I don’t expect you to be perfect. You are Daga’s Adjutant; he is far from perfect, but he serves as Gahn’tha-cte’s leader.”_

_“He demands perfection.”_

_“Well, I don’t.”_ the nurse draws back. Her hands fall to the side of his hips. Her touch is light as a feather, full of uncertainty, of warmth, of what he cannot have but wants. The trill she offers him is kind, kinder than he deserves, _“Don’t hold yourself to those expectations around me. All I want is—Is—"_ She stops mid-sentence. Her hands draw back and fall to her side. Likewise, Guan’s does the same; he steps back and finds the nurse avoids looking at him. _“I would like you to be… successful, Guan. As Adjutant. As… you. I want you to prosper. You’re a kind man. I have—Rarely in my life have I found another Yautja with such empathy. I admire that about you.”_

 _“I admire everything about you.”_ He does not mean to say it aloud, the thought passing through his head, but the man does. No sooner than he clicks the words does the Adjutant freeze. _“Forgive me, I… I… I…”_ The heat that blooms in his face is a distraction from the heaviness anchoring his body. He swallows, nervous, anxiety surging through his form. _“Pretend I didn’t say that.”_

Bist’ri pauses. Then—She nods. _“If that is what you want, Guan—”_

_Salt. Sand. Sea._

_“It’s not what I want.”_ Guan shakes his head. _“It’s—”_

 _“Guan.”_ Bist’ri exhales slowly. _“You don’t need to explain. It is time I return to my duties. I still have one patient...”_

His orange eyes dim behind his bio-mask. He slowly nods. The man watches Bist’ri clear her throat, excuse herself, and leave. Yet no sooner does she leave, does the _kv’var-de_ drop to his knees. He throws his head back, clenches his teeth, and hisses; it does nothing to keep the tears from falling.

* * *

He looks how Jo remembers him. Not that she is close with the guy, but the tall, lean green killing machine has the same white motley of scales dipping down his neck and across his torso and abdomen. Specks of brown meld into the soft green, reminding her not quite of a jungle, but perhaps a meadow or forest. She sees lines of scars stretching across his flesh. She notes he puts most of his weight on his right leg. The alien wears a mask but does not have more than the skimpy leathery wrappings around his groin and the fishnet suit for other apparel.

 _God, I forgot they’re all aliens. Yautja. They’re Yautja. Aliens. Fuck it, they haven’t killed me yet._ Jo inhales deeply. Her stomach growls for barbecue; she tells it to shut up. Her eyes narrow on Mercy and she slowly lifts her palms when neither he or Tall Yellow Alien say anything. “—Hey, uh. Mercy. Hi. I’m glad you’re not dead! ‘Cause… ‘Cause the doctor is. Yeah.” She bites her lip.

There’s no way to gauge Mercy’s reaction. She doesn’t know what it means even when he does something a human might do like tilt his head to the side. Jo regrets not asking Louanne for information on known Yautja body language in the past.

She makes herself sad again by thinking of Louanne. The woman grimaces internally; now is not a time to mourn.

Mercy begins to click at her. Jo freezes and holds her palms up. She eyeballs Mercy’s mask. “—I dunno what you’re saying—Sorry!”

Behind her, from one of the retractable-cot-things, Jo hears Ivon groan in pain while they sleep. Her gaze dims; she looks from them back to Mercy. The alien begins clicking and chirping at her a second time. She swears he curses in his language when she balks like a young child watching a magician perform for the first time.

“I… I just don’t know what you’re saying. I know, us humans are real fucking asinine not knowing how to make guttural cave screams on command.” Jo exhales sharply. Her shoulders slump. “How did you do it before? Make those… Make your helmet voice things? Can’t you do it again? Because that’s the only way I understand you. I mean, I’ve tried to pick up what I can, but zero times zero is still zero.”

* * *

The Elite has no idea what the pauk the ooman goes on about. Gry’Sui-Bpi-de has little experience with _Terra’s_ languages. He can only pick up some of the soft meat’s statements, something with numbers, helmets, and screaming. _Pauk… Hurry up, M-di-H’chak. Get your point across already so I can leave these soft meats and find Bezas._

In comparison to the smooth-talking, aloof mechanic, the two oomans in the room are far less appealing. One of them is a scrawny, pasty mess of unkempt yellow hair on a bed. The pasty oomans drifts in and out of consciousness, garments containing some kind of ooman logo on the front and back of the shirt while short, useless pants cover the groin and thighs. Not a hint of protection against a blade. His _dah’kte_ could rip through their flesh like butter.

 _Weak_ , Gry’Sui growls on the inside. _Useless for fights. Doesn’t wear armor. Cocky, foolish, naïve?_

The other is much less inactive. She is an ooman woman, one with deep brown skin and black hair that coils and twists into locs not unlike most of the Yautja on the ship. Her outfit is a spectacle of colors, brilliant cool hues that would have her hit by arrows or a sivk’va-tai in an open field within seconds. An off-cyan, teal hue set of shorts—apparently oomans know _cjit_ about the importance of armor—that cuts off at the mid-thigh, a piece of aqua-colored fabric to obscure her chest, shoulders, and mammalian glands, and beneath the top covering—He stares at a cobalt blue garment, visible due to the aqua garment’s semi-transparent nature. The darker blue fabric covers the chest, but the flimsy straps are in no one capable of protecting the shoulders.

 _Do none of these oomans know how to dress for combat?_ Gry’Sui’s black eyes narrow. His mandibles flare as he growls at H’chak to hurry up with his questions.

 _“These bio-masks don’t have universal translation chips or software installed, do they?”_ M-di-H’chak is a strange Elite. He radiates a deep, sickening tension. Since coming out of torpor by the hands of Honorable Tjau’ke’s Adjutant, H’chak has since entered heat. The smell is not appealing. It reminds Gry’Sui of mud, like water mixing in with the ground. It reminds him of Daga’s Adjutant, though Gry’Sui knows better than to bring up _Gahn’tha-cte-Guan_ around the Elite who was dishonored by him.

H’chak turns to face him. The other Elite is shorter, only seven-feet compared to his seven-foot-five. It paints an amusing picture when H’chak tries to hiss and intimidate him. Gry’Sui snorts and ignores the man’s ego. He clicks a single word in response, _“M-di.”_

 _“Pauk.”_ H’chak hisses softly. _“Neither of them know our language. Even if I understand them…”_ The man shakes his head.

Gry’Sui does not miss the patches of scars scattered sporadically across the green Yautja’s skull. Places where locs have been gouged out, where the thick hair follicles have been usurped from flesh, stand out like a sickening mosaic. Some of those markings are due to his dishonorable loss at the hands of Ghn’tha-cte-Guan during the Challenging. Others look more precise, as if surgically extracted instead of crudely chopped off. It is a tragedy; the man’s remaining locs indicate he possesses the _Pride of Cetanu,_ the locs which are darker than the darkest night and considered divine’s blessing.

He is not concerned with H’chak’s problem. He does not understand why the Elite would bother taking a mate beyond another Yautja species in the first place. H’chak may not possess social reputation, but he could live life not finding shame in laying with an ooman or other unworthy species. There are none equal to a Yautja but another Yautja.

The ooman woman says something that makes the other Elite snap his attention back to her. Gry’Sui grimaces and looks away. He sucks in a breath of air, bored, and wonders if Kwei-Bezas has plans for the evening. The engineer is not the most attractive, but they have a solid work history behind them and the respect of every engineer in Clan Gahn’tha-cte. Looks do not matter as far as bearers are concerned; it is _his_ genes he concerns himself with, seeking to seed as many bearers as possible during the mating season. While mating occurs during the off season, it is nowhere as prevalent and often reserved for established pairs.

Gry’Sui shuts his eyes and zones out, uninterested in the ooman’s and H’chak’s attempts at communication. He flexes his muscles, stretches, and breathes.

And then it hits him: his olfactory receptors pick up on a bizarre aroma wafting through the room. Gry’Sui’s black eyes open and he looks beyond his mask for a possible source. There are no plants. He pauses, baffled. _Lav’a-da?_

It is subtle at first, but once he identifies it, the man cannot smell anything else. Not the ground after rainfall, not the blond ooman’s ugly aroma of some alien plant, not even the traces of his meaty musk, only that of the slender green plant with dozens of tiny purple flowers hanging off the side. On _Terra,_ the flower is referred to as _Lavender_ , a fragrant bloom in the mint family. Other than use as an herb in niche situations, there is no reason for a Yautja to care about _lav’a-da_. Yautja _hunt,_ they do not go flower picking. He should not find it so effective, yet the odor breaches his senses and slowly sinks into his head.

He looks at the ooman speaking with Mercy. She is not very tall, perhaps five-foot-eight or five-foot-nine at the most. For all he knows, she could be in the prime of her life, as oomans have such short lifespans and only a few cycles of peak prowess before old age catches up with them. He squints beyond his mask at the ooman. His black eyes narrow. _Lav’a-da…_

His head is not straight, for a moment passes where Gry’Sui considers dwelling on it further. He knows not to pursue such disgusting ideas. Oomans are filthy, weak, inferior creatures, _pyode amedha,_ the soft meat, and he is a Yautja. He is strong. He could crush the ooman in a second, _any_ ooman. Gry’Sui’s thoughts comfort him; he puffs up his chest and growls under breath, trying to demonstrate just how masculine, fierce, and deadly he is as a warrior, an Elite, _kv’var-de_.

The ooman woman has not so much given him a glance, too occupied speaking softly to H’chak. Gry’Sui’s ego begins to sting. He is _not_ to be ignored. The other Elite does not hold ranking above him. Yet when he looks, when he really, truly _looks_ , Gry’Sui realizes something is amiss with the ooman woman. She talks very softly in her strange words with her strange alien lips. He cannot understand them—not that he wants to—but he picks up the emotions carried in the sounds of her language. She is sad. She is mournful.

H’chak’s hands suddenly begin to shake. Gry’Sui snaps upright, alert, and hisses at the Elite to calm. He is not taking a chance with H’chak trying to jump another individual on the ship, even if his target is one of the oomans. H’chak snaps his head at Gry’Sui and howls in sheer anger before storming out of the room. Gry’Sui cannot ask the ooman woman what she said; he does not understand her. He gives her only a passing look before ducking out of the room, closing the cell door, and running after M-di-H’chak who spews and spouts curses of all kinds.

 _“She lies!”_ Is the first thing he says when Gry’Sui catches up with him. _“The nerve of the ooman! Pyode amedha! Liar! She’s not—She’s not taken the final rest—Pauk!”_ When H’chak tries to throw a punch at the wall, Gry’Sui intervenes and grabs the man’s wrist mid-air.

The latter hisses at him. Gry’Sui growls in response. _“I don’t know what cjit you two talked about but control yourself. You're an Elite. Act like one.”_

 _“She lies,”_ The other Elite spits the words a second time. H’chak is furious. _“S’yuit-de! Brave but foolish!”_

 _“Why would you think differently, kv’var-de?”_ Gry’Sui grits his inner jaw. He may find her and the other ooman a blemish on the universe, but he knows better than to think oomans can be trusted. _Pyode amedha_ are prey—Not friends. Not equals. Not even companions. _Prey._

Gry’Sui lets go of M-di-H’chak. He looks the younger Elite up and down. Like Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, M-di-H’chak is a strange _kv’var-de_ , having been promoted early to the honorable rank of Elite. It is one of the reasons the two’s Challenging brought a spur of activity and shock across Clan Gahn’tha-cte: two Elites, each regarded as highly proficient in their respective areas of training, sought to fight for a bearer’s favor when either could have easily found another mating partner for the cycle’s season. To Gry’Sui, it feels like something is missing, that he does not have the full hologram. 

_Does it matter?_ The Elite questions himself. _M-di. This man lost. The Adjutant spared his life. That is… all. I do not need to understand it to do my job.  
_

Scrutinizing the past and others are responsibilities reserved for Elders. Gry’Sui’s black eyes harden behind his mask. He clicks at H’chak to get the man’s attention. _“If you do not control your temper—You will be put in a pod, or the cell with the oomans. Make your choice.”_

_“My mate’s been taken from me—She’s gone—”_

His grip on H’chak’s wrist tightens. The Brawler squares up with the shorter man. _“I don’t like repeating myself.”_

 _“Ell-osde’ pauk.”_ The other Elite growls.

He does not like repeating himself. Gry’Sui does not have a problem grabbing the man by his throat and flinging him down the corridor at the medical bay. The other Elite is strong, but significantly weaker in comparison to his wall of muscles. Gry’Sui has little trouble physically overpowering the unarmed Yautja and twisting the man’s arm behind his back. He applies enough pressure to threaten a fracture before snarling, _“I’m running out of patience.”_

 _“Pauk!”_ H’chak writhes a moment further before giving up. _“Pauk! Pauk! Pauk! All of you!”_

Gry’Sui returns the sentiment as he marches the man down the corridor and into the medical bay.

* * *

 _“Phanes root…”_ The thin, spriggly roots of the plant are already dry. She twiddles the root slowly, using the pads of her thumb and fingers to ease the thin outer skin off. It feels like wax, _unnatural,_ yet it serves a purpose, and she knows how to make use of these things.

The plant is cut into small pieces, chopped finer than fine, and put into a small rock bowl. She adds in a handful of gleaming green seeds. The seeds of Quai are not pleasant to consume. Ingestions leads to terrible headaches, a dry throat, and dizziness. In some species, particularly those of the Cassowary star system, it is known for causing the microvilli on tongues, to transmit false information to the brain. These seeds have soaked in distilled water since departing the Gahn’tha-cte clanship. They feel slimy in her hands before she drops them in.

 _“…Seeds of Quai… and…”_ She inhales deeply. The capsule she pulls from her bag contains one larva of the _Ichneumonoidea_ family. It is dead—But the Phanes root has its uses; it is not outlawed by most clans for no reason. She drops it into the bowl, picks up a pestle, and begins to grind the ingredients together. The dead parasitoid is crushed flat, then into dozens of pieces as she works it within the bright red of the Phanes root and green of the Quai seeds. It becomes a rough paste. She spits in it. The mixture does not react; _good_. The Yautja retrieves a syringe, fills it, and sets it aside. She unclasps her breastplate, pulls off her pauldrons, and yanks her thermal mesh suit down to her hips, exposing the natural dark, almost black green hues of her smooth scales.

She wipes the injection site down and pulls a knife from a sheathe strapped to her right thigh. The blade sails through her flesh as she carves away scales but does not pull them off. She grabs the syringe and clenches her teeth as she thrusts the needle through flesh, tissue, and muscle. It is not quick; she pushes it half a _nok_ inside her flesh before it pierces the appropriate organ. To do such a damning thing, in a mating season no less, if she were one of Gahn’tha-cte she might call it dishonorable.

The Yautja growls and finishes the injection. She seethes in agony, barely contained through the grinding of her teeth, but the process is not done. Implantation, yes, but her flesh must mend. The regeneration serum is loaded into a clean syringe and injected in the same location, all the way up to the point where she cut off her scales. She relaxes only when the serum takes the scales and melds them back to her flesh.

It is not perfect, but no one has looked at her bare body long enough to keep track of her normal scars. She pulls her thermal mesh back up, dons her armor, and wipes her knife clean. The smell of blood is lost in the _n’dui-se_ of the Yautja across the ship. Ikthya-De finds it amusing how most Yautja overlook the uses of the mating season, reducing it down to an irritant or pleasure alone. She knows better. The fire coursing through her veins, that which leaves her aching for the touch of another, it has use. She does not care for her mate, nor any other individual onboard the ship, but they each serve a purpose.

Right now, she has a target. He has just toppled the cusp of being embraced by the throes of _n’dui-se_ spread across the _Echinos._ To get to him, she must take care of the two Adjutants onboard. It is deliciously easy when the two do the work for her, dancing around the other in a careful waltz of lust and longing. She did not anticipate maintaining the partnership with Gahn’tha-cte-Guan for anything other than political prowess, but in the recesses of a ship infused with musk, in the growing tension and thick atmosphere, she finds her place as _his mate_ to be exactly what she needs to stoke a fire.

The two Adjutants will distract each other. The _ic’jit_ will sit in her cell. Kwei-Bezas has already agreed to assist her in exchange for a favor from those who lurk in the darkness. Gry’Sui-Bpi-de is a man who does not think far enough ahead, and Kwei-Bezas is happy to occupy his time the coming evenings. M-di-H’chak will be alone; just the way she wants him.

 _Only a little bit longer. A little bit longer. Payas, give me strength. Give me strength to bring honor to those who lurk in the darkness._ The substance injected twitches inside her flesh. Ikthya-De exhales, willing her body to settle a little longer before it begins facilitating the response she wants. Time is a commodity; poison needs it to spread.

* * *

Standing in the corridor lined with cabin doors, the blue Yautja shakes as she exhales. Her back hits the door and she struggles to calm her racing heartbeats. No one else is present to see, yet she feels the shame of the world envelop her like thousands of prying, searching eyes. She has not crossed the line into dishonorable. She has not let him cross the line into dishonorable. Yet for a moment, for the briefest seconds passing between the two after the other Adjutant’s declaration, the threshold became very clear in her head, just how _easy_ it is to cross, to step beyond, to embrace him and soothe his longing as well as hers.

The physical ache remains. Her nerves feel like fire. She can still only smell him, the scent of the soil after rainfall, the calmness of the earth with the grace of the skies. If her concern for him ran any less deep—Her selfishness might have won out. Even now, the wretched, dishonorable thought burns in her head and calls to her, tempts her, begs her to act. She refuses to give in so easily, not when there is a way to things, not when _his_ livelihood and duties depend on it. She will not pull him from grace. She is strong enough to resist the urges.

Bist’ri intends to walk away from the cabin door. She makes it several steps, but her attention is drawn to a strange smell. It begins as that, as an odor like tea, as something _Ikthya-De_ reeks of in her own heat. Yet the nurse cannot pull herself away. She walks up to the door of Ikthya-De’s cabin. Her green eyes narrow in concern behind her mask.

 _That smells like… thwei?_ It does not make sense, yet the scent permeates her head and sets every one of her instincts as a trained nurse _running_. Bist’ri lifts her hand and knocks. _“Ikthya-De!”_

She hears a gasp from the inside. A pained garble, almost like a groan. Then the gasps repeat, and at the end of them—She hears Ikthya-De scream. Bist’ri’s eyes widen and she slams her hand on the door where multiple Yautja symbols cycle between black and white outlines. As Adjutant Nurse, she has automatic authority to override any lock onboard the ship. It is a privilege not taken lightly; she has never done it before. Her hands shake and she hears someone leave a room near her.

The smell of burning something fills the air; Bist’ri does not give the Yautja a chance to speak.

She snaps over her shoulders, _“Something is wrong with Ikthya-De—Get the table clear in the medical bay and my equipment ready!”_

 _“Ah, pauk, I get the job of serious cjit—”_ But Kwei-Bezas does not idle, breaking into a sprint.

Bist’ri’s wrist computer syncs with the door’s lock. She inputs the command to unlock it, throwing it open by force when it does not slide out of the way fast enough. The thick smell of _thwei_ fills the air. Her olfactory receptors register the mess of green spread out across the cabin floor, pooling around a lone figure. The nurse stares in shock at the figure of the wretched woman lying face-down, unconscious. She runs to the woman’s side and presses her fingers against the Yautja’s neck, breathing only when she feels the four thumps, weak as they are, of her heartbeats.

 _“Pauk, Ikthya-De,”_ the nurse curses. She hears footsteps, smells the other Yautja before they arrive, and does not even need to look up to know Gry’Sui and Guan are there. Both stay just outside the door, gawking. Bist’ri snaps at the two, _“I need her moved to the medical bay, now—”_

 _“…By Cetanu.”_ Gry’Sui swallows.

Bist’ri growls. “ _Now.”_

She finds relief in seeing Guan step forward, in knowing he is there for support. Except—The Yautja is not Guan. The smell of earth after rain fills her head but Bist’ri stares at the Yautja known as M-di-H’chak. Her green eyes stare beyond the mask. The Elite _kv’var-de_ , her former patient, is quick to scoop Ikthya-De into his arms. _“Medical bay?”_

 _“Sei-I,”_ Bist’ri grits her teeth. Her mandibles twitch in worry. No matter how much she hates the woman, the life of the patient comes first. She snaps her attention back at H’chak and hisses, _“We need to hurry—”_

 _“What’s wrong with her?”_ Gry’Sui can barely get the words out when H’chak runs past him.

Bist’ri’s green eyes dim. She stops at Gry’Sui’s side and looks at the man’s mask where the visors hide his eyes. _“I think—I think she's… She's having a miscarriage. Her pups... Pauk.”_ Saying the words aloud churns her stomach in a terribly ill way. Bist’ri takes off in a run, clicking over her shoulder as she goes, _“Tell the Adjutant! The other Adjutant—Tell him his mate’s in the medical bay—”_

 _“Ki’sei!”_ The other Elite swears on it. Bist'ri hopes she can trust him.


	42. the value of secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW  
> -miscarriage  
> -gore  
> -heavy implications of past abuse  
> -talk about affairs / cheating  
> -culling / eugenics

_A soft ping comes through on the Yautja’s wrist computer. The Adjutant frowns and inputs the command to display the message through her bio-mask’s optical system. Her eyes widen as she takes in the words. What had been a night cycle of reviewing patient files and finishing reports becomes a flurry of chaos as Tjau’ke struggles to pull on her equipment and scurry out the door of her quarters. The run to the lift is brief, but the lift itself feels like forever as it climbs into the medical bay. She can already see Honorable Elder Sa’ud in a corner of the bay, the only place where the lights remain on in an otherwise dark ship._

_The tall, violet Yautja is in the middle of talking to two figures. One she knows well, and the sight of her old friend tugs at her heartstrings. It is not like Lar’ja to be involved in late night incidents. She is a woman of grief, full of mourning, and rightly so. It has not been but three-zero cycles since the huntress’ mate perished in the same hunt that took one of Lar’ja’s arms. Usually, Tjau’ke does not see the woman outside the residential floor._

_The other figure is a kv’var-de of considerable skill. Tjau’ke has assisted with many of the Elite’s labors in the past, often standing in when Elder Sa’ud is occupied with one of the Elder’s partners. Honorable Ju’dha-Jehdin is a Yautja with fascinating colors, like a murky lagoon, and scales smooth as the finest silks. To see Ju’dha outside the residential floor is not unusual, yet to be called out at such hour spells ill. It paints just how futile the situation is, to have not one but two high-ranking kv’var-de, one a recent Elder, standing and talking to Sa’ud in hushed clicks._

_“Elder Sa’ud,” Tjau’ke interrupts the trio in her approach._

_The Elder’s green eyes dim. “Ah, Tjau’ke—”_

_“Adjutant Tjau’ke.” At the side, the obsidian-scaled form of The Dark Night is No More nods once her way. Lar’ja’s eyes are hidden by her bio-mask, but even in just her voice, Tjau’ke hears the faint relief. At the side, Tjau’ke notes the tension in Ju’dha’s form._

_It suddenly dawns on her, both Lar’ja’s dark form and Ju’dha’s blue green one don full suits of armor, the quality only Yautja of Elite ranks can possess._

_“—Elder Sa’ud—What is going on? You said it was an emergency—But I…” Tjau’ke’s clicks cease when Ju’dha turns to face her._

_In the Yautja’s arms is a bundle, abnormally thin but incredibly long. Ju’dha slowly peels back the fabric._

_Tjau’ke holds a hand over her four mandibles. She exhales softly. “By the gods—”_

_“Elder Sa’ud—On my honor, my trophies, anything I can offer you,” Ju’dha turns back to the old nurse. Their clicks become faint. There is a pungent desperation in their voice. “They will cull her—"_

_“It would be a mercy,” The violet Yautja tilts her head to one side. “Look at her, Ju’dha."_

_“She has a fighting spirit,” the kv’var-de hisses. “If she wants to live—She will live!”_

_“Tjau’ke,” Sa’ud clicks. “Fetch me the old intravenous lines. The—Unmarked ones. Ju’dha, I need your thwei. The serum will not be enough for her; she needs… She needs more than what I am capable of offering. But—I will try.”_

* * *

The smell of _thwei_ in the air is strong, almost as strong as the musk coming off the other Yautja on the ship. Bist’ri heeds it little attention as she works. Her training as a nurse, as _Adjutant_ , keeps her focused no matter how loudly her four hearts beat in her head. She has not sat down in hours, lost in the rhythm of the measuring vitals, cauterizing blood vessels, and trying to keep her stomach contents down. The nature of the injuries is much worse than anything she’s seen before in a miscarriage, and the location of the injuries prompts her to take extra actions in ensuring Ikthya-De’s privacy; the nurse is quick to kick H’chak, Gry’Sui, and Bezas out of the medical bay until she’s done.

By then, the scent of _thwei_ overpowers any _n’dui-se_ left in the room _._

She is exhausted, again.

She wants to sleep, again.

She has a patient, again.

Even after she gets the Yautja to stop bleeding, Bist’ri remains baffled by the injuries. The state of the unconscious, wretched woman’s organs indicate Ikthya-De should be in heat. But the loss of tissue, and the bizarre fetus that passes with blood clots, it indicates there was a pregnancy. The fetus does not look like any she’s studied before, but it is a fetus, the size roughly indicating Ikthya-De was at the start of the second trimester or end of her first trimester.

 _But that doesn’t make sense. If she’s at that state—Shouldn’t the fetus be larger? More developed? Three-month cycles, possibly four—A lot of blood clots._ Bist’ri rakes her brain for answers but finds none. She needs Tjau’ke’s expertise and the clanship’s equipment to properly discern what is occurring in Ikthya-De’s body. She reminds herself not to be disgusted when she picks the fetus up from the extraction pan and places it in a sanitized container. It is, after all, a series of cells that could have become a pup if Ikthya-De had been able to carry it to full term. Bist’ri offers the dead fetus a simple prayer before she stores the container. She picks up and moves Ikthya-De from the metal table to one of the spare medical pods with little difficulty, placing the woman inside the pod and inputting a long command into her wrist computer to activate the pod.

Afterward, the tired nurse cleans up the medical bay. It requires utmost attention to detail, with disposable items and bio-hazardous waste incinerated, and reusable tools placed into the appropriate slots to be run through cleaning cycles. As the Echinos is built for speed and not large-scale transportation, the medical bay is smaller and does not have the automated cleaning features of the Gahn’tha-cte clanship. Bist’ri does it herself; she runs lasers along the surface of the floor and table to remove remaining blood, she scrubs the room with saline and disinfectant, wipes every surface she sees, prompts new air to cycle in and the decontamination process to trigger, and, when done, she strips herself of her mesh bodysuit, puts it in the incinerator, and fetches a clean one free of blood.

She is surprised to find M-di-H’chak outside in the hall. Her green eyes fall on the Elite and she stares. He looks up from where he sits on the corridor floor against the wall. Bist’ri clicks, _“Can I help you?”_

* * *

_“Is she going to be alright?”_ He feels shame bite his throat in the words. H’chak hears the tiny voice in his head chide him for caring after everything the wretched woman and Guan put him through.

The blue Yautja, the one who smells of salt, sand, and sea, pauses. Her bio-mask covers her face, but he can see her weariness in the way she struggles to hold herself up. He watches her posture slack. The nurse clicks quietly, _“I’ve stopped the bleeding. She should recover, Payas willing.”_

 _“Payas willing.”_ H’chak chirps. He exhales and rises to his feet. _“You—You’re Bist’ri, right?”_

 _“Sei-i. And you are—Elite kv’var-de M-di-H’chak.”_ She crosses her arms. It is a protective gesture among oomans, but across Yautja clans it can be an attempt to make one look stronger or more resilient.

He recalls how the two met and the man cringes on the inside. His orange eyes narrow behind his bio-mask. _“I want to apologize, Adjutant Bist’ri. For what I did upon waking. I attacked you dishonorably and stole your dah’kte. I have wronged you.”_

 _“You have.”_ The Adjutant clicks at him. She looks away. _“Did the… Did the places I stabbed you—Did they heal?”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak nods once.

 _“Good.”_ Bist’ri clicks. _“I don’t enjoy hurting others. But I won’t apologize for stabbing a s’yuit-de who attacks me.”_

 _“Nor should you,”_ the Elite agrees. He hesitates before adding on, _“—I have wronged you, Adjutant Bist’ri. I would like to make up for my actions in the medical bay. If there is—If there is something I can do to merit forgiveness in your eyes—Say it. It will be done.”_ H’chak’s chirps and clicks are sincere in nature, every bit reflective of his resolve as a _kv’var-de._ The seriousness of his tone appears to take the nurse aback.

 _“You swear on it? By your honor?”_ The Adjutant challenges his resolve.

H’chak straightens upright. He is shorter than her, but that comes as no surprise. He growls the words, _“By my honor as a Yautja—I swear on it. Whatever you ask of me, it will be done.”_

* * *

She knows that by speaking such words, the Adjutant throws herself into the middle of a conflict that does not involve her. It is a selfish thing to do. She does not have the right to interject herself in such a way, but the first thing that comes to mind when the Elite swears on his honor, on his virtue as a _Yautja_ , is the other Adjutant.

Bist’ri stills. Her concern for the other Adjutant, the _paired_ Adjutant, runs deeper than it should, but she does not shy from the opportunity. She meets M-di-H’chak’s gaze and clicks, _“By your honor, forgive Gahn’tha-cte-Guan of his sins.”_

* * *

Kwei-Bezas sits upright and pauses at an alert popping into their bio-mask’s left-most optics. The engineer blinks and activates the communication relay between them and Nok-Nok. The quality is not up to par with what they need, but they hear Nok-Nok’s voice come through faint static. _“Kwei-Bezas, requesting both ships find a place to land.”_

 _“Eh? Land? What land? Land in space? You see any land at the speed we’re goin’?”_ The engineer grunts loudly and leans forward. They jab at a dashboard and slump backward into their seat. Flying spacecraft at decreased speeds while making the internal readings interpret it as high speeds is an art not all engineers can take on.

 _“M-di. Kwei-Bezas.”_ The other engineer sounds colder than usual. Nok-Nok pauses briefly before clearing her throat, a crack in her voice noticeable. _“I—I have reason to believe something else is onboard this ship. I’ve recorded multiple sounds from the lower levels of the Kukulkan in both the kehrite and kitchenette areas. It sounds like an ooman attempting to speak our language. I’ve included video feed of these sounds.”_

The feeds start automatically. They are a series of three videos, playing back-to-back, all taken from Nok-Nok’s bio-mask. Bezas’ brown eyes narrow and their right eye twitches as they observe the surprisingly shaky engineer approach the lift leading to the lower level. When Nok-Nok gets close enough, another voice comes through. It is faint, clearly muffled by layers of _Kukulkan_ ’s hull and internal mechanisms, yet Bezas hears a distinct, feminine voice call out, _“H’chak… h’chak… h’chak…”_

 _“Okay, ya got a bhu’ja screaming for mercy. Whoopie dee, whoopie do. Go to the lower level and investigate if it bothers ya so much.”_ Bezas clicks.

 _“I have. I am unable to locate anything. The only thing out of place is the presence of several unusually cold thermal signatures, too cold for any ooman to be alive.”_ It takes a moment to sink, but Bezas realized Nok-Nok sounds genuinely disgruntled.

The engineer blinks. _“Huh. Well. I hate to break it to ya, but there ain’t any landing pads for days. Only space, dust, and more space and dust. Close and lock the cockpit if ya need to.”_

_“There are no necessities in the cockpit. Sleeping pod, food, sanitation—"_

_“Sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”_ Bezas stretches their mandibles apart in a wide yawn behind their bio-mask. _“Look, Nok-Nok, I’ll pass your concerns on to Adjutant Guan, but there ain’t any way we can land either ship for… Uh. A while.”_

_“The Cassowary system will pass us in approximately four-zero-zero-zero-three light years.”_

_“Pauk, I forgot you do numbers,”_ Bezas groans loudly. _“Might as well rename yourself Kwei-Nok-Nok at this rate, paukin’ engineers… Look, I can ask, but there’s no promises. I doubt Daga’s Adjutant got interest in throwing money at sex workers right now. Adjutant’s don’t get paid a lot. And he's paired, remember?"  
_

_“We are not going to the Chickpea Night Walk. We would use the station's docking bay to investigate the bhu’ja on the Kukulkan.”_ Nok-Nok clicks firmly.

 _“Uh-huh.”_ Bezas doesn’t believe it for a second. They huff into the communication relay. _“I’ll let you know when Adjutant Guan has a response. If he has one. No promises!”_ They end the communications relay just as the door to the cockpit slides open. The _n’dui-se_ Gry’Sui-Bpi-de carries is _intense_ , one of the thickest Bezas smelled in _eons_. The Yautja sits upright and crosses their legs a little tighter as the Elite walks to his seat behind theirs.

“... _lav’a-da…”_ The Elite clicks quietly, muffled by his bio-mask.

Bezas quirks a hairless brow in the Elite’s direction. They know he can’t see them, so they pop up from behind their seat and offer him a wave. He nods stiffly in their direction before turning back to his seat and kneeling to mess with a locker underneath it. The lack of enthusiastic horniness gives Bezas pause. The Yautja crosses their arms. _“Look who’s distracted this fine day cycle. And not by me? Well, cjit. I'm offended."  
_

_“You told me to lay off until the night cycle, Kwei-Bezas.”_ The Elite clicks back, proper as can be.

 _“Yeah, but now I’m missing the attention, and something tells me you got something on your mind that ain’t this sexy thing.”_ Bezas throws ooman slang for the sheer purpose of annoying the Elite. It works; they see how his muscles ripple from tensing. Bezas’ begins to laugh heartily behind their mask.

 _“May the Payas forgive you for using such awful terms.”_ Gry’Sui sounds offended by their words

They laugh more. _“Cetanu and the other Payas ain’t gonna strike this ass down for taking an interest in ooman vocab, pal. My fascination with prey ain’t dishonorable.”_

 _“But it’s ooman terminology! Ooman languages!”_ The Elite hisses.

 _“Yeah? And you were just talkin’ cjit about lav’a-da! Is it just me or is that the Terra plant that smells good and makes for nice tea?”_ When the Elite hesitates, Bezas waves him off. _“I thought so. Why the pauk are you gonna go criticize me when ya got your own problems to deal with?”_

_“You’re a paukin’ asshole.”_

_“Cjit I am! You brought up lav’a-da!”_ Bezas snarls back, flaring their mandibles behind their mouth. _“What, big beefy Brawler over here can’t handle anything ooman? Cetanu forbid an ooman walk through that door and scare you half to death—”_

The Elite’s roar cuts them off, but both Yautja freeze when the cockpit door opens, and the smell of lavender comes in from the hall beyond. The two snap their heads and stare at an ooman woman, approximately five-foot-eight in height, dressed in colorful clothing incapable of protection in combat. Gry’Sui stares while Bezas hangs their head in their hands.

 _“For pauk’s sake—”_ They leap over their seats with ease, striding forward to where the ooman woman backs up while shouting strange ooman words. Bezas doesn’t recognize enough for the ooman to make any sense. They tilt their head curiously and catch up with the ooman, taking her by the wrist and looking over their shoulder at Gry’Sui. _“This the ooman you got issues with?”_

 _“You cjit—I don’t—”_ The Elite begins, but Bezas needs a break and isn’t in the mood to hear excuses.

They nonchalantly snap their wrist and send the ooman crashing into the back of a seat. She yells in pain but staggers up while Gry’Sui balks. Bezas inputs a command into their wrist computer and the cockpit door slides shut. The internal locks seal it after. In a second, the angry pounding of a furious Elite Brawler fills the air, but the door holds. Bezas huffs at the door. _“Sort out your own cjit, Gry’Sui!”_

_“Pauker!”_

_“Yeah, yeah.”_ The engineer chuckles under breath. _“Not the first time I’ve been called that, buddy...”_

 _“…Where is the…”_ Behind them comes the voice of another Elite. Bezas looks over their shoulder and narrows their eyes at the sight of one M-d-H’chak. He snaps his head up and turns his bio-mask to face them. _“Did you see an ooman woman out here?”_

_“Yep.”_

_“Where did she go?”_

_“Not a place ya can follow, pal.”_ The engineer nods and clicks with laughter. _“Go take a break, walk around a bit. Those two might be in there a while; that man is real stubborn.”_

* * *

_“I was taking her to see—Nevermind.”_ The Elite grits his teeth. He despises having his plans interrupted, but with the brave and foolish ooman locked in the cockpit, there’s nothing he can do. He’s not on the _Kukulkan_ ; the locks on the ship don’t work. He turns his attention to his other goal, to the thing he wanted to put off for a while longer. H’chak exhales sharply and looks at the chatty engineer. _“I need to know which cabin belongs to Adjutant Gaun.”_

He hates using the man’s title, another reminder of all the ways his _mei-hswei’s s_ ucceeded. If he had it his way, Guan would have jumped in a pit of _r-ka_ by now.

 _By your honor, forgive Gahn’tha-cte-Guan of his sins._ Yet the second Adjutant’s words repeat in his mind. H’chak grits his teeth. He should have known better than to trust an Adjutant to play fair. _Why_ another Adjutant takes so much interest in the pauked up relationship between him and Guan is beyond the Elite. But he swore on his honor—And H’chak considers himself an honorable man. He needs to find a way to _forgive Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan of his sins_.

He wishes Guan had jumped in a pit of _r-ka._

 _“Well, right now, the two Adjutants actually swap on and off. One cabin—"_ The engineer begins to click, lost in thought or intentionally wasting his time. H’chak already dislikes them, but something in their words gives him pause.

 _“What did you say?”_ H’chak chirps. He doesn’t care if he sounds demanding. _“Why isn’t Adjutant Guan sharing a cabin with his mate?”_

The news makes no sense to him. H’chak remembers how fervently Guan fought him for Ikthya-De’s blessing. What happened long ago feels like only yesterday for the Elite. His mandibles pull tightly over his mouth behind his mask; he frowns as he considers the possibilities. _Ikthya-De should share a cabin with him. He’d rather alternate a cabin with another Adjutant than sleep with his mate. That’s…_ The thoughts that follow give him new reasons to seethe.

Either _Adjutant_ Guan is committing disloyalty and dishonor in sleeping with the second Adjutant, or _Adjutant_ Guan despises his mate so much he cannot stand the thought of being in the same room. H’chak cannot see a third option, unless it is Ikthya-De who despises Guan, but he remembers her reaction to Guan defeating him in the public _kehrite_. She had seemed genuinely happy about Guan’s achievement, in the sly, teasing way only Ikthya-De could pull off. H’chak’s hairless brows furrow. _Guan did not come to the medical bay when she was miscarrying his pups. What a pauking bastard. And the other Adjutant wants me to forgive him._

His mind makes itself up. He feels sick at the thought, but the circumstances point to a dishonorable lack of loyalty in the Adjutant’s partnership.

 _“Kwei-Bezas,”_ he recalls the name of the engineer.

Bezas cocks their head to one side. _“That me.”_

H’chak’s eye twitches behind his mask. _“Is there any way to determine if someone was… If an individual was committing an act of dishonor through disloyalty?”_

 _“Oh, you mean an affair? By the payas, ooman words for this are way better to use, lemme tell you something,”_ Bezas rambles on for a time, eventually shrugging. _“Yeah, I mean. Not inside the cabins. But there’s feeds of the halls. Circumstantial evidence still got the word ‘cum’ in it, ha.”_ The engineer chortles softly.

He does not like Kwei-Bezas.

 _“Be hard to prove. You got to establish cause, dates, the whole enchilada—That’s another ooman phrase, by the way—And it’d be with a paired Yautja, not just random mating partners. Monogamy ain’t common in Gahn’tha-cte. In fact, I think one of the only pairs out and about right now would be…”_ Kwei-Bezas trails off. The engineer pauses. _“Are you insinuating the Honorable Adjutant Guan is skipping town on Ikthya-De? Skipping town is, uh, ooman thing, too.”_

 _“I figured.”_ H’chak turns away. He doesn’t answer Bezas’ question. The engineer is a strange one with an appropriate name, Sly Puzzle. The Elite ignores Bezas when the latter begins rambling about ooman expressions. He cuts them off midsentence and snaps, _“Which cabin is the Adjutant in?”_

 _“Uh… Hmm… You can probably smell his n’dui-se. You can, right?”_ Bezas is suddenly too close for comfort, shoving their face near his. _“Smells like ground after rain. Kinda weird, ‘cause you do too. Except yours is, uh, no offense, it smells like cjit in comparison. Weird.”_

_“Offense taken.”_

_“Disrespect is not dishonor!”_ Bezas huffs. _“Yeah, try… Uh… Where I’m heading first... Hmm…”_

 _“…”_ H’chak grits his teeth.

 _“Adjutant!”_ Bezas turns and shouts at the door to the left of the cockpit. _“Oi! Ooman term, oi, ha,”_ the engineer clicks eagerly at the Elite. When the door unlocks and begins to open, Bezas snaps upright. _“Adjutant Guan! I got a request from Nok-Nok on the Kukulkan. She wants to know if we can stop at the Cassowary system.”_

_“The only station there is the Chickpea Night Walk—"_

* * *

_“—is the Chickpea Night Walk—”_ The Adjutant cuts off his own sentence when the door slides open and he sees not one but two Yautja standing in front of his cabin. If the second Yautja were anyone else, he would not be taken aback, but to see H’chak standing there like his _mei-hswei_ wants to see him is unusual.

Bezas nods at Guan, drawing the man back to the present. _“So? Yes? No? I told her half-no in advance but y’know how she gets—”_

 _“We need to return to the clanship.”_ Guan clicks briskly. He struggles to retain his confidence when H’chak growls from the side. The Adjutant ignores the urge to snarl back and focuses his attention on Bezas. _“The Chickpea Night Walk is a place expecting payment from visitors. We don’t have credits to hand out. It’s not respectful to visit a sex club without pay—The answer’s no. Why does she want to stop there?”_

 _“She thinks there’s a bhu’ja on the Kukulkan.”_ Bezas throws their hands into the air. _“You try handling that one, pal. I’ve tried everything. Ya got any idea how pauking stubborn Nok Nok is?”_

 _“…No. I don’t.”_ The Adjutant clicks.

 _“Well, she is!”_ The engineer belts aloud. _“Keeps going on ‘bout bhu’ja screaming for mercy! Does that make sense to you?”_

 _“Tell her I said no. Connect my relay to the line if necessary; I will dissuade her myself.”_ Guan’s orange eyes flicker to his _mei-hswei._ He exhales. _“Bezas, if there isn’t anything else—”_

 _“There’s not. Not yet.”_ Bezas shakes their head. They don’t bother saying goodbye, simply turning and walking the length of the hall to their cabin. They disappear inside. Why they opt to go to their cabin over the cockpit perplexes Guan, but he ignores the thoughts when H’chak growls at him from the side a second time Guan turns to face his _mei-hswei_ , briefly reveling in the fact he maintains three inches over the man.

 _“Adjutant.”_ His _mei-hswei_ spits it with venom.

Guan expects such, yet he remains bewildered. H’chak does not have reason to be here. He nods stiffly at the man. _“H’chak.”_

 _“What the pauk are you doing with Adjutant Bist’ri?”_ The question is a hiss, not a shout, but it might as well be a roar in how it takes the man aback. Guan tenses where he stands. He feels heat bloom across his face and coil in his abdomen. H’chak hisses when Guan hesitates to answer. _“You can’t hide it from me. Not from me. You pauking bastard.”_

 _“That’s—”_ The Adjutant struggles to think. He has not idea what to say. _“It’s not what—You think it is—”_

He’s thought of Bist’ri before. He’s pleasured himself to the idea of her and him, together, seamlessly entwined in each other’s warmth. It is a needy thought, one capable of stoking the coals and fueling the fire he feels in his body when around the blue Yautja. She is kind and she is gentle, and she demonstrates a capacity to care unlike any other Yautja he’s met in his two-one-five cycles. Guan _likes_ the idea of there being something between him and Bist’ri. He feels his face flush in acknowledgement of the feelings he strains to keep out of sight.

He knows he can’t have her. He _knows_ he can’t have what he wants. The gentle hands, the smooth touches, the kind remarks—They can never lead where he wants them to go. Bist’ri is not interested in him, but even if she were, he is bound to Ikthya-De-th’Syra, sworn to her in life partnership for as long as either live. There is so much he wants to say to Bist’ri, but he remains chained at Ikthya-De’s side. It is the price to keep H’chak safe, or so he tells himself.

 _I must keep you safe._ The man clenches his teeth. _I couldn’t keep Chirp safe._

 _“You and her have something you shouldn’t have,”_ H’chak speaks with a _disgusted_ boldness. The words do nothing to soothe the heat quenching Guan’s face.

The Adjutant tenses where he stands. _“I don’t know why you’re bringing this up—”_

 _“Because it’s dishonorable, you pauking s’yuit-de!”_ The Elite’s hands curl into fists. He seethes where he stands. _“Why does she care about you? Why does she care?”_

Initially, Guan feels only confusion. His eyes widen behind his mask at the words, the implications, the meaning of the statements. He knows the other Adjutant cares in a platonic sense, demonstrated by her willingness to accompany him on this trip once Ikthya-De became involved. The thought of all the sweet touches and strained words shared between Bist’ri and himself come back in a furious plume of heat aching in his chest. The _what if_ ’s are a powerful thing that leaves him both dreaming and hopeless, lost to possibilities he can never pursue.

And H’chak stands there demanding answers on feelings he does not even know about. Guan cannot answer his questions, because he cannot answer his own: does she care about him? Does the other Adjutant think of him that way? She’s clearly sought after by others in the clan, if Gry’Sui’s words on the trip to _Terra_ are anything to go off. She has her pick of the lot but chooses none. It is ludicrous to think _he_ is the reason why, and Guan knows he cannot be because Bist’ri has turned down suitors long before he and her reached this point. But part of him desperately wants the reason to be because of him. Part of him hopes a sliver of the nurse sees him in that light. It is a selfish thought, to wish a Yautja feelings for those who cannot reciprocate. Guan reminds himself who he is sworn to. He is not dishonorable, he will not act in disloyalty, not even to Ikthya-De.

 _“Why does she care?”_ H’chak repeats the question.

 _“Why do you care?”_ The Adjutant snaps back, standing up straight and refusing to let his _mei-hswei_ push him around further.

The other Elite turns his face away. Guan flinches at the sight of the many scars lining the side and back of H’chak’s skull. Some of the hair follicles, the _Pride of Cetanu_ , have been removed by force or through careful extraction. He feels pity for him.

 _“—That woman—”_ H’chak seethes. _“Wants me to forgive you.”_

 _“What?”_ Guan freezes.

The Elite growls lowly _. “Apparently, she cares enough to make me let go of your pauking actions.”_

 _Bist’ri does?_ The Adjutant’s hands begin to shake. He does not know what to say when his mind is overwhelmed by the thought of _salt sand sea_ and the idea H’chak could eventually, _somehow_ forgive him. Guan doubts the latter, but the former worms its way through his head and takes root deep in his mind. His hearts begin to thud loudly as he turns over the thought. _She cares. She cares._

 _“I wronged Adjutant Bist’ri by attacking her. And on my honor—I swore I would find a way to forgive you of every pauking mistake you made and all the pain you caused me. And I intend to do so, eventually. But not yet,”_ the Elite sizes Guan up and growls. _“You disgust me, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. You disgust me. I’ll think of how you can beg my forgiveness. I’ll find a way to let go. But until then—I hope you remember how virulently I despise you, Adjutant.”_

The words cut deep. Guan stills and watches his _mei-hswei_ turn and walk away, heading for the medical bay and disappearing beyond the door. He does not realize his hands are shaking until H’chak is gone. Only then does the pounding in his head stop, only then does he focus enough to shut his cabin door, and only then does his face stop blazing at the thought of the blue nurse in the medical bay.

* * *

_Why do I come back here?_ He stands off to the side, watching the rise and fall of the woman’s chest. The Elite knows nothing but pain at the sight of her, yet part of him desperately seeks a way to fill the ache across his four hearts. H’chak cannot admit his mate is dead, but the brave, foolish ooman’s words ring in his head.

 _Stargazer took her._ Jo’s voice rings clearly in his head. Even if he cannot talk to her, she can speak to him; the Elite has studied enough of _Terra_ ’s English language to pick out the words. The brave, foolish ooman is especially brave and especially foolish to admit such to him, woefully unaware just how dangerous a Yautja is in grief.

 _In grief…_ H’chak grits his teeth. His entire body is tense, like a loaded spring waiting to snap. _Pauk… Sundew…_

He regrets leaving her behind. The thought of a creature like a _Vekin_ being involved with Stargazer never occurred to him. It’s too late now.

It is pathetic, yet in his head he knows part of the reason he gravitates back to Ikthya-De is due to the grief he does not want to face. If he finds someone to fill in the gap, the holes, perhaps he can put off mourning a moment longer. The full extent of the loss has yet to sink in—Everything till now has just been a scrape along the surface, a peek into the mounting pain. H’chak’s hands ball into fists. He seethes as he stands, visible to the point the nurse nearby pauses and calls out to him, _“M-di-H’chak. Is something the matter?”_

 _“Lots of things are; none you can help with.”_ He takes care not to raise his voice at her. _“Is she doing alright?”_ H’chak gestures at Ikthya-De on the table.

 _“She’s probably had better days. But—sei-I, yes, she’s as well as she can be for someone who just had a traumatic miscarriage,”_ Bist’ri does not wear her bio-mask, her mandibles twitching faintly as she clicks at him. There is something off about the nurse. H’chak reminds himself to be careful; if his suspicions about the affair are correct, the second Adjutant is not an honorable woman. Bist’ri tilts her head to one side; it takes a second for him to realize she caught him staring.

He faces away. _“May the payas relieve her of these pains. I have taken mating partners in the past whom lost the pups. A tragedy.”_

 _“Ki’sei. Not one even Yautja can prevent.”_ Bist’ri sighs. _“Even if I do not care for the woman—I do not wish this on her.”_

 _I do not care for the woman._ H’chak feels his temper flare. He holds his tongue and nods stiffly at Bist’ri, creeping closer to Ikthya-De’s side in the process. He does not trust the second Adjutant. He does not trust Ikthya-De either, but in his eyes—She is, for once, the victim. H’chak feels pity for her. He knows what it is like to be turned on by Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, albeit not the same way. The pain of the Challenging stings bitterly, deep enough to distract him from the pain of _her_ in his head.

 _Sundew…_ His orange eyes dim. He sweeps the thought out of his head. _I can’t… I can’t right now. Not right now. My mei-hswei hurts another and acts dishonorably. I have to—I have to stop him from hurting others. I can’t let him cause more pain. Just a little longer… Let me think of something else a moment longer._

* * *

It has been four-day cycles since the news reached her. Even now, Guan-Tjau’ke finds herself unable to sit still, constantly meandering from one group of individuals to the next in order to answer questions, run diagnostics, and prescribe pre-natal supplements for expecting or trying bearers. Her mind is a whirl of many things, most of which have to do with her pup, but some that come in quick, passing thoughts.

She feels good about where she is in her life, where she stands in the clan, her contributions to Gahn’tha-cte, her decisions over the cycles, her relationships—Tjau’ke feels well-rounded and content. It is not the life she envisioned when she was but a wee Suckling, but it is the life she has come to appreciate.

She recalls the late Elder Sa'ud, a Yautja with violet scales from a rare genetic mutation, one whom shared in the same pain she lives with. The Elder was one of the first Yautja she opened to about the stillborn births, primarily due to the fact Sa'ud helped deliver many of them. The kindness demonstrated by the late Elder fueled Tjau’ke’s desire to take up work in the medical division. Hundreds of cycles later, she continues to find herself marveling at how the medical division has opened her world and expanded her perspective. Sa'ud taught her many things, and now Tjau’ke teaches her nurses the same techniques.

 _You would be proud, my teacher._ Tjau’ke inhales slowly as she stretches. She meets the gaze of one of the nurses, a Blooded man with olive-green scales and a cheerful but nervous demeanor. C’it-na acts like a shy Suckling than a Blooded hunter half the time, but the man’s four hearts are in the right places. Tjau’ke gives him a nod and clicks, _“Will you be alright if I step away for an hour?”_

 _“Sei-i! I—I got everything under control. Well—Me and—Everyone does, really,”_ the man nods, the lights of the medical bay gleaming off his bio-mask.

He’s kind-hearted, an unusual and typically looked down upon attribute by other Yautja. Gahn’tha-cte, those who are _ruthless_ , is known for its warriors—Not for its nurses. But Tjau’ke knows not every Yautja can be a warrior. There are some who have odds stacked against them, being born with or later developing permanent disabilities judged as impediments to the Hunts. Many of the pups are culled, an act called _merciful_ by several Elders. She does not care for the practice. It is why the medical division speaks to her: within it is a place for many Yautja, including those who struggle with their Hunts. Nurses are needed as much as Arbitrators, guards, and Elders.

 _Like C’it-na. Or Bist’ri._ Tjau’ke thinks. She grabs her bio-mask before crossing the medical bay. She stands at the lift, waiting for it to stop rising, when a hide of murky blue green comes into view. The head of the medical division steps back and nods respectfully at the tall Elder. Ju’dha-Jehdin is one of the oldest in the clan, boasting over seven-zero-zero cycles to their name. Tjau’ke clicks in greeting at the individual. _“A pleasure to see you, Elder Ju’dha. I beg to step by you—I am taking a break to stretch my legs.”_

 _“Are you?”_ The Elder is surprisingly tense today. _“I will accompany you.”_

 _“It would be my pleasure.”_ Tjau’ke clicks in response, striding unto the lift before it begins its ascent to the next level. She notes no other Yautja are present, leaving the two older Yautja alone and without prying auditory organs to listen in. She turns to Ju’dha. _“What ails you, Elder Ju’dha? You carry a look of grave morose.”_

The Elder’s mandibles twitch, visible as they lack a bio-mask today. _“Honorable Tjau’ke… You know I would not ask anything of you without just cause. You are honorable. Trustworthy—"_

Tjau’ke’s blue-gray eyes narrow. _“What worries you? You are not easily swayed, Elder Ju’dha.”_

 _“Daga has… He has requested something of the mortician service.”_ The lift stops at the observation deck. Ju’dha strides out, with Tjau’ke jogging after them to catch up. Ju’dha walks to the farthest end of the deck, where the stars twinkle above the two. Tjau’ke feels her stomach twist uncomfortable. For Ju’dha to be so riled up is a sign of something bad.

 _“Ju’dha. Tell me.”_ The nurse drops use of the title.

 _“He plans to exhume Tarei’s remains_.” The Elder clicks the words softly, looking around every few seconds across the observation deck. The only Yautja present are couples struck by the heat, engaged in their own courting rites of exchanging gifts or food under the stars.

Tjau’ke’s mind could not be farther from heat. Her eyes widen. _“He will not find anything.”_

 _“It is what he may not find that worries me, Tjau’ke. A lack of evidence is damning,”_ The Yautja exhales, hands shaking at their sides. _“I need—I must know you had nothing to do with it. With this decision. I need to know—”_

 _“The records are gone.”_ The nurse cuts the Elder off, firm in her words. _“Sa'ud disposed of them. Both—The examination log and patient file.”_

 _“But what about you? Lar’ja?”_ Ju’dha hisses softly. _“Have you told anyone?”_

 _“Why would I speak a word of it to Gahn’tha-cte, Ju’dha? I am no rat,”_ Tjau’ke’s words rise into a deep, furious snarl. _“I will put my honor on the line to keep your pup out of the fire. Do not insult me by insinuating I would go against you. Do not anger me by implying I would betray Lar’ja!”_

_“Swear it on your honor.”_

The nurse hisses, _“—You don’t trust me!”_

 _“Swear it on your honor, Tjau’ke.”_ Ju’dha repeats. _“Prove I can trust you.”_

 _“If it will ease your worries, Ju’dha,”_ The nurse grits her teeth, annoyed. _“I swear it on my honor as a Yautja—I have not spoken of that night to those outside it.”_

 _“Good. Good.”_ The Elder exhales and turns away, long locs swaying. _“I… I have to be sure, Tjau’ke. I must be sure. For Bist’ri’s sake—”_

 _“Or for your own?”_ Tjau’ke clicks sharply. She narrows her gaze at Ju’dha once more. “ _You have my word, sworn on honor. I have not told a soul, Ju’dha.”_

The Elder ignores her question. Ju’dha stiffly nods at her words. “ _Then—Good. Good. I—I am glad to hear that, Tjau’ke. I am glad you know the value of secrets. Forgive me for intruding on your time—Your walk—I will leave you to it.”_

 _“Take care, Elder Ju’dha.”_ Tjau’ke watches as the Elder retreats, making the slow walk back to the lift at the other end of the deck. The nurse's hands begin to tremble. She faces the windows of the _Gahn’tha-cte_ clanship and breathes out slowly. _The value of secrets… I know too well._


	43. come find me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw  
> -talk of pregnancy  
> -talk of miscarriage 
> 
> I had some trouble writing this chapter; I hope it's still enjoyable for all of you. Thank you so much to all my readers; seeing this story hit the 2k views mark is both humbling and encouraging.

Seeing the wretched woman wake up is a strange sight. Ikthya-De stirs slowly, her eyes fluttering open and staring beyond the nurse. Bist’ri’s green eyes narrow from behind her bio-mask; she strides to her patient’s side. Ikthya-De has never looked so _vulnerable_ than she is now, laid out on the metal table without equipment or apparel. A clean mesh hangs off one side along with the leather-like wrappings accompanying the thermal bodysuit, but Ikthya-De does not reach for it upon waking. The woman’s eyes reflect her predicament; Bist’ri can see the exhaustion flickering through the saffron orbs.

 _“You’re awake,”_ Bist’ri clicks in greeting at the huntress. She keeps her tone neutral and holds back the expletives she wants to unleash on the woman. It is hard to look at Ikthya-De and see the patient, not the terrible woman who has made the other Adjutant’s life misery for cycles.

Ikthya-De blinks slowly. The light gives her skin a soft glow. The deep, dark gray scales of her face seem almost metallic in how they reflect light.

 _“What happened to me?”_ The huntress sounds surprised.

Bist’ri tenses. _“You…”_

 _I would not wish this on anyone. Not even you, Ikthya-De._ The Adjutant thinks. She strides to Ikthya-De’s side as the latter tries to sit up, only to hiss in pain and fall back down.

 _“You were found passed out and bleeding in your cabin_.” Bist’ri offers the words with a stiff nod. _“I can’t be certain until we run tests at the clanship, but I believe you suffered a traumatic miscarriage. I don’t know what triggered it, but your body—”_

 _“I what?”_ The huntress balks at her. Ikthya-De’s tone becomes low as she hisses. _“I—I couldn’t have—I don’t—You’re lying—Tell me you’re lying!”_

 _“I’m sorry,”_ the nurse clicks softly. Her chest aches at the sight of the woman’s eyes widening. Bist’ri hesitates before putting a hand over the woman’s own. _“I’m sorry, Ikthya-De. I’ve preserved your pup for burial when we return to the clanship—"_

 _“You bitch—You had something to do with it, didn’t you?!”_ The huntress howls at her and smacks her hand away, only to double over in pain on the table.

Bist’ri inhales deeply. She calms herself and steps away. _“I’m sorry. I’ll give you a moment. There’s—A clean suit, wrappings. If you need anything else—”_

 _“I don’t want your help,”_ The huntress spits the words. Ikthya-De’s eyes flare with a venom that takes Bist’ri aback.

The nurse swallows her pride. _“There’s a clean suit and wrappings. I’ve already—I’ve taken care of the… I treated your injuries, Ikthya-De. Your body should be healed by the end of the week cycle through use of serum—But—I advise against intercourse for two. If the pain remains when we return to Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship, I’ll ask Honorable Tjau’ke takes care of you personally.”_

 _“Pauk off.”_ Ikthya-De growls and turns her back to the nurse.

Bist’ri lifts her wrist-computer and inputs a message. She hesitates who to send it to—especially with M-di-H’chak in the room, in one of the pods. The man is not unconscious, merely looking through the glass hatch and observing everything in the medical bay while he sits in the medical pod’s liquid. She worries for the man. Not as much as her concern lingers for the other Adjutant, but her heart aches for those who experience loss. From what she understands, the man has only just breached the initial stages of grief over the loss of his mysterious mate. Grieving Yautja can be dangerous to both themselves and others.

 _I can’t leave him alone with her. Both are grieving._ In the end, Bist’ri sends a message to Bezas. She stays long enough only to ensure Ikthya-De dresses before she lets the engineer in. Bist’ri steps into the corridor beyond and exhales, like a massive weight falls from her shoulders and frees her.

It isn’t Ikthya-De’s attitude which prompts her to leave. Bist’ri extends her condolences to the woman, but the bizarre nature of the latter’s sudden pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage continues to stand out in her mind. She finds herself driven to act, to walk to Ikthya-De’s cabin and look up and down the hall for others before entering it. Bist’ri activates the lights and shuts the door behind her gently. She isn’t sure what she expects to find, but the Adjutant needs to look for answers. Her gaze falls on the mess of dried _thwei_ across the cabin floor.

 _This room needs to be cleaned, too._ Bist’ri grimaces as she begins her search.

* * *

Banging on the door does nothing. Roaring at the door does nothing. Still, he tries, because he is an Elite and the disrespect demonstrated by the engineer is _unfathomably_ insulting. The Elite finds he grows tense as he slows down pounding the door into submission. He grits his teeth and utters a dozen expletives under breath; his mandibles flare to emphasize the anger and outrage he feels over the situation. 

Kwei-Bezas, the individual be damned, is an asshole with a death wish. Gry’Sui-Bpi-de would never dishonorably attack another, but for a time the idea appeals to him. He cannot stand to be locked inside the cockpit with an _ooman._ The soft meat is squishy, fragile, weak, and… _smelly._ Very smelly. The kind of obnoxious, lingering odor lasting even after the source is incinerated.

During the mating season, when the sense of smell is heightened to allow Yautja to seek out potential mates, having such a poignant individual can overwhelm a Yautja’s mind. He feels his head swarm as the force of the smell descends on the Elite. His knocking on the door stops and he slowly turns around.

The ooman smells like _lav’a-da_. Lavender. And—fear. _H’dlak._

 _Good. Be afraid, pyode amedha. Be afraid._ Gry’Sui does not look at the ooman as he crosses to the far end of the cockpit.

He will not heed her attention. He will remain composed until Kwei-Bezas stops _pauking_ around and lets him out of the cockpit.

* * *

Jo winces where she sits, back pressed flat against the wall when the burly Yautja finishes smashing the door with his fists. Her black locs spring and shift as she leans her head back and tries to calm. She hears her heart in her ears. She feels the rush of fear seize her spine, dancing up and down each vertebra. Being around Mercy and Maelstrom for so long has obfuscated the raw strength and brutality of Yautja hunters. She remembers clearly now: these aliens are behemoth individuals capable of killing creatures like her in a heartbeat. She is no more an ant to squash underfoot, or a gnat to swat away.

 _God damnit._ All she had wanted was to see Maelstrom! And Mercy seemed to understand, at least to the point of letting her out of the room she and Ivon currently call ‘home’. Even if Mercy can’t speak her language, he seems to understand it, or understand enough of it for her and him to have a back-and-forth. She _thought_ he was waving her off in the direction of where Maelstrom would be.

 _I’m gonna have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Tonight. Eventually._ She grimaces at the thought of how effortlessly one of the Yautja, the one with the washed out, graying-yellow pelt, had thrown her into the back of large chairs connected with the floor of the cockpit. She finds her shoulder, back, and right arm ache terribly.

 _What do I do? What can I do?_ Jo bites her lip as she sits. She doesn’t dare look up at the big fellow across the cockpit. He appears agitated by the current set of circumstances; she doesn’t want to provoke his anger.

 _Calm. I need to calm myself._ It is the first step. She forces deep breaths in and out of her lungs as she contemplates her next actions.

From memory, she knows the big fellow in the cockpit has been the primary guard or sentinel or _whatever_ checking on her and Ivon since the two were first shoved—Ivon was carried, technically—into the ship. She knows she and Ivon don’t possess much value to the aliens, but aside from bomb collars being strapped to the two’s necks, the aliens onboard have yet to do anything. Barbecue Man across the cockpit has growled at her, nothing else.

 _Maybe they… They don’t want to hurt us? Need us intact?_ She doesn’t know whether to push her luck. Jo intended to ask Mercy to do something about the bomb collars after he took her to see Maelstrom, but that is no longer happening. The woman sighs and slumps in her seat, dejected. She hates to admit it, but part of her feels useless. She doesn’t know what she can do. Louanne was _smart_ and a doctor and knew enough about Yautja to plan around them. Ivon is a train wreck of technological fixes who continues to amaze her.

And she is…

 _Jo. I’m Jo. Joan Mackenzie._ The woman finds fear does not impede her anymore. She is weighted down by the comparisons in her head. “I wish I wasn’t useless. I wish _you_ didn’t reek of fucking barbecue when I’m starving.” She curses loudly, clenching her teeth and her eyes shut in the process. She doesn’t look at the Yautja in the cockpit, but she diverts her frustration to him all the same. Jo hisses softly, “I want to eat real food and all ya’ll got here is fucking hard tack! Why is an advanced alien race a bunch of shitty chefs? Where’s your palate? Do ya’ll even season? Even—The basics— _Salt—Pepper—_ It would make such a huge difference for fucking _hard tack!”_

* * *

The ooman won’t shut up. It wears on his patience. Gry’Sui has the resolve fitting an Elite _kv’var-de_ , but in the thick _n’dui-se_ the ooman gives off, his mind struggles to remain clear and coherent. The endless babbling of the woman causes his mandibles to twitch. His head begins to ache. He hisses at first, but the sound becomes a thundering _roar_ when she doesn’t quiet. A flicker of fear worms into the air; he tastes it. His black eyes narrow behind his bio-mask. _Don’t provoke me, ooman._

Gry’Sui looks away. He lifts his wrist computer and begins tapping keys. He feels agitated at the realization he hasn’t messaged Daga’s Adjutant to order Bezas lets him out. It is an obvious solution, yet the Elite finds it escapes him until now. He sends the message and begins to lower his hands to his side when his wrist computer beeps. The man frowns when an error message pops up in the left-hand corner of his mask’s optical system. _It isn’t…? What the pauk is this, Bezas?!_

The cursed engineer disabled his ability to send messages to others. Out of curiosity, and with a growing foul mood, the man attempts to activate a communications line with Adjutant Guan directly. When that doesn’t work, he attempts to connect with Adjutant Bist’ri. None of his attempts work. He cusses Bezas out and growls at the air. Somehow, an _engineer_ has outwitted the _Elite_. It is a disgraceful acknowledgement, but the man doesn’t shy from his faults; he knows he cannot best Kwei-Bezas. Becoming more worked up will not force success. He has no choice but to wait it out and ignore the heat blooming in the pit of his stomach.

 _Lav’a-da._ Gry’Sui exhales. His black eyes flicker toward the ooman woman. She looks around constantly, but not at him. Gry’Sui notes she goes out of her way to avoid staring at him.

She’s afraid of him.

 _Why is she…_ It is not the taste of fear surprising him. He balks at the sight of the ooman rising to her feet. Gry’Sui sees the ooman’s hands shaking terribly, and her face drained of color. The scent of fear rises in the air as the ooman steps closer to him.

 _She’s afraid. Shoo. Leave. S’yuit-de, you have a death wish?_ The Elite’s thoughts circle as the ooman woman steps closer, and closer, and closer. When Gry’Sui _snarls_ , the ooman puts her hands up, palms outstretched, before advancing another step. _S’yuit-de! I will rip your head from your body—_ He is the tense one now, the aroma of _lav’a-da_ mixing with the _h’dlak_ and overwhelming his head. The Elite stiffens as the ooman stops but a few feet from where he sits, backed against the cockpit wall. Her audacity, her utter lack of common sense, takes him aback. His focus locks on her.

 _“What the pauk do you want?”_ He growls.

* * *

She doesn’t understand the screeching or hisses. It scares her, but Jo doesn’t see any other choice. She is stuck in the cockpit with a hulking, beefy individual who reeks of delicious barbecue. She’s hungry, she’s tired, and she feels overwhelmed by fear and her desire to check on Maelstrom. One way or another, she needs to find a means to communicate with the Yautja on the ship. At least with _this_ one, if she’s going to be stuck with him a while longer.

She stands and approaches the Yautja. He sits in a seat close to the front of the cockpit, just behind a row of three seats. Jo flinches when the extraterrestrial snarls. Her hands go up, palms facing outward. Her teeth chatter. She feels cold sweat on the back of her neck as she takes another step. She is terrified of the alien but she tries to use the smell of barbecue as a distraction from the fear. When the Yautja growls at her, she lowers her hands to her sides.

“So… I don’t—You don’t understand me, do you? Only Mercy?” Jo tries, only to receive another growl in response. “Fuck, then—Then—I—Right. Okay. So. Collar. Bomb collar.”

The woman pushes her locs to one side and tilts her head. She hopes the alien understands what she’s doing as she gestures to her neck. The bomb collar is a sleek metal band with nodules protruding from the outer rim. It sits on the base of her neck, but the weight aggravates her: it is not enough to dig into her skin or cause bruising, but it weighs enough for her to take notice and acknowledge. She is careful not to touch it in fear of accidentally setting the collar off.

Jo slowly looks up at the alien’s mask. She focuses where the visors are, anticipating the Yautja’s eyes lay just beyond it. She clears her throat and attempts to keep her voice steady as she gestures, “—Please—Get it off—It’s freaking me out!”

* * *

The ooman has begun flashing her neck at him. The _ooman_ has begun flashing part of herself at _him_. Gry’Sui’s hands tense into fists and heat crawls over his face as he observes the strange display.

 _What does she want?_ The Elite asks himself, if only to justify the quickest means to end the interaction. _The soft meat demands I look at her neck. But oomans do not intimidate by exposing the jugular veins. Is this a sign of submission?_

He desperately needs to visit Kwei-Bezas tonight, engineer’s antics be damned, as the second he thinks the word ‘submission’ his mind goes to places so unfathomably shameful Gry’Sui punches his own chest in horror. He growls loudly and rises to his feet. He is not as weak as M-di-H’chak, the _kv’var-de_ who claims to have taken a _Terran_ mate. He is not so susceptible to the gentle, squishy, delicate nature of _oomans_. _They are soft meat. Pyode amedha! Yautja are strong. Thar’n-da y yin’tekai!_

Though briefly baffled by the ooman’s foolish bravery, Gry’Sui finds his thoughts return to _honor_ and away from anything having to do with _submission._

 _She would not submit. She is not the kind of oomans who do._ The Elite decrees in his head, nodding to himself while the ooman looks on. _Foolish and brave… She would fight to the end if I challenged her. A little less disgusting than the rest of Terra._

It doesn’t mean much, and he knows she cannot understand him, but the Elite begrudgingly accepts the newfound conclusion of the fearful, small lady. He clicks at her and waves at her to return to her spot, but she does not understand _him_. She begins mumbling in her disgusting ooman language with the peculiar alien lips she has on her face, a pale brown color against the rich brown hues of her skin. Gry’Sui is grateful she is not like the pasty scrawny ooman with the head injury. The mere sight of that one is enough to make Gry’Sui annoyed.

 _This one smells better._ The Elite’s mind takes a sudden turn. He quickly calms his rising pulse. _It is only an observation. She smells better than the other ooman. Both are still cjitty, inferior creatures. The other one smells like fruit, and this ooman smells like… lav’a-da._

He cannot help but gulp in a breath. It is strong. Perhaps even stronger than some of the Yautja onboard. He doesn’t know if she is aware of the scent she gives off. Individuals with convenient obliviousness to their own _n’dui-se_ is a running theme lately.

The ooman raises her voice at him. He catches sight of her large brown eyes. They are marred with a distinct stubbornness he has seen before in many Yautja. _But she isn’t Yautja._

Then the ooman begins gesturing and pointing at her neck again. The ooman’s voice rises in volume, tone less _pleading_ versus _ordering_ now. There is a significant decrease in the amount of fear in the air. Gry’Sui narrows his gaze. He sees where the ooman points at; she gestures in an increasingly exaggerated fashion at the band of metal sitting at the base of her neck. The _akrei-non_ is armed yet it appears as nothing more than a simple, neck-sized ring or bangle with protruding nodules along the outer rim. It clicks in Gry’Sui’s head and the Elite pauses. _She wants it off…?_

It makes more sense than any disgusting thoughts of submissiveness. The Elite lifts his wrist computer and flips it open. He inputs a long string of dash symbols into the device. A soft ping alerts him to his suspicions; Kwei-Bezas is the one who set the _akrei-non_ originally. Either the engineer needs to unlock it through their wrist computer, or Gry’Sui needs to manually disarm it and remove it from the ooman’s neck. He does not know why he considers the action. It is not in the name of boredom, because it is impossible to become bored when his body feels like fire and he smells only _la’va-da_. It is not in the name of mercy, because he anticipates the oomans being disposed of once the investigation and trial into M-di-H’chak finishes.

 _I am… curious?_ Gry’Sui growls sharply when the ooman begins yelling. The noise shuts her up, but she glares at him with hardened brown eyes. His snarl returns a note of fear, but soon that fades. She is foolishly brave, again. _Or annoyed. She is more foolish than I thought._

He chides himself for thinking an ooman could be anything but foolish in the first place.

The Yautja stands upright and strides to her. He sees her body tense but she doesn’t back away. The ooman looks away as the Elite leans to her neck level and peers at the _akrei-non_. The device is simple, but it has been cycles since Gry’Sui worried about defusing explosives. The Elite takes the gloves of his mesh suit off and carefully slides the _akrei-non_ a full three-sixty degrees around the ooman’s neck. When he understands the model, he uses a clawtip to _carefully_ unscrew and pluck out a nodule. It reveals the circuit-riddled interior. Gry’Sui spends several long, tedious minutes severing connections in the _akrei-non_ ’s conduits.

He has enough confidence in himself not to make the _akrei-non_ explode in his hands, yet a strange tension looms as his hands work. He finds the ooman’s skin very warm to the touch, very _soft_ , to the point he fights not to let his hands linger there when finished. The smell of _la’va-da_ is well past overwhelming when he deactivates the _akrei-non_ and it unlocks from around the ooman’s neck. All he can think about is the flower, the scent of her, and his own shameful thoughts as he takes the _akrei-non_ and draws back.

He is over a foot taller than the woman. Her brown eyes remain on him, mouth ajar but no more of the strange ooman words coming out. Gry’Sui puffs up his chest in response. Even if the one involved is an ooman, leaving another speechless is an ego-flattering accomplishment. He bellows in victory and strikes a powerful stance with the _akrei-non_ held in the air like a skull—Just as the door to the cockpit opens.

* * *

Bezas stares from beyond their bio-mask. They can’t help the humor in their voice when they click, _“You get over the ooman yet, or?”_

 _“You pauk—”_ Gry’Sui is on them in a second, sizing them up and advancing to where they stand. Bezas ignores his attempts to intimidate them. The Elite is an amusing sight, but not more amusing than the sight of the man’s asinine pose and laughter-inducing ego.

 _“Look. I felt bad ‘bout locking ya both in here. So, I’m taking the ooman back to the containment cell. Oh, also, Bist’ri wants ya to watch H’chak and Ikthya-De in the med bay. By Bist’ri, I mean me, and by me, I mean I got to fly this ship, so you’ve got babysitting duty,”_ the engineer has no qualms throwing the facts into the open. They have nothing to hide. _“So, go on. Don’t keep the Adjutant waitin’. I dunno where she went, but she’s probably in a cabin, so you best get to the med bay quick.”_

 _“This conversation isn’t over.”_ Is the Elite’s retort. The stench of his musk fills the air.

Bezas feels their chest tighten. Heat swarms their abdomen at the thought. They only wait long enough to ensure Gry’Sui strides down the corridor and enters the medical bay before the engineer looks back at a _akrei-non-_ less ooman. _“I got to get you back, uh… Pauk, you don’t understand me, do you? Can’t be helped, then.”_

Having the ooman thrash against them when they pick her up and throw the woman over their shoulder is annoying, but the walk to the containment cell is short. Bezas unceremoniously chucks the ooman into the room before closing and locking the glass door. They wave at the ooman, ignore her glare, and make the walk back to the cockpit. They pocket the _akrei-non_ on the floor to recycle later. Bezas locks the cockpit door, syncs their wrist computer with the _Echinos_ ’ interface, and calmly begins marking the locations of bio-mask pings on a holographic map a nearby dashboard projects into the air.

 _“What are you doing in there, Adjutant?”_ Bezas tilts their head to one side, brown eyes focused on the bio-mask ping indicating Bist’ri’s presence. The nurse currently moves around Ikthya-De’s cabin. Bezas takes a seat in one of the front row chairs and throws their feet on the dashboard. They lean back in their seat and click softly. _“I think someone needs to have a chat with you. Let’s see… What did she want? Pauk, damn Ka’Torag-Na plants always ‘bout speaking in cryptic words. Guess I gotta make up my own interpretation.”_

There are ways to access the identification software built into the wrist computer of a Yautja. It isn’t easy, and for most Yautja it would take hours, but Kwei-Bezas has been an engineer long enough to no longer be considered _most Yautja._

 _A’ight, A’ight. Let’s get something goin’ here. Ikthya-De wants quality time with the kv’var-de… Oomans are in their containment cell. I can occupy Gry’Sui. The two Adjutants… Ah. Mm. Okay. I see what oomans meant by the phrase, ‘two birds, one stone.’_ Bezas clicks in satisfaction.

They compose a message.

* * *

He is in the middle of composing a report updating Akrei-non-Daga on the status of the _Echinos, Kukulkan_ , and the ship’s respective inhabitants, when his wrist computer pings softly. Initially, the Adjutant intends to ignore it; he needs to finish composing the report, transmit it to the clanship, and make rounds with each crew member to assess current needs and problems. When Guan prompts the notification to pull up within the optical system of his bio-mask, he hears his hearts start thudding in his head.

_‘Come find me.’_

The rational side of his brain asking why Bist’ri would message him over establishing a communications line or knocking on their shared cabin door doesn’t rouse suspicion. He dismisses the thought after a second of pondering.

Bist’ri is trustworthy; the other Adjutant must have a reason for her choice of communication. Guan adjusts his bio-mask and pauses. _I can… ask her after. If she needs to see me—It’s something important. I can’t keep her waiting._

Truthfully, the man can’t keep _himself_ waiting.

He knows better than to let the feelings linger, but all that come to mind when he thinks of _her_ is a sense of calm warmth. His thoughts _want_ to go to _her_ for comfort, for peace, even if it is sinful. His body, likewise, reacts to the thought of the blue Yautja. Guan cannot count on one hand how many times he has excused himself to the washroom. The shame burns his cheeks. He does not speak it aloud, but he anticipates his _n’dui-se_ is a tell. He knows Yautja produce thicker musk when aroused or attracted to another.

 _But it’s not… unpleasant._ Guan tells himself when he steps into the corridor. _I don’t repulse her. My scent reminds her of… happier times._

He likes the idea of Bist’ri being _happy._

He likes _Bist’ri_.

He shouldn’t.

Even if Bist’ri decided to seek a mating partner, he remains a paired Yautja. He is sworn to Ikthya-De. He is not like the wretched woman, willing to throw away the sanctity of the life partnership in favor of sleeping with others while the two remain paired. He will not cross the line.

 _I am a man of honor._ Guan reminds himself, inhaling deeply. He ignores the throbbing pain in his groin, the heat of his face, and the racing heartbeats in his head.

He hisses at no one when he thinks about _her_ , again. The memory of her soft hands lingers in his mind; he wants to relieve the sensation and the tenderness of that moment. He wants to go further, letting her have as much of him as she wants to take. If it were only lust, he knows he could rely on relieving himself in the washrooms, but the feelings have compounded into something more substantial than that. It frustrates him and thrills him and fills him with a looming sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

 _I am paired. I am paired. Ikthya-De is my mate._ Guan reminds himself. _Bist’ri is an Honorable Adjutant. She will not… She does not want to step over any lines. She does not want a mating partner this season. And if she did—She wouldn’t want me._

He gets a grip on his body by the time his olfactory receptors catch the smell of _salt sand sea_. Bist’ri’s scent is like a lure, instinctively digging into his flesh and clawing until he heeds attention. He doesn’t know if she is aware of how overwhelming she smells to him. Guan wonders if the woman knows how difficult it has been for him to move and act across the ship when his mind is constantly distracted by _her_. Even now, as he walks to the door of Ikthya-De’s cabin and pauses, the Adjutant’s head _swarms_ with brooding wants and needs. He swallows and reminds himself the two are members of the same clan, nothing more. Bist’ri is professional and polite; courtesy does not equate feelings.

The Adjutant is so lost in the _n’dui-se_ he doesn’t question why the other Adjutant would call him to his mate’s cabin.

* * *

Ikthya-De does not have a lot of items. None of the crew brought much equipment, as the trip was initially planned to take three- or four-day cycles, a week cycle at most. Yet as the Adjutant activates and deactivates different shelves and cabinets from the walls, she finds the cabin is especially lacking. Bist’ri sits next to one activated cabinet, prying free a leathery satchel from inside and sifting through contents.

All she finds is a used mortar and pestle, two ancient tools used in some Yautja clans in the present to grind herbs. Bist’ri tilts her head to one side as she turns the mortar over in her hands; her green eyes scour the bowl-shaped rock for any hints as to what it was used for last. She finds, along the inner rim of the mortar, there is a paper-thin piece of red plant fibers, no bigger than a centimeter. Bist’ri is in the process of lifting it off the mortar and securing it into a test vial when the door suddenly unlocks and slides open.

She whips her head up, frozen in place, only to exhale loudly at the sight of the other Adjutant. _“Guan—I—One moment.”_ The woman puts the sliver of red plant fiber into a glass vial. She caps it, ensures it locks, and rises from her feet. She turns to face the other Adjutant, noting his tense posture. _“Are you alright?”_

Bist’ri is grateful for the stench of _thwei_. It helps mask some of the man’s musk and keep herself from becoming too distracted when the other Adjutant steps forward. She stills and observes him, taking in the Adjutant’s body language and demeanor. He looks serious, or nervous. _Perhaps both?_ Behind her bio-mask, her mandibles draw together into a tight ‘frown.’ Instinctively, she wants to ask him what he needs, if she can assist him in any way, but she holds back the words. The two have had one too many interactions as of late that have left her body burning with need she cannot satiate. 

* * *

_“I—”_ He balks at her, though the expression is hidden by his mask. Guan falls quiet as he breathes in the call of the coast. _Salt. Sand. Sea._ He actively reminds himself of who he is sworn to, his pairing with Ikthya-De, his _honor_ , yet every time he breathes _her_ in, the Adjutant’s head falls a little deeper into the mess of complicated feelings and wants.

_“I’m fine.”_

His hands tense into fists. He digs his clawtips into his palms in hopes the pain grounds him. Guan’s eyes flicker from Bist’ri’s figure to the mess of dried _thwei_ across the cabin, Ikthya-De’s satchel, and the activated cabinets jutting out of the walls.

Bist’ri does not look convinced, but she doesn’t press him on it. Her response is kind. _“—If you ever aren’t—You know you can talk to me.”_ It is a kind offer.

Guan’s four hearts skip beats in unison; his orange eyes soften as he nods. The man clears his throat and gestures around Ikthya-De’s cabin. _“Are you fine, Bist’ri?”_

* * *

_“Sei-i. I know this looks strange,”_ The nurse clicks, tone relaxing as she slips into her calm, nurse persona. _“But I thought—I needed to come here. There are many bizarre things happening at once. I thought I had a handle on things, but it’s… clearly out of my control. I thought—I should start here.”_ Bist’ri inhales deeply when done. She stills as a waft of Guan’s musk hits her olfactory receptors.

He smells incredible. The scent of earth after a rainstorm penetrates her senses. Her knees wobble and her head spins. 

* * *

Bezas clicks softly in humor. The pings of bio-masks across the ship indicate the location of all but the oomans. The Yautja begins to click in song as they input a command into their wrist computer and listen for the doors to lock.

* * *

_“I thought—I should start here.”_

Guan has no clue whether she refers to what’s happened between the two Adjutants, or his mate’s sudden pregnancy and miscarriage. His face flushes with heat at the thought of the first. He isn’t ready to have a discussion on the idea of feelings, not when his are so pauked up on their own. Yet when the thought crosses his mind, his resolve wavers. He takes a step toward the Yautja. His stomach does flips as he looks down at her bio-mask.

His voice is full of hesitation, anxiety, and raw lust as he clicks at her, _“Then you should…start.”_

* * *

_Pauk._ The tone in his voice, the shift in his mood, the way she knows his attention locks on her—She feels fire blaze across her body. She is sensitive to everything he says and does. Part of the Adjutant wants him to come closer, but the rational half of Bist’ri’s mind has the resolve to step back. She turns away. _He’s… He is Honorable. An Honorable man. He doesn’t…_ Yet when she breathes, she can _smell_ him.

The other Adjutant has become aroused. There is no one else in the room to blame it on. Bist’ri’s face flushes with heat at the realization the two are alone in the cabin. She becomes increasingly aware of the distance between the Yautja, the placement on the ship, and wonderful aroma of the earth after a rain shower. Her body begins screaming at her to step forward, to seal the gap, but she keeps herself in check.

 _“Guan—I—”_ The woman hears his sharp inhale. She grits her teeth. She can handle this. _“I am trying to investigate possible sources behind your mate's sudden... Her sudden change in condition."  
_

* * *

_“Ki’sei.”_ Guan slowly nods. He drags himself backward a small step. It’s not enough; all he perceives is _salt sand sea_. His body longs for her touch, but he reminds himself she is not interested. _You’re paired, Adjutant. Act like it. She doesn’t want you. You have a mate._ _A mate who… hurts you. And others. A mate who wants you dead._

The Adjutant forces the thoughts from his mind. He needs to get a grip on the situation before it spirals. The man clicks softly to get Bist’ri’s attention, only to find he has not lost it. The way her bio-mask is angled indicates she stares directly at him. Heat floods his body. His hands tremble. He hears her say something, but the words go over his head. He can feel his body react to the intensity of her _n’dui-se._ He begins to unsheathe behind his loincloth. The armored kilt protecting his pelvis hides it, but not forever. Guan swallows and steps back.

He has no idea what the other Yautja says about her investigation. He needs to leave. He needs to leave _now_ and find a place to relieve himself of his shameful desires in private.

 _“Excuse me. Bist’ri. I—I must tend to something,”_ Guan strains to click. He sees Bist’ri still; the man tears himself away from the sight of her and walks to the door. He cannot hold his hand to the indentation fast enough. His entire body is on _fire_ with the need, the drive, the _lust_ to finish himself. He needs a break from the world, in the washroom, where the other Adjutant is the only other individual in the fantasies in his head. 

His cock throbs behind the loincloth.

Guan stares at the door of the cabin with wide eyes. He presses his palm against the door again. It does not move. The Adjutant feels a terrible sense of dread wash over him as he stands in front of the door shaking like a leaf. _M-di, m-di, m-di!_

He ignores Bist’ri’s inquiry into the situation. He can’t afford to acknowledge her any more than his body already does. He trembles while inputting commands into his wrist computer. He cannot sync his wrist computer with the _Echinos._ He attempts to activate a communication line with Kwei-Bezas, only to have it fail. The message he scrambles to send to the engineer does not go through. Guan feels his hearts drop in his chest as a thought crosses his mind. He stares at his wrist computer and shudders. _This is… This can’t be… intentional. Can it?_

He knows he has enemies, but to carry out such an elaborate idea is preposterous. Guan leans forward and rests his head against the door. His breathing grows shallow as he struggles to think. _This is intentional. This is… This is intentional. Someone put the two of us in here. But—Would Bist’ri have done it? Locked herself in? M-di, m-di, m-di—She wouldn’t. She’s kind. She’s honorable… She’s… She’s everything… And someone knows that. Someone knows how I… …Pauk._

* * *

It becomes increasingly difficult not to stare. Bist’ri understands the man’s panic in a heartbeat; he’s embarrassed. Her scent prompts his body to respond in full. The Yautja feels her stomach twist and churn with heat when she realizes what goes on. She strides to the door and immediately begins configuring her wrist computer to sync with the ship, her mind a tizzy from the musk in the air. She balks when the _Echinos_ rejects her authorization as Adjutant nurse to unlock the doors.

 _“Cjit, cjit, cjit,”_ Bist’ri curses louder and louder as an old panic swoops in. She forces herself to calm, grounding herself in the scent of soil after a rainstorm, in the damp earth after a drizzle. It’s the only thing she can think of, inhaling the other Adjutant’s _n’dui-se_ until the panic and fear of the past leaves. Her hands are scrunched into tiny fists when she can think straight. _Calm. Calm. Calm. Calm._

She activates a communication line with Kwei-Bezas. The engineer picks up after a long, tense moment in the cabin. _“—Kwei-Bezas here. How’s it hanging, Bist’ri?”_

_“The door to Ikthya-De’s cabin—It’s jammed, locked, broken, I'm not sure which. Can you—look on your end, can tell what’s going on?"_

_“A’ight, gimme one second… Oh. Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. Looks like the ship’s interface is being weird… Communication lines, too. I’ll get it fixed, but it might take some time.”_ The voice of the other Yautja brings much-needed relief to the nurse. Bist’ri exhales and nods. She ends the communication line and turns to Guan—Only to find the man is no longer there. She frowns and looks across the cabin; the washroom is shut. When she closes her eyes and inhales, the Yautja can smell the scent of earth after rainfall coming from beyond the door. 

She strides up to it and clicks. _"Guan?"_

When he doesn't answer, she knocks. Bist'ri ignores the worry gnawing the edge of her mind. There is _no_ reason for her to be concerned with him when the two are on a ship in the middle of space. 

_"I contacted Kwei-Bezas, Guan. They said they will get the door working in time,"_ the nurse tenses. _"Are you alright in there?"_

 _"Fine."_ It sounds closer to a croak. _"Don't worry about me."_

It takes a moment for her to remember why he might choose to put a door between the two. Heat creeps into her cheeks at the thought, followed by a deep ache in her chest. The woman walks to the other side of the cabin, farthest from the adjacent washroom. She sits cross-legged and holds her head in her hands. There is no way to block out the _n'dui-se_. It draws her thoughts back to him, like a moth to flame. The shame she feels at how quickly her own body reacts to the thoughts of the man haunts her. He is a paired Adjutant. He has responsibilities. He has a _mate_. He may look at her as a friend but it does not equate the same feeling as the one twisting in her chest. She growls softly at herself, frustrated at her own lack of self-control.

 _S’yuit-de, Bist’ri._ She chides herself. _You are here to protect him from Ikthya-De. Not… Not…_ Her face flushes behind her mask. She curses. _S’yuit-de._


	44. my friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW  
> -suicide  
> -discussion of past abuse  
> -discussion of trafficking  
> -mention of miscarriage 
> 
> Also the very last section of the previous chapter was edited/updated. :0

The skull of the Queen has sat untouched for over a hundred cycles. In the past, the Elder recalls how her late mate used to lounge with the skull like it were a table or cushion to lean against. Setg’in had been entranced by the skull and its sister skull, though the latter received far less attention than the former. Lar’ja remembers the hours put into cleaning the skull of acidic blood, draining bone marrow, polishing it to a faint sheen. Now, hanging limply on the wall of her residential quarters with the rest of her collection, the skull looms with a layer of dust.

 _Unacceptable._ Lar’ja’s white eyes narrow at the sight. She strides to her collection and plucks the larger of the Queen skulls from their place on the wall. She tucks it under her arm and carries it to her bedchamber. The woman sets it down and leaves to fetch cleaning supplies. She does not use the laser system common among younger Yautja in the clan. She takes a cloth, damps it with water, and begins the slow process of dabbing away dust from the bone while sitting on her bed. She positions the skull between her thighs to keep it steady while her hand slowly works.

The chunk of Bloodstone from the Andromeda system is a black rock with emerald-colored veins scoring its sides. Within the green streaks, and sporadically smattered across the surface of the stone, Lar’ja makes out specks of vivid, lime green. She does not remember the name of the elements composing the mineral, but she admires it all the same. She sees why it possesses a revered and intimidating name; the green flecks are sublime in their beauty. When she shuts her eyes behind her bio-mask and imagines giving it to the head of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division, everything inside the Elder’s _bhu’ja_ feels right. She is _zazin,_ centered within herself and confident in her decisions.

The skull takes many hours to clean. Occasionally, the woman pulls her wrist computer off from where it hangs on a belt at her hip; she checks it for any unheard messages before setting it aside and resuming her task. Once the skull is clean, Lar’ja knows she must cut and polish the Bloodstone, measure it, and carve a notch of approximate size within the skull for the stone to set in. Doing it with one hand is tricky, but Lar’ja does not shy from her task. She is as resolute and stubborn now as she was during her days as a _kv’var-de._

The Elder has just finished the topside of the Queen’s skull when a knock comes from the circular door of her quarters. Lar’ja pauses and glances in the direction. Her white eyes narrow when the knocking resumes, louder. She sets her cleaning cloth aside, moves the skull to her bed, and rises to her feet. She is halfway out of her bedchamber when the knocking comes a third time. She has only taken one step out of her bedchamber when the door to her residential quarters suddenly unlocks and opens. Lar’ja pauses, inhaling the scent that follows the dark Yautja entering her quarters.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ Lar’ja clicks loudly, partially in surprise. She stares as the head of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division abruptly shuts the door to the Elder’s residential quarters. Tjau’ke exhales loud enough to be heard; the nurse enters a command into her wrist computer and the door of the quarters locks a moment later.

 _“Lar’ja—”_ Tjau’ke begins, but when she turns around Lar’ja is quick to stride up to her and cut her off.

 _“Using your position as the head of the medical division to break into the private living areas of other clan members is a disgraceful move,”_ The Elder is firm in her words, unwilling to back down from the blatant violation of privacy. She watches Tjau’ke growl at her. Lar’ja clicks back quietly, _“I was in the middle of something… important.”_

 _“Forgive me, Elder Lar’ja, but I find the matter important enough to warrant drastic measures. I do not burglarize my fellow clan members for fun.”_ Tjau’ke looks down at Lar’ja. She does not possess her bio-mask, enabling Lar’ja to see every ounce of severity within the gray-blue gaze. It is a breathtaking view, enough for the Elder to momentarily forget where she is and what she is doing.

When Tjau’ke begins to look around, Lar’ja clears her throat and straightens upright. _“…You do not have permission to peruse my residency like a merchant’s caravan.”_

“You have no one else here? Nobody watching? Listening?” The questions ensnare Lar’ja’s focus. The Elder picks up on the notes of worry. It concerns her immediately; she steps forward and peers at Tjau’ke.

 _“…Are you in trouble?”_ The trill is soft.

It displeases Lar’ja to hear her old friend snarl. _“I am not an ic’jit, Lar’ja! I am not here for me. I am here for Bist’ri.”_

The Elder freezes in place. Instinctively, her hand yearns to go to her sword, but when she reaches for it the Elder remembers it hangs over her bedside. Tjau’ke sees the motion regardless and huffs at her. Lar’ja looks to the side. _“…We have gone over this before. Tjau’ke.”_

_“I need to know.”_

_“M-di!”_ Lar’ja snaps, refusing to let the nurse goad her into perusing the memories. _“There is nothing left to say.”_

 _“Daga ordered Tarei-Jehdin’s remains be exhumed,”_ the head of the medical division shifts from stubborn to solemn in a heartbeat. Her clicks drop in volume. Her shoulders slump. She looks down at Lar’ja. _“Elder Ju’dha already came to me—”_

 _“They came to me as well.”_ Lar’ja grits her teeth, mandibles twitching all the while. _“You will not find the answers you seek in that night, Tjau’ke.”_

_“But it will give me an understanding of how to help my Adjutant.”_ Tjau’ke hisses softly. _“Akrei-non-Daga is a cunning man, Lar’ja. He will use the Code against Ju’dha—"_

_“I know.”_

_“He will use it against you!”_ Tjau’ke hisses again. Her hairless brows furrow at Lar’ja. _“Lar’ja.”_

 _“Tjau’ke.”_ The Elder returns in kind.

 _“Why don’t you trust me?”_ The woman asks brazenly.

Lar’ja stills. Her white eyes grow a faint gray behind her mask, dimming greatly. Without warning she steps forward and leans up into the woman’s space. Tjau’ke steps backward; Lar’ja presses on with another step, refusing to let up on the advances until Tjau’ke’s back hits the wall of the Elder’s residence. Even then, Lar’ja steps forward. The Yautja has so many things to say, yet nowhere near the time necessary to say them. Instead, she seeks out Tjau’ke’s eyes and admires their depths. The head of the medical division is astoundingly beautiful and aggressively alluring in scent. Lar’ja revels in the _n’dui-se_ a moment longer.

 _“What I found on that ship… When I found Bist’ri and Tarei-Jehdin… Was… A sin not even ic’jit condone in their dishonor,”_ Lar’ja lets the soft clicks fade. She presses herself against Tjau’ke, sapping in the warmth. There is a definite gray blush beginning to spread across the nurse’s face; Lar’ja’s throat rumbles in satisfaction at the revelation. She lifts her hand to her face and unhooks her mask, dropping it to the side in favor of staring at the other woman’s heat signature. _“But if you are desperate to know, Tjau’ke—If you are that desperate to expose yourself to the nightmare—”_

 _“I swear on my honor,”_ Tjau’ke growls. _“I am not afraid, Lar’ja—”_ the nurse stills when Lar’ja’s hand rises and caresses her face, thumb tenderly rubbing against one mandible.

Lar’ja closes her eyes and inhales the woman’s scent. She can smell the hunger radiating off both herself _and_ her old friend. Part of her desperately wants to cast tradition aside, to pin Tjau’ke to the floor, to demonstrate just how utterly divine the nurse is to the world, but she does not. She holds in the urge to touch, to taste, to _feel_ , and snarls softly with the restraint of an angry steed. _“Show me your neck.”_

She is quiet when the nurse peers down at her and unclasps the top of her mesh. Tjau’ke has no shame; she does not hesitate in pulling it off her neck and down past her collarbone. It is difficult not to become distracted when offered the sight of subtle mammalian glands and the rich, deep black scales stretching Tjau’ke’s body. Lar’ja feels her body raze with heat. She curses under her breath and cups the woman’s nape with her hand. She pulls Tjau’ke closer to eye level and once again deliberates on the appeal of taking her on the floor. The conflict at hand must be obvious, as Lar’ja notes the rush of blood pooling into her old friend’s face and abdomen.

 _“Are you going to mark me?”_ The nurse challenges her resolve. _“I’m not your mate, Lar’ja. Others will see it. If they ask, I will tell them. Can you handle that? Is it beneath you?”_

 _“I don’t care what they think. Let them ask. Let them know. May I have your… permission?”_ Lar’ja clicks slowly, avoiding Tjau'ke's last remark. She feels pride when the nurse stiffly nods. For the briefest of moments, she is not preoccupied with the terrible truths of the past, she is simply lost in Tjau’ke’s beauty and grace, in the thoughts of a lifetime with her, in a million deep embraces and intimate escapades. 

Then she remembers the present. Lar’ja’s hand moves to the woman’s shoulder and she grips her tightly to hold Tjau’ke in place. The Elder’s mandibles spread wide and she shifts her mouth to Tjau’ke’s neck. The nurse exhales sharply. The scent of arousal fills the air, followed by a sharp hiss when Lar’ja buries her teeth into the nurse’s flesh and leaves a deep puncture mark. Lar’ja’s thin tongue flicks out to caress the bite mark before she draws back. Tjau’ke’s face fills with heat in Lar’ja’s eyes. The latter straightens upright and stares at the nurse. The nurse stares back.

For a moment—Neither move, as if daring the other to speak first.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke,”_ the Elder clicks softly. _“Are you alright?”_

 _“Sei-I, Honorable Lar’ja,”_ the nurse responds immediately, but her clicks betray the pain present. _“As per tradition—I recognize your mark. What tarnishes your honor shall tarnish mine the same.”_

 _“We are linked in honor.”_ Lar’ja’s throat rumbles softly. _“I put my trust in you, Tjau’ke.”_

 _“It’s time you did.”_ The nurse growls in response. _“Tell me about Bist’ri and Tarei. Tell me what you saw on the ship.”_

The Elder grimaces. She turns away from Tjau’ke and picks her bio-mask off the floor. _“If that is your desire…”_

* * *

The two Adjutants are interesting to watch. Bezas finds it fascinating how one Adjutant takes to the far corner while the other hides in a washroom. It is _hilarious_ to witness when Bezas—and practically everyone on this ship—is aware of how things have developed between the two Adjutants. Bezas has yet to miss a moment where one Adjutant pines for the other. They are so caught up in the idea, so _confident_ in their assumption, part of them debates activating a communication line with Nok Nok to place bets on the duo locked inside Ikthya-De’s cabin.

It helps with their cover story. They eventually give in to the urge and wait for the connection between Nok Nok and themself to form. The first thing they hear when the line begins blaring into their head are the words, _“Did the Adjutant give you an answer?”_

 _“Still a no so far. But he’s pretty, uh, preoccupied, so I anticipate he’ll come around to the idea in time. I won’t say ya owe me one for this, but ya owe me one for this.”_ Bezas trills with mirth at the idea. Their mandibles clack together loudly. _“Hey, ya ever place bets? I’ve been thinking—Those two Adjutants clearly wanna pauk. Why not put some credits on the line for when they tear off each other’s clothes and have at it?”_

 _“Not interested.”_ Nok Nok ends the communication line. The other Yautja grimaces and grumbles under breath. They rise from their seat after activating the autopilot system.

All the talk of pauking and mating musk keeps the fire in their blood alive. Kwei-Bezas contemplates as they stride from the cockpit to the medical bay. _Gry’Sui is easily distracted. Ikthya-De is awake. She’ll want to speak to that other Elite… Without Gry’Sui present. Damn, got my work cut out for me. Get to have some fun and earn favor at the same time._ The Yautja concludes, marching to the medical bay without pause. _What’s the ooman expression? Boo-Yuh? Boo-Yuh!_

As the door to the medical bay slides open, Kwei-Bezas peeks in and spots the lumbering amber figure of Gry’Sui standing near the medical pods. The Elite has a strong composure which hides how deep the influence of surrounding _n’dui-se_ permeates him. Bezas clicks in greeting and glances around, spotting the dark gray figure of Ikthya-De sitting on a metal table. The huntress is quiet; Bezas notes Ikthya-De’s yellow eyes drown in pain, no doubt at the present circumstances. Bezas trills at her and clicks in satisfaction when the huntress grunts in response.

 _“Ey!”_ Bezas greets as they walk forward. _“Glad to see ya awake, Ikthya-De. Thought ya were gonna be a goner for a second there. Heard there was a lot of thwei—”_

 _“There was.”_ The voice comes not from the huntress, but from the corner.

Bezas sniffs and quirks two hairless brows in realization. _“You aren’t… Guan.”_

 _“No cjit.”_ M-di-H’chak is a bitter man. The Elite strides to near one of the medical pods, the one containing the _ic’jit_ , but he doesn’t appear to actively try to unlock it. Bezas blinks. _“—I carried her here. I saw the thwei.”_

 _“I’m alive,”_ Ikthya-De cuts them off. She crosses her arms where she sits. Her gaze averts to the side. _“I’m still alive. Still alive. Still… alive.”_ Her clicks gradually grow softer.

The woman appears almost dazed. Rightfully so; Bezas knows firsthand how traumatic miscarrying is. The Yautja exhales behind their bio-mask and nods. _“That ya are. Bist’ri worked damn hard to keep ya that way.”_

Ikthya-De does not look at them. _“It’s her job.”_

If only out of sympathy for the woman’s current circumstances, Bezas refrains from a sippy comment back at the huntress. They stride past Ikthya-De, ignore H’chak, and walk calmly up to the increasingly tense, muscular form of the only other Elite _kv’var-de_ present. Watching the tension grow in the man is an amusing sight. Bezas doesn’t hide their amused chortles as their mandibles click together behind their mask. _“Ey… Ey, Gry’Sui. Didn’t ya say something about finishing a convo? I got a minute. Or two. Ikthya-De’s got a pal there to keep an eye on her,”_ Bezas clicks calmly, gesturing with one hand to M-di-H’chak.

H’chak stiffens at the engineer’s words but says nothing. If Ikthya-De reacts, Bezas does not see it.

The engineer makes a point of lowering their arms and cocking their head to one side. When Gry’Sui growls at them, they chuckle. They can smell the thickening _n’dui-se_ the Elite gives off; it spurs a fire in their belly and a hunger for the man. Bezas hisses softly to draw Gry’Sui’s attention to them. They lean over and put a hand on the man’s shoulder, intentionally pushing him back an inch in unspoken challenge. _“Ya still wanna talk?”_

 _“Pauk.”_ The Elite cusses them and shoves their shoulder in return.

Bezas’ mandibles draw up at the sides in a lopsided grin, all of it hidden by their mask. They click once at Gry’Sui before moving to the far end of the medical bay, where an unused door waits patiently to be unlocked. Bezas effortlessly connects their wrist computer with the ship’s interface, prompts the lock mechanism to deactivate, and disappears beyond the door into the cargo hold. It is large for a speedcraft, but what it has in size it lacks in available space; empty shelves and crates are arranged in neat rows and piles.

It is _perfect_ to toy with the Elite. Bezas has only just activated their cloaking device and disappeared in thin air when they hear Gry’Sui give in to his urges and storm into the cargo hold. They hear his curse and hold in a laugh before ducking behind a large pellet. They know how the mating dance works, but if the Elite thinks they will be easy to outsmart, he has another thing coming.

* * *

The two take a seat, with one settling into a floating, upside-down semi-circle with exquisite gel-like padding along the interior and a rising back to tailor to Lar’ja’s height. Tjau’ke does not sit in the hover chair; she vies for a simpler perch lounged across a large sofa of sheer cream material. The fabric meshes into her form when she sits, perfectly encapsulating part of her long, muscular legs, hips, and lower half of her torso. Lar’ja keeps her gaze off the nurse as Tjau’ke makes herself comfortable. The last thing the Elder needs is to be distracted when addressing such a grievous matter.

 _“Stalling never solves problems, Lar’ja.”_ Tjau’ke is curt scolding the Elder. Her long, spiraling locs lay over one shoulder and down the right side of her chest as she peers at the Elder expectantly.

Lar’ja’s white eyes dim. Lovely as the sight is, the nurse is not capable of erasing all the cruelty and callousness Lar’ja recants across her lifetime. She has been alive far too long to not know true horror and heinousness, the likes of which not even _ic’jit_ would align with. The Elder grimaces internally. Her hand tightens into a fist and she exhales into her mask. _“Do you remember when Elder Sa’ud passed, Tjau’ke?”_

 _“A terrible loss for Gahn’tha-cte.”_ The nurse shakes her head. _“She was strong and full of heart. Her bhu’ja accompanies the Black Hunter now; she is in a better place.”_

_“How she died,” Lar’ja hesitates. “The note she left…”_

_“I was not given the opportunity to read it before—"_

_“Sei-i. You were not.”_ The Elder looks to the side, unwilling to meet Tjau’ke’s gaze as the realization slowly dawns on the head of the medical division. Lar’ja’s eyes narrow when she hears the nurse inhale sharply, followed by a grotesque expletive the likes she will never repeat. The Elder hears Tjau’ke rise and looks back just in time for the nurse to finish striding to her and growling sharply. The demand for answers is clear, but Lar’ja can only offer, _“I did not push her to take her own life. But I could not let the clan know.”_

 _“What was in the note, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja?”_ The use of the Elder’s full name displeases Lar’ja, but Tjau’ke’s gaze is cold and unwavering.

 _“The note… held truth capable of destroying others. Truth I knew. Truth I know now. Truth that haunts the nighttime, in my dreams, a nightmare the likes I cannot do battle with,”_ The Elder clicks softly and bows her head. She shuts her eyes behind her mask. _“I will ask you a final time. Are you sure you want the truth?”_

 _“She is my Adjutant. Elder Ju’dha entrusts her safety to me. I will not be kept in the shadows like one of Ka’Torag-Na!”_ Tjau’ke’s voice descends back into a hiss. “ _I have seen too many things in this life, Lar’ja. I am not someone you need to protect.”_

The words sting. Lar’ja ignores the ache coming over her chest. She debates with herself a long minute whether to share, whether Tjau’ke’s anger at her is worth keeping her old friend free of the night terrors.

 _“The night Ju’dha and I brought back Bist’ri—She was not the only one I brought in. But she was the… only one alive,”_ the Elder sighs deeply. _“There were others, Tjau’ke. Others Sa’ud refused to expose you to. Bodies in… Unthinkable conditions. Not any species, Tjau’ke—”_ Lar’ja cannot keep her fist from shaking. She spits the words out in howls of sheer rage and grief, _“Yautja. Yautja bodies! Forced into this cesspit—Forced into—”_ The memories have never stopped haunting her, not in over a hundred cycles.

The exact number is closer to one-three-zero cycles. Lar’ja feels the dates burn in her mind, the exact moment branded no matter how desperately she longs to forget. She begins to tremble, hissing and cursing behind her mask to regain her composure.

In the end, the anger turns to helplessness, to a deep, stinging bitterness. _“The others were dead, all of them. Ju’dha and I couldn’t save them from the ui’stbi responsible. For all the Honor we claim to strive toward, none of it brings us back from the final rest. No skull or spine does that, Tjau’ke. No weapons, no strength, no honor—I could do nothing. Nothing!”_ Lar’ja’s fist tenses as her clawtips dig into the palm of her thermal mesh’s glove. She throws her head back and howls in rage at the memory.

She is furious at her own inability to have done more, outraged over the lives lost, mournful of the past which cannot be redone, and ashamed she cannot speak of it with the composure the topic deserves. She is her own mess, a mess of a woman lost in the past, lost in the Hunt that took her former mate away and lost in the atrocities documented by various excursions. There is no honor in the memories. There is only pain. A deep, grueling pain that digs far enough to leave her head throbbing and her mind aghast at everything all over again. She does not realize someone has taken her hand until she is ready to slam her fist into her thigh, at which someone clasps her hand tightly and holds her in place.

Lar’ja leaps to her feet and attempts to pull her hand away, but Tjau’ke is steadfast in her grip. The nurse stares down Lar’ja, but not with hostility. When the Elder looks, she finds Tjau’ke’s blue-gray eyes are dim and soft, reflecting a kindness full of concern. _“—Have you been holding unto this the whole time, Lar’ja? Carrying this on your own?”_

_“I could not tell you. No one but Ju’dha, myself, and Sa’ud—No one but us three, now two.”_

_“Not even me.”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly.

 _“Not even you.”_ Lar’ja’s eyes harden.

 _“S’yuit-de! You are just like your son,”_ Tjau’ke suddenly clicks loudly. She pulls Lar’ja to her. Lar’ja stills when the taller woman puts both hands on her shoulders, looking down with a mix of irritation and worry. _“The two of you—S’yuit-de! Always trying to carry everything yourselves! Do you honestly think it will lead to anything but pain? Agony? S’yuit-de, Lar’ja—S’yuit-de! Why do you and Guan close yourselves off from everyone? Do you think this will remain in the dark forever? Do you think it will go unheard of, unfounded, all a blemish only you worry about? Nothing hides forever.”_

Lar’ja knows that all too well. She shuts her eyes.

 _“Lar’ja. Lar’ja,”_ Tjau’ke trills. _“Why do you do this to yourself?”_

 _“Because it is a weakness I cannot rid myself of.”_ The Elder intones in a long string of chirrups. _“And I will not have it tarnish the strength of those around me.”_

_“I told you before—”_

_“I won’t lose you like I lost Setg’in.”_ Lar’ja snaps.

The room falls quiet, but the air feels alive: humming with energy, with the tension rooted in the two individuals. Lar’ja does not know if Tjau’ke fights the same war on the inside, but for a moment she is taken aback by the hunger gnawing at her soul. She does not give in. There is too much hanging over the two’s heads, too much drifting through the subject at hand for any interruption.

Tjau’ke’s eyes reflect something the Elder cannot identify _. “I am not easily lost. But if I were,”_ the nurse tenses, freeing Lar’ja from her grasp and balling her hands into fists. _“It would be—On the front lines—Doing all I can to protect my Adjutant, to protect my patients, to protect you, H’chak, Guan—Gahn’tha-cte. You could not afford me the agency to decide for myself what to do with this information. How do you think it makes me feel? Knowing you don’t even extend basic respect and honor to me as an individual?”_

 _“I won’t lose you.”_ Lar’ja shakes her head. The _Pride of Cetanu_ feels like dead weight as her vantablack locs frame her face and fall lower still.

 _“S’yuit-de. That is not your decision to make.”_ The nurse’s voice is void of anger. The lack of venom makes Lar’ja freeze and balk. Tjau’ke’s clicks contain a sullen, disheartened morose, but no anger. No fury. No rage.

The room is quiet for a long while after Tjau’ke leaves. Hearing the door slide shut hurts the Elder more than she cares to admit. She retreats to her bedchamber for solace, only to find the Queen skull and Bloodstone sitting where she left them. Lar’ja’s gaze dims. She curses softly and shoves them to the floor before sinking into her bed, all alone.

* * *

_Red plant… red plant… What could this be from? Which red plant? Most don’t possess vines of this hue, or petals of that thinness, or…_ The thoughts are all she possesses to pass the time.

The nurse sits cross-legged in a corner of Ikthya-De’s cabin, slowly rolling the vial containing a tiny red plant fiber between her fingers as she rakes her brain for possible herbs. The heat across her body has simmered to a faint ache versus the deep rolling need she felt before. Part of Bist’ri attributes the waning feeling to the lack of musk. Though the recycled air and filtration systems means she can not truly escape the stench while onboard the _Echinos_ , Bist’ri knows the solid door and walls of the washroom provide an adequate buffer for the musk previously invading her senses.

The nurse lowers the vial. Her eyes shut behind her bio-mask. She exhales slowly. _Does he think lesser of me for this? Getting us locked in a room together. Giving him a…_ Her face flushes with heat and she winces. The thought makes her four hearts race in her head, but the only thing that follows is the shame welled up inside her. _I have not been mindful enough of his status as a paired Yautja. Of his… Of our interactions together. He has a mate. He remains honorable to her. Even if he wasn’t—That is—It’s no excuse, Bist’ri._

Her green eyes dim. She stares at her lap, at the tiny vial of red. _Should I apologize? For things becoming awkward between us. For causing his embarrassment. He is Leader Daga’s Adjutant, it is essential we remain on good terms. One day, he will lead the clan, and I will take over as the head of the medical division for Tjau’ke, and…_ Her thoughts begin to swim again, but this time it is not in the sweet, serene smell of the ground after a torrential rainfall. Her entire body tenses as she sits and deliberates on the appropriate action. She does not want the other Adjutant to look down on her or act differently around her.

 _Would it have been easier if I didn’t come? If I hadn’t asked?_ The nurse inhales slowly. _I wanted to protect him. Tjau’ke wants to protect him. But she is bound by her duties as the head of the medical division. I have more… freedom. Freedom to protect him. To… be near him._

She is reminded of the hundreds of hours spent in Gahn’tha-cte’s _kehrites_ , where _kv’var-de_ spar and duel with both actual weapons and practice variants. Back before her scales shifted blue, even as far back to her early days as a new nurse under Tjau’ke’s watch, she recalls seeing him and others fight. It is strange to reminiscent on, as Bist’ri finds the differences between the shell of a Yautja she was back then and the Adjutant she is now. _Like night and day. And you were there, training. Always training. Until you and H’chak fought, and then… And then things changed. For both of us. You trained less. Lost more. And I…_

Her hand tightens on the vial of red plant fiber. Bist’ri feels her hands tremble. _I had to keep patching you up. S’yuit-de._

The past feels both far away and not long ago when she considers the life she’s lived. One-eight-seven cycles worth of experiences, of horrors, of growth. Bist’ri wonders if one event can rip it all apart. She knows the Challenging did, both for Gahn’tha-cte-Guan and M-di-H’chak. She grits her teeth. Her mandibles twitch behind her mask. _No. This was an accident. I don’t want it to break down the ties we’ve built. He trusts me, and I…_

A soft ping catches her attention. There is a message, but not from Kwei-Bezas. Bist’ri blinks slowly and feels heat lurch into her face when she pulls the message up within her bio-mask’s optical system and sees the sender. Any awkwardness that remains dissipates in the following pause as she reads.

_‘Adjutant Bist’ri,_

_I am sorry for earlier._

_Both for unnecessary awkwardness, my sudden departure, and the disrespect I demonstrated in our interactions throughout this trip. I will not blame it on n’dui-se. I have made many mistakes of my own volition._

_Tell me what you need of me to restore honor in your eyes.’_

It is incredibly formal. _Everything_ about it reeks of what must have been painstaking decisions over the choice of words. Bist’ri’s green eyes dim, though she finds a semblance of comfort in the knowledge the man does not want to part ways. Perhaps it is inevitable come the return to the clanship, but for now she finds his presence a comfortable one. She debates whether a well-humored retort fares better than a formal one. Bist’ri does not like the formalities; she does not want him to reduce her to her position as Adjutant, nor does she seek the same for him. Her response comes quickly when she realizes she does not want either the two to change.

 _‘So now you want to call me Adjutant Bist’ri?’_ The message sends. For a moment, Bist’ri wonders if the two wrist computers syncing with one another means the rest of the ship’s interface is up and running, but when she stands and walks to the door, she finds she cannot unlock it using her authority as Adjutant nurse. She pauses at the soft ping of a response.

_‘I did not say that.’_

The nurse’s green eyes soften. She pauses at the sound of the washroom door unlocking and opening. The other Adjutant’s eyes are hidden behind his bio-mask, but even when he steps out, he does not look at her.

His voice is much louder when he clicks, _“I prefer calling you Bist’ri. It is less… Impersonal.”_

_“Impersonal.”_

_“I,”_ the man hesitates. It is strange to think a fully armored warrior of his caliber, an _Elite_ , is nervous about talking to her, but it is clear the other Adjutant strains to voice his thoughts. _“I’m sorry. Bist’ri. For… making things awkward. For many things—"_

 _“Guan—Please don’t apologize. It’s—Your body’s physical response to an infinite number of possibilities, especially given the mating season.”_ The nurse is quick to cut him off. She can smell him again now that the other Adjutant is in the same room. He does not smell so strongly, but what she smells of him is soothing, grounding, comforting. Perhaps the only Yautja in the stars capable of easing the tension when her thoughts spiral. 

The other Adjutant falls quiet. Bist’ri watches the man’s bio-mask angle to face her. The silence that lingers is electrifying. It feels like the air hums with unspoken, unseen energy, as if something _should_ happen but hasn’t, not yet. It makes her feel antsy.

 _“I haven’t… Had someone care about me the way you do in a long time,”_ Guan trills softly. _“And I—I haven’t figured out how to… How to be me—How to handle myself around you, Bist’ri.”_ His shoulders slump. Though she cannot see his face, the nurse hears his dejection. _“But I want to. I want to be around you. As—As me. Guan. Not the Adjutant. Just Guan.”_

 _“Only if you call me Bist’ri.”_ The nurse clicks in response.

She pauses when the other Adjutant walks up to her. His hands feel warm on her arms, the grip gentle. The soft clink of metal when his bio-mask touches her sends her pulses racing.

 _“Bist’ri. Thank you,”_ the Adjutant clicks softly. _“For being my friend.”_

Then he withdraws, walking swiftly to a far corner of the room and taking a seat. Bist’ri finds herself at a loss of words, unable to focus on anything but the warmth in her face and fondness in her chest for a paired Yautja.


	45. protect the wretched woman (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -talk of miscarriage  
> -talk of pregnancy  
> -implications of abuse / past abuse  
> -rough sex  
> -talk about death / grieving 
> 
> ~enjoy the drama~

He remembers the humidity of the rainforest. The adrenaline in his veins. The furious _red_ in his leaps when he tracked _her_ down by scent alone. She was clever, using blood mixed into the Im-Gen’ equivalent of saliva to spit a noticeable trail. He had not admitted it at the time, but her quick-thinking impressed him. He could not have found her without her actions, but one of many unfolding in the two’s enmeshed paths.

He remembers how relieved he was when he found her, _alive._ Alive and with an _ic’jit_ behind her, as if the Im-Gen was prepared to fight to keep the Bad Blood safe from the Arbitrator facing her. He knows, had she attempted such, her life would have ended there, or at the very least been incapacitated. Briefly, he wonders if it would have played out the two’s lives differently, leading both Yautja and Im-Gen to different destinations instead of this damning path. If he had not intervened, if he had not executed the one called _T’Gou_ for dishonorable hunting methods, H’chak wonders if his mate might still be alive.

He would rather her be alive and without him than dead and him alone.

The man has not stopped thinking about what he could have done differently leading up to his capture. He wishes he took her with him on the hunt. He remembers her delight at hearing of _his_ hunts, _his_ trophies, and the way she effortlessly ensnared his dedication to explaining every trophy in the quarters of the _Kukulkan_ to her. He remembers how much she adored them, though not as much as she adored _him_ , and the sincere curiosity displayed whenever he shared the details of the hunt. He remembers how cool her body felt, a refreshing change from the blazing, bitterness he had felt for so long.

He remembers how he almost lost her to his own innate stubbornness, how his dedication to his clan’s laws almost drove her from him completely. His heart aches over the disgusting irony. He wants to roar and howl at the stars for how twisted the universe is, giving him so much love and happiness only to rip it away from him later. The pain the loss of his mate leaves in him is too much for him to handle. He knows Sundew was not his mate long, but she was _his mate_ , and he loved her as much as he holds his Honor high. M-di-H’chak loved Sundew in every possible way. He knows—He still does. Day cycles are not enough to forget the love in his chest, his heart, in _him_.

He begins to wish it was. Five days is not enough to mourn. A million days may not be enough to mourn. He is desperate not to believe it, yet he understands the final rest enough to know there is no returning from it.

Sundew is gone. His flower is gone. The brief spark of light, love, and jubilance in his _bhu’ja_ —Gone. He is alone again, back in a clan of individuals he knows mock him behind their backs, back in the presence of the man he hates most, of the woman he despises and aches over, and of world he once swore to disavow and run from for Sundew’s sake.

 _She’s dead. I have nowhere to run. No one to run to._ The man grits his teeth. His mandibles flare angrily. Being in heat is a kick to the sacs, nothing short of repulsive timing. H’chak finds his grief tempered in part by the swing of hormones in his body; he reacts to the scents of others in ways he feels shame over, knowing he would pursue Sundew to an escapade lasting weeks if she were alive. His body remembers how she felt against him, _with_ him, sucking him in and embracing every inch. It is a beautiful memory, buried deep within the Yautja, but the comfort it brings soon dies when Kwei-Bezas comes barging into the medical bay. The nurse, _Adjutant Bist’ri_ , he reminds himself, is quick to leave thereafter.

 _“’Ey! Elite! How ya doing, big guy? Ya know we traveled from Yautja Prime to get ya? Right in the nick of time, too, that’s an ooman saying if ya don’t know.”_ The engineer is obnoxiously loud as Kwei-Bezas strides to where he stands by Vayuh’ta’s medical pod.

H’chak wishes they would _go away._ He wants quiet. He _needs_ quiet. He needs to think and plan his moves for when the ship returns to Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship.

The engineer doesn’t leave. Kwei-Bezas clicks at him. _“Ya good there, pal?”_

 _“Thinking.”_ Is his response, cold and merciless. His orange eyes shift to Vayuh’ta’s medical pod. Beyond the glass hatch, he sees her dark gray form bob up and down in the equally dark liquid of the pod. She lives, but there is occasionally a spurt of blue mist jetting out from the side of the pod over her body. No doubt—H’chak knows it is a sedative, a drug specifically developed for application on Yautja bodies.

 _They intend to transport her to Ka’Torag-Na. She’s being handed over to those who lurk in the darkness._ The Elite acknowledges with a silent hiss. He feels his chest tighten. _What, then? Vayuh’ta. I learn we’re related, and then you get assisted in honorable suicide by your former clan? S’yuit-de, all of this. S’yuit-de, ic’jit._

 _“Ya know. Ya sounded a lil like Elder Lar’ja for a bit there. All, ‘oh, I’m thinking!’ whenever ya don’t reply to honest inquiries.”_ Kwei-Bezas annoys the pauk out of him. H’chak briefly dwells on the thought of ripping the engineer’s spine and skull out for the insolence, but he decides against it. He cannot win in a fight against the other members of the ship.

 _Pauk. This sucks cjit, all of it._ H’chak grits his teeth and exhales sharply. He turns to Bezas, more than capable of making out their dull, graying yellow figure thanks to his bio-mask’s optics. _“I’m sure many Yautja in Gahn’tha-cte share in this behavior.”_

 _“Eh. Maybe. I dunno. I mean, is it really that common? Do most Elites stand around eyeballing unconscious ic’jit?”_ The engineer has a scent akin to burning rubber.

H’chak growls. _“What I do is none of your business.”_

 _“It is now, buckaroo. That’s—Another ooman expression.”_ Bezas clicks in response, unwavering in confidence and annoyance. The engineer looks from him to Ikthya-De, where the latter rests on a metal table ignoring them. _“Uh, I’ll be right back. Need to let the sausage out of the cockpit.”_

Just like that, Bezas is gone. H’chak groans at the thought of them returning. His attention returns to Vayuh’ta’s medical pod. _What the pauk do I do with you? Let you out? Let you go? Smuggle you to an escape pod and pray no one notices? You’ll die, Vayuh’ta. And I’m too pauking pissed to allow that._

He can’t let Gahn’tha-cte turn her over to Ka’Torag-Na. Regardless of her ic’jit status, she and him are now family. It is not the honorable thing to do, but H’chak has plenty of colorful words to say about _honor_. He did back when Sundew was alive, and he does now.

She would not want him to let Vayuh’ta die either. He can hear her kind but neutral voice in his head, _I owe her a debt. But even if I did not, I do not want her to expire, just as I do not want Ivon or Jo or Doctor Garcia to expire._

It’s too late for one of them, but perhaps he can intervene in the remaining individuals.

He curses softly under his breath. Not having her there pains him in a way that haunts his sleep, drawing him back to memories of the two together. He cannot rest easy like this. Perhaps he will never rest easy again; H’chak does not anticipate letting go of the precious moments he and his mate shared anytime soon.

 _I need to get two oomans and one ic’jit out of Gahn’tha-cte. Pauk. My work’s cut out for me._ H’chak grimaces.

His thoughts are interrupted by the heavy steps of someone storming his way down the corridor to the medical bay. A second later, the burly amber figure of _Gry’Sui-Bpi-de_ comes barreling through the room. The Elite grunts once in greeting at H’chak, briefly pauses to assess Ikthya-De, but otherwise takes up post next to the medical pods. H’chak inhales silently and moves to the corner, unwilling to risk rousing suspicion over the time spent monitoring Vayuh’ta.

 _Especially_ not with Gry’Sui. Gry’Sui is a Brawler and higher-ranked _Elite_ than him, with at least fifty cycles over the man in sheer hunting experience. Hand-to-hand or close-quarters combat is not an option at present time, perhaps if H’chak was fully recovered and armed, but even then—Gry’Sui retains the upper hand by experience alone.

The man also smells of cooked meat. The scent is especially thick now. H’chak does not want to know why, but his mind pieces it together when the scent increases threefold after the annoying engineer returns to the medical bay. The sound of the doors opening stirs Ikthya-De where she rests; the latter lifts her head up and sits upright after spotting the engineer.

Bezas walks forward in confidence, _“Ey!_ _Glad to see ya awake, Ikthya-De. Thought ya were gonna be a goner for a second there. Heard there was a lot of thwei—”_

Their clicks and trills rakes H’chak’s nerves. He cuts them off with a cold, _“There was.”_

The engineer inhales and faces him. _“—You’re not Guan.”_

 _“No cjit.”_ H’chak walks to Vayuh’ta’s medical pod, previous thoughts be damned. He doesn’t want the engineer near her. Whether it is the time spent hunting together, or simply the basis of the two’s confusing familiar ties, he will not let Bezas disturb the huntress. His eyes narrow behind his mask as he elaborates on Ikthya-De, _“—I carried her here. I saw the thwei—"_

 _“I’m alive.”_ Ikthya-De interrupts the two’s conversation. She sits upright, arms crossed, but there is a deep, grueling pain in her yellow eyes. “ _I’m still alive. Still alive. Still… alive.”_

Something in the Elite’s chest _aches_ to hear her speak in such a manner. This woman is not who he remembers. Her confidence is gone. She exists in pain. Understandably so, especially if she is aware of the two Adjutant’s dishonorable affair with one another. H’chak’s orange eyes dim. He cannot deny the anger he still feels toward her, but with it is sympathy, or perhaps pity; he was never good at telling the two apart.

 _“That ya are. Bist’ri worked damn hard to keep ya that way.”_ _Bezas continues as if the topic is everyday weather, cool and collected._

 _“It’s her job.”_ It is subtle, but there is a venom in the woman’s voice.

H’chak grits his teeth. _The Adjutant nurse…_

He doesn’t have time to think further on _Adjutant Bist’ri_ , as the only engineer in the room waltzes to the other Elite’s side and sizes up Gry’Sui-Bpi-de. The other Elite tenses. Bezas takes note of his reaction and begins to click in laughter. “ _Ey… Ey, Gry’Sui! Didn’t ya say something about finishing a convo? I got a minute. Or two. Ikthya-De’s got a pal there to keep an eye on her—”_ It is then H’chak realizes the engineer refers to him. His body stiffens. He attempts to avoid the ensuing spectacle, but it becomes impossible to look away when Bezas says something and abruptly shoves the other Elite in the shoulder.

He does not like the engineer. _  
_

_“—Ya still wanna talk?”_ Bezas _croons_ with mirth.

 _“Pauk!”_ Gry’Sui shoves the engineer back by the shoulder.

H’chak looks away. He doesn’t want to see the two’s mating dance. It is not like Gahn’tha-cte ever had a culture of keeping mating dances in private, but he is not in the mood to listen to the aggressive brawl that is sure to come. To his relief, the engineer departs for the cargo bay of the _Echinos_ , and a moment later Gry’Sui follows with an intensity that takes the Elite aback. Then the cargo door closes behind the duo, and he is left with an unconscious _ic’jit_ in a pod, and Ikthya-De sitting on the table.

The Elite falls silent, uncertain what to say or do as reality settles in. It has been dozens of cycles since the two were alone in a room together. In the past, the two dueled in _kehrites_ throughout different mating seasons, but rarely were either the two alone beyond that. It feels strange to stand several _noks_ away from the woman he once sought, from the woman who led him on for fifty cycles before allowing Guan to challenge him for her favor. He still feels angry, but his anger is distant and detached. It is not as virulent as it once was. His bitterness is lesser, overwhelmed by the grief of his mate’s passing.

 _“H’chak.”_ Yet when Ikthya-De calls his name, the man feels his resolve strain. He straightens upright and grunts in response. Ikthya-De looks at him, the big yellow eyes locked on his figure. _“—Thank you for carrying me here. You saved my life—"_

 _“Don’t say you owe me anything. I’ve dealt with enough debt for the cycle.”_ The Elite grits his teeth, tense. His body feels increasingly tense when he thinks about it.

The scent of fresh cut herbs, the kind found in a tea he enjoys, overwhelms his senses. H’chak exhales when the odor calls to him. He is vaguely aware it is Ikthya-De’s _n’dui-se_ , but part of him doesn’t care. It feels good to have the aroma wafting through the medical bay, permeating his thoughts and driving out the volatile emotions bubbling just beneath his skin. He seeks the distraction, he yearns to step back from his grief if only a moment, to pretend his mate is not dead and he is not in mourning.

 _“Weren’t you the one who always said friends do not hold each other in debt?”_ The woman clicks at him. _“I wouldn’t put you in debt, H’chak.”_

 _“The Adjutant said that. Not me.”_ H’chak feels the bitterness come back in a large, swelling wave; it crashes over his body.

 _“Oh… he did, didn’t he?”_ For a moment, Ikthya-De runs a hand through her long dreads. They’ve grown since he last saw her last, save for a strange bunch that appear to have been lopped off recently. The woman tilts her head to one side. _“Adjutant… Guan. It will never feel right saying that. I’m used to calling him Guan—”_

 _“I have no desire to speak or think of the man.”_ Is all H’chak can force out between clenched teeth. _“Do not think for a second I have forgotten what either of you did to me, Ikthya-De. The cjit you put me through—”_ It takes every ounce of restraint and self-control not to begin cussing the woman out on the spot.

H’chak holds his tongue; he knows Ikthya-De is in enough cjit on her own with the Adjutants committing dishonor in one another, all on top of a sudden, traumatic miscarriage. He has never thought himself a compassionate man, and he still doesn’t, but he considers himself merciful. Before leaving for _Terra,_ he imagines he would have made every callous and cruel remark possible. _But then the Hunt happened. I was captured by oomans. Outsmarted by prey. And I met Sundew._

 _“Pauk,”_ the man holds his head in his hands and curses himself. _“Why did I leave you behind?”_

 _“H’chak?”_ Ikthya-De’s words ground him.

He doesn’t have time to mourn. He will never have time to mourn. Gahn’tha-cte moves forward, always, and in the present he is an unfortunate member of the clan. The Elite lowers his hands and looks away, refusing to meet Ikthya-De’s yellow gaze. _“Ignore me. It’s nothing.”_

 _“Who were you talking about?”_ It surprises him to see her shift how she sits and face him.

H’chak shudders. He can smell her again, a scent full of herbs and never flowers.

 _“My mate.”_ He clicks softly, defeat claiming his tone. His arms drop to his side; his hands tense into fists.

 _“The mysterious mate from Terra.”_ Ikthya-De chirps slowly. _“What was her name?”_

 _“I—Why does it matter to you?”_ His instinct is to go on the defensive. His orange eyes narrow.

The woman shakes her head. _“You sounded so distressed, H’chak. So… mournful. She must have been someone special to leave an Elite like yourself in this state.”_

H’chak falls silent. There is nothing to say, because one answer affirms the fact his mate is _dead,_ and the other denies the truth of the intensity of the two’s relationship. He will not tarnish Sundew’s memories by pretending the two were anything but who they were with one another; she deserves that much in passing.

 _“…She was… someone special,”_ the Elite clicks softly. _“I loved her, and life took her away.”_

* * *

The dance is on.

The rush of adrenaline fueling the engineer’s actions makes for a motivator like none other as they leap from the top of one stack of crates to a shelf and pull themself up over the top edge. On the ground, they hear the cursing of a furious Elite and what sounds like the man kicks a crate to the side. Kwei-Bezas syncs their wrist computer into the _Echinos_ ’ interface and uses it to dim the lights. Gry’Sui calls for them to come down and _talk,_ but Bezas ignores him in favor of letting the tension build.

It is their preferred way to play: toy and goad until there is nothing left but the sudden act and ensuing bliss. It is its own form of hunting, of corralling and pushing prey until the prey reaches their preferred kill location. They don’t _intend_ to kill Gry’Sui, but they anticipate the day cycle will unravel in interesting ways the longer they waste his time. Not because _they_ want to—though they do—it is out of respect for the huntress in the medical bay they seek to stall the Elite. Ikthya-De made her conditions of the two’s bargain clear: Bezas is to act to isolate M-di-H’chak from the Yautja and oomans onboard the ship.

 _A favor from those who lurk in the darkness…_ It makes them salivate where they remain prone across the flat of the shelf top. Their lack of armor comes in handy as it enables them to move effortlessly and with no noise around the cargo hold. When they look, they see Gry’Sui through their natural infrared sight; the man is constantly bumping into crates jutting out or pellets laying limp across the floor. Gry’Sui’s increasing range of expletives is a sight comical enough to make Bezas laugh any other time, but the engineer’s focus is too much to trill or chortle at the Elite in the present. Bezas tracks Gry’Sui as he walks past the shelf they hide on top of and to the end of the current row of empty shelves and emptier containers.

The Elite inhales loud enough for Bezas to hear. Then—The man’s thunderous voice booms out in a roar, _“Kwei-Bezas!”_

They take care not to chuckle or click in response.

The Elite inhales deeply again. The engineer watches with growing suspense as the man stills, stiffens, and turns around. Gry’Sui walks back to the shelf they hide on and pauses. He never looks up before he grabs the shelf by the base and spins, crashing it into a pile of pellets and another shelf. Bezas has no time to stand; they duck a box and protect their head before they smash into the pellets and dust goes flying.

 _“Pauk! Ya could give a warning—”_ the engineer only has a moment to breathe and click before the amber figure comes lurching out of the darkness. Bezas is quick on their feet; they sidestep the first swing and throw in sharp jabs to the Elite’s side. One hits the edge of veritanium armor and the other connects with flesh. Bezas ignores Gry’Sui’s battle cry and curses when they stagger backward with a sore hand.

Gry’Sui turns. His eyes are hidden by his bio-mask, but Bezas can _smell_ the rage and lust coming off the man. His _n’dui-se_ is thick and permeating, enough to rev the fire in the engineer’s body as the Brawler comes barreling at them again. Bezas and Gry’Sui dance like that a while, with one nimbly weaving their way around the other’s large, burlier form, but they know the dance cannot go on forever.

Kwei-Bezas’ time as an engineer has left them less active than their days as a true _kv’var-de._ They train and exercise but not to the extent of the Elite engaged in the waltz. Bezas finds their stamina drops after several long minutes, to the point their hearts pound vigorously in their head and their movements become sluggish. When Gry’Sui makes to grab them, they cannot move out of the way in time; the Elite lifts them off and throws them over his shoulders at the ground. Bezas curses as their back smashes into the metal panels of the floor.

A second later a rigid, hot body sinks on theirs like dead weight. Gry’Sui pins their arms to their side while they huff and squirm beneath them. His pants are loud but not based on exhaustion. Kwei-Bezas feels their stomach twist in unspoken need when they realize he straddles them. His massive thighs keep their arms useless while he leans forward to their face and unclasps their bio-mask. Bezas hisses as the filtered air leave and the recycled air of the ship comes rushing in.

 _“Pauk me,_ ” the engineer says in both an order and a curse. _“Ya’re smellier than a bull in heat. Or—Are you a bull in heat? ‘Cause ya’re a guy, and—And—Ah—Be careful with those—Hey!”_ Bezas rambles on as they watch the man extend the blades of his left _dah’kte_ and begin slicing away their wrappings and mesh. _“I don’t have a lot of extras! It’s a long way to Gahn’tha-cte!”_

 _“The disrespect you demonstrated in locking me with a ooman—”_ the Elite snarls.

 _“To be fair—To be fair—You think she smells nice—I’m helping ya out—”_ Bezas cuts off their own words with a sharp moan when they feel the much larger, burly man shift and grind his hips into theirs.

Gry’Sui growls. _“I’ve no interest in pyode amedha, engineer.”_

 _“No cjit—Even I know that—Pauk, ya’re good at this,”_ Bezas squirms again when Gry’sui repeats the action. The engineer knows the dance is in its last stage, when it transitions from dancing to the act of copulation. They writhe against the man knowing how much it excites him. It excites them as well, but the are a prideful cjit and stubborn to admit it. Gry’Sui must know how stubborn they are, because he howls at them and rips their mesh off from their neck to their abdomen. The man moves back enough to continue cutting beyond that point, slicing off more and more of the thermal bodysuit and exposing more graying yellow scales.

 _“You have goaded me—Taunted me—Too many times,”_ the Elite draws his hips back before smacking them into their own. Bezas’ back arches from the contact; they feel their blood dance in delight when Gry’Sui does it again. The latter clicks quietly, _“No more. Tonight—Tonight ends that.”_

 _“Ya coulda bought me dinner first. Ooman expression, hah,”_ Bezas’ mandibles twitch and rise at the edges in a cheeky, lopsided, fang-like grin. In an instant they are mewling and thrashing against the Elite, unable to sit still as Gry’Sui grinds against them. They can feel just how desperate the Elite is to get on with it, no doubt a sign of how intense the mating session will be. The engineer huffs when Gry’Sui releases their arms. The latter is just as quick rip away the wrappings from their groin as with the rest of the mesh.

The Elite pushes his body weight unto their form. Kwei-Bezas yowls in annoyance at the increased pressure. The man gyrates his hips up and down along the engineer’s bare, throbbing slit. More of their natural lubricant drips out as they hiss at him to hurry up. Their eyes lock unto the Elite’s cock the second Gry’Sui finishes cutting through his own mesh bodysuit and tearing off his loincloth.

Though they don’t voice it, Bezas finds the sight is enough to induce shivers across their body. They readily open their legs, eager to receive, only for Gry’Sui to hiss and move off them. The man is quick flipping them unto their stomach. Bezas huffs when the man twists one arm behind their back. _“Unnecessary!”_

 _“Not with you, engineer,”_ the man’s cock proudly jabs into their side. Gry’Sui breathes in their scent and hisses as he releases their arm and hauls their ass up. He pushes their head into the metal flooring and begins to rub pre across the curve of their hips, slowly moving closer to their core. Bezas squirms and groans when the head of the Elite’s cock rubs the swollen slit of their wet entrance. Gry’Sui growls in triumph when he finally breeches their body and inserts himself.

Bezas does not mean to shriek, but it is immediate. There is no gentleness or hesitation, only the overwhelming lust fueling the heat of the moment. Bezas cannot think of anything but the electrifying pleasure shocking their body as Gry’Sui impales them on his shaft with increasing vigor. The man is a monstrous size, stretching them wide and filling them deep, deeper than they remember being possible, deep enough for their toes to curl and their infrared gaze to see stars.

They do not last long in the man’s merciless pace. Bezas finds their orgasm takes them by surprise; one minutes they are an eager, writhing body bucking their hips into the Elite’s, and the next they are clawing at him and clenching his shaft with every muscle they can. The Elite does not spare them any time to ride the high of pleasure as he continues to dig into their body and pound in further. His deep rolling thrusts slam them against the metal floor and knock over pellets as the Elite howls in need for climax. Bezas finds themself approaching orgasm again as the heat coils in their stomach and suddenly explodes to seize control of the rest of their body. Their limbs shake and they gasp as their cunt milks the man.

In the tightness of their body beneath his, in their submission to his seed, Bezas begins to shake as the Elite grabs their hips and pulls them tight against his own. The engineer trembles when the man shifts the angle of his thrusts and penetrates a delicious point deep inside. Kwei-Bezas climaxes with their back arched, knees shaking, and claws digging into the flesh of their ass as Gry’Sui continues.

They cannot hold themself up after; the Elite pulls out a moment before flipping them unto their ass and pushing their legs up. Gry’Sui bends over them and holds their legs in place before he invades again. Kwei-Bezas arches their back and shakes as the Elite ruts into them. Gry’Sui’s grip tightens as his cock smashes inside them. They feel the man tense over their body; he begins to cuss and bellow in desperate want. His shaft throbs and Bezas finds they are thrown into their next orgasm in a motley of cries and clenched muscles. Gry’Sui roars in triumph as he pumps into their channel and fills them with a scalding heat.

As his thrusts slow, his cock becomes engorged midway down the shaft. Gry’Sui hisses and slowly pulls away from the engineer. Bezas squirms and yowls when the man rips himself free. Semen continues to dribble out; the Elite has no qualms letting it fall on their pelvis as he pants on top of them.

There is a deep satisfaction found in the minutes after. Bezas huffs loudly when the Elite draws them to him and wraps arms around their body, stopping over their abdomen and rubbing where they assume their uterus is beneath. _“You’ll bear strong pups for me.”_

 _“Don’t be getting sappy on me.”_ They chirp, annoyed. _“That was the warm—"_

 _“Warm-up.”_ The Elite finishes their sentence, lust already seeping through. Gry’Sui’s grip becomes ironclad as he slowly begins to rub his hips against their ass.

Bezas writhes in his grasp. They feel the man’s erection return, jabbing into their leg. Gry’Sui is quick to lift them up. The engineer hisses and arches their back as they are dropped over the man’s cock, sucking him in like a vice, knees drawn up to their chest while he holds them in place.

 _“Pauk—”_ the Elite groans. _“You’re—Tight. Warm. Pauk. You pauking—Engineer—"_ Gry’Sui cuts himself off and clicks in need. His hips buck up a moment later and Kwei-Bezas becomes the receiving end of pleasure for what is the first of many hours to come.

* * *

It slowly becomes easier to speak as the hours pass. H’chak does not know when he first began, or if he should expect anyone else to enter the room, but he knows time gets away from him. The memories become clearer and easily described as he quietly answers the woman’s questions. He does not know why she asks, nor does he understand why he so willingly tells her. Part of the Elite remains weary, but another half of him is grateful for the opportunity. 

_“—She thought the ceiling contained ulterior meaning because I stared at it.”_ H’chak shakes his head from where he leans against the wall by the medical pods. His arms are crossed over his chest. His clicks are full of a surprising amount of mirth.

 _“Did it?”_ Ikthya-De sounds baffled by the story. Seeing the expression on her face amuses him.

His mandibles click together in humor. _“M-di. It was a… an error within my old bio-mask. The translation software would sporadically switch from manual to automatic without prompt.”_

_“She took it seriously.”_

_“Sei-i—She did, often.”_ H’chak nods once. _“It was her way of perceiving the world. It annoyed me at first, but… It grew on me. Much like she did.”_ His chest tightens. Even in the good memories, there is the underlying reminder: she is gone.

Sundew is gone.

He grits his teeth. The change must be visible, as Ikthya-De tilts her head to one side while she watches him. H’chak’s arms lower to his side. His orange eyes, hidden by his bio-mask, contain an emptiness at what he has lost. The Elite is bitter when he finally clicks, _“Perhaps I am cursed. Everyone I love—I lose.”_

_“That isn’t—”_

_“It is.”_ The Elite snaps.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ When Ikthya-De says the name, H’chak falls quiet once more. The woman swings both her legs off the table. _“She still cares for you. You are her only progeny.”_

Though what she says is true, the disgust H’chak feels toward himself, toward his stained honor, it bubbles up inside and makes him curse under his breath. He pushes himself upright and shakes out his remaining locs. _“I will not face her unless I am an honorable man, Ikthya-De. But you know that is not what I mean when I say—”_ He looks back at her in time to catch sight of the woman attempting to stand on her own two feet. His eyes widen behind his mask when he hears her curse and seeds her keel over, clutching her abdomen and growling in pain.

Whether part of him still cares for her or simply out of mercy for her present circumstances, H’chak is at her side in a _second_ and helping her stand. He stares into her yellow eyes when she looks up at him. _“H’chak…”_

 _“You haven’t healed yet.”_ The man loops an arm around her shoulders and helps her up and back unto the metal table.

Ikthya-De looks away. Her gaze narrows. _“—I need to get back on my feet. Faster I am—The sooner I can return to my cabin, away from that nurse.”_

 _Adjutant Bist’ri._ H’chak lets go of the woman and steps away. He crosses his arms and glances at the medical bay doors. The woman has been gone a long time, and with no sign of Guan, the Elite has zero doubts the two are occupying each other’s time. It disgusts him. He grits his teeth and shakes his head. _“I’m sorry.”_

 _“Don’t give me your pity.”_ Ikthya-De clicks.

 _“Too late,”_ the _kv’var-de_ huffs. _“What those two are doing disgusts me. I knew Guan was a dishonest man after… After… After what he did to me. What you both did,”_ H’chak growls once before pausing. _“—But I remember now—Bist’ri. She was one of the newer nurses under Tjau’ke’s watch. Her scales looked white from afar. She was scrawny... Nervous at all the hunters sparring... I didn’t think she would become… this over time. I didn’t take her for dishonest.”_

For a long, painful moment, Ikthya-De is quiet. When H’chak looks, he notes the woman is lost in thought. He is about to say something when he sees her eyes well with unaddressed tears. He freezes, uncertain, while Ikthya-De wipes her eyes and looks away. _“By the Payas—What a mess. What a mess this all is.”_

 _“What do—What do you mean?”_ H’chak stares, lost.

 _“—I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to tell him yes,”_ the woman holds her head in her hands. She hisses into her gloveless palms. _“I didn’t want—I didn’t want you two to fight! But my father… He thought… He thought it was necessary. He preferred Guan. He wanted Guan, or he wanted you to prove yourself as superior to him—And then—The day cycle came—And you—You lost. You lost. And I had to tell Guan yes.”_

The news takes him aback. H’chak’s mind is a sudden mess of spiking emotions, disbelief, and shock. He knows the clan leader is a dishonest man—He _knows_ because he remembers how Leader Daga addressed Chirp, how the man overstepped opposing Elders in demanding his fallen _mei-hswei_ ’s head. He knows it should have been him on trial and subsequent execution block, forced on his knees with tears on his face and his pleas going unheard. _It should have been him._ Chirp didn’t shoot Ma-Or. Chirp didn’t murder the late Elder after extraction from the failed chiva! Chirp didn’t do _anything_ but be present to the tragic chain of events!

Daga killed Chirp when the man should have taken _his_ head.

H’chak’s eyes wetten. He grates and grinds his teeth together, barely able to contain the bellow of agony and grief that threatens to spill out like a geyser. He understands now. He understands the words Ikthya-De says. He does not know how much of them he believes, how much of her _reluctance_ is real versus synthetic, but he knows Daga’s ways. He believes Daga can force anyone, even his _daughter_ , into a relationship for political prowess.

 _“Tell me,”_ is all the man can get out when his mind can process rational thought again. _“Why the pauk didn’t you say something sooner?! Something before all of… This! Ikthya-De!”_ H’chak cannot keep his voice contained to anything less than a shout.

The woman trembles where she sits. _“He threatened to kill me if I spoke of it.”_

_“The Council of Ancients must be informed of this—This behavior is disgusting, tactless, dishonorable for a Clan Leader—”_

_“Not Daga.”_ Ikthya-De’s clicks become soft. She shuts her eyes.

 _“…Guan.”_ H’chak exhales. His arms drop to his side. _“He… By Cetanu and the Payas.”_

Ikthya-De says nothing more. She pulls her legs up unto the table and lays down, the thermal mesh of her back visible from where he stands.

The _kv’var-de_ stands there a time like a silent sentinel, unable to speak or talk or do anything beyond watch and wait for others. No one comes through the room. No one leaves the cargo bay. No one awakens from a medical pod. He is left in his thoughts when he hears Ikthya-De’s soft breathing, a sign she rests. He walks back to the medical pods and sits down next to the one containing Vayuh’ta. He holds his head in his hands and stares at his palms through his bio-mask.

Part of him knows what he must do. It is what Sundew would have wanted, for him to be free of what haunts him in his past and to find meaning in the present. H’chak’s chest tightens as he turns thoughts over in his head. He knows what he _will_ do. It is the only option when he is surrounded by dishonest, disgraceful, _dishonorable_ Yautja of considerable influence.

He will protect the wretched woman. He will not let Clan Leader Akrei-non-Daga or Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan hurt her anymore.


	46. a desperate pull of limbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for:  
> -implied past abuse  
> -aftermath of flashback / triggered PTSD  
> -mention of pregnancy, miscarriage, death  
> -mention of sex work  
> -alcohol  
> -self harm  
> -there is a section that is heavily coded to be similar to some experiences of a rape victims testifying before courts. it may be triggering for some. it begins at,  
> "She has no doubt it will be reviewed"  
> and ends at  
> "appeal to the Clan Leader’s ego."  
> ^you can ctrl+f the lower line (not the quotation marks) to skip it! 
> 
> note: the last section chronologically takes place during the last section of chapter 36, all the way through chapters 37-46 AKA up until now.
> 
> fun fact: I saw AvP today! Great movie. I don't know if there's a novelization with Celtic's or Chopper's background, but if anyone knows of one let me know, trying to gather information on the two for. Reasons. Hah.

_“Bist’ri.”_

_…_

_“Bist’ri.”_

_…_

_“Yautja Prime to Bist’ri! Get up!” The hatch of the sleeping pod is pried open by force. Grubby hands reach and grab the squirming Unblooded, pulling her in one quick swoop out of the green liquid. The huntress hisses as she is dropped unceremoniously on the floor of the ship. When her green eyes open and she glares up, the shape of another Unblooded outlined in her cabin’s dim lights is visible._

_Her growl is sharp. “The pauk was that for, Tarei?!”_

_“What you think, mei-jahdi? We’re approaching orbit!” The blue Yautja huffs and taps one foot while she staggers to her feet and scampers for her bio-mask. Her mei-hswei’s green locs sway as he clicks in excitement. “Elder Migo-Kujhade said the first one to be Blooded will receive his personal recommendation for our pick of training in the future. Spear Master Tarei is becoming re-a-lit-y!”_

_“S’yuit-de.” She scolds him. “You can barely handle a combistick. Deactivated.”_

_“And you know cjit with a bow! So?” Tarei’s emerald green eyes narrow on her. “I’ve gotten good enough to use one here. That’s what matters.”_

_“Tell yourself that—” the Unblooded growls again. “The r’ka will rip your head off in a minute. Ki’cte! I’m not bringing your corpse home to Ju’dha.”_

_“Nah, I’m not loud or bossy enough to attract kainde amedha. You on the other hand—”_

_“Bist’ri! Tarei!” The shout reverberates through the cabin. Both Unblooded freeze and look at each other before lurching for the door. Bist’ri shoves the other Yautja to the side, easily done when he’s so much thinner in frame and stature. She steps out, straightens upright, and clears her throat._

_In the corridor of the ship, she sees Huso is already at attention. The third Unblooded ignores her glance and keeps her sight forward, unwavering and unflinching even when Tarei stumbles out of the cabin and waves. Bist’ri resists the urge to throw a fist at her brother. Not even in front of Huso, an Unblooded with the attention of every Unblooded sirer-to-be across Gahn’tha-cte, can Tarei-Jehdin behave himself. Part of it stings to know she is related to such a disgraceful Unblooded._

_Hopefully not for long. The Elders demand two r’ka kills this year. Her blood aches for the hunt, the kill, the claim of her trophy and mark of her clan._

_It will be hers._

* * *

She finds herself on a bed in a cabin, alone. Her bio-mask remains fixed to her face, allowing her to see the grays of the metal ceiling opposed to only thermal signatures. She lays on the bed and stares are the ceiling, mind a blur of old emotions feeling very new.

 _“Tarei.”_ She clicks the name softly. _“I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tarei.”_

Bist’ri pushes herself upright and exhales into her mask. The filtered air does not smell so strongly of Guan’s _n-dui’se_. The nurse snaps her head up and looks around the cabin. She throws her legs over the side of the bed, stands, and walks briskly to the washroom. It is unlocked; no one is inside. Her green eyes stare in confusion. He isn’t there. And—Now that she looks around—She realizes she is no longer in Ikthya-De’s cabin. No _thwei_ invades her olfactory receptors. Someone has moved her, which means— _The doors. Kwei-Bezas got everything working again._

Bist’ri walks to the door and holds a palm to the indentations on the side facing her. The door unlocks and slides to the side for her to step past. She briefly looks toward the medical bay doors but after inhaling and finding the scent of the ground after rainfall coming from _both_ directions, the nurse shakes her head and walks to the cockpit. The door is unlocked; it opens automatically on approach, revealing one sulking engineer in one of the pilot seat’s, and the other Adjutant standing at their side clicking briskly into his mask. She watches Kwei-Bezas peer over their shoulder and click at her in greeting before jabbing Guan in the side. He ignores them, but for a moment Bist’ri catches the crack in his throat and strain of his usually smooth chirps.

 _“…Adjutant Guan und—Under Akrei-non-Daga.”_ The man clicks. He pauses, as if listening to someone talk, before adding, _“Gahn’tha-cte.”_

Another pause, longer this time.

 _“Sei-I, ki'sei.”_ The Adjutant is quiet as he taps an input into his wrist-computer. The man’s demeanor changes abruptly as he faces Kwei-Bezas and snaps _, “Inform Nok Nok we are docking at the Chickpea Night Walk station. She’s given us rules to abide by while on the Chickpea Night Walk station. No touching, no freebies, everyone tips in credits. And—No hunting. Pass those to Nok Nok; I’ll inform the others—"_ Guan leans down to where Bezas sits. The man clicks calmly, _“Your lack of discipline and subordinance will be addressed by the Elders upon our return, Kwei-Bezas.”_

The engineer sulks further into their seat, but when Guan straightens upright, Bezas begins carrying out the orders. The chatter between them and Nok Nok becomes background noise when the other Adjutant straightens upright and faces Bist’ri. She clicks at him in greetings, relaxing when he clicks back and walks to her.

 _“—Guan.”_ The nurse tilts her head to one side, momentarily distracted. She smells him again; the odor is nigh identical to the one coming from the medical bay, only Guan is _here_ and watching her, if the angle of his mask is anything to go off.

His _n’dui-se_ is infinitely soothing. It makes her worries and fears return to the past, if only a moment, and fills her mind with thoughts of him. Bist’ri calms, the scents of—she knows what’s occurred, but addressing it can wait until the group returns to Gahn’tha-cte and Bezas can speak with Tjau’ke—mingled rotten flesh and burning rubber fading away. She smells him, and thinks of him, and every part of her life settles under the call of the earth after a rainstorm. Bist’ri finds her chest tightens when she realizes he does not say anything back. Her pulses pick up again.

 _“Were you going to say something?”_ The other Adjutant tenses.

Bist’ri shakes her head. _“No. Aside from—Inquiring how I moved from Ikthya-De’s cabin to ours…?”_ The second the clicks leave her mouth, Kwei-Bezas snaps their head back and ogles the two. Bist’ri stills, registering the implications, before she corrects herself, _“I’m sorry—To—The one we’re sharing—The cabin we are… alternating between the two of us.”_ None of the words seem to fit, and with heat starting a fuss in her face, she lets the words be and shakes her head. _“I am still waking up.”_

 _“Sei-I,”_ he nods, understanding. _“I asked Kwei-Bezas to move you to another cabin. Penance for locking us in a cabin to avoid work. They will be disciplined by the Elders when we return to Gahn’tha-cte.”_

_“It was an accident—”_ Bezas shuts up and faces forward when Guan growls at them.

Guan walks to the cockpit door. He presses his gloved palm against it; it slides open obediently. He glances over his shoulder at Bist’ri. Though she cannot see his orange eyes, she imagines he looks at her with intent to say, _Walk with me?_ It is a strange thought, but not an unwelcome one. There are not many places to go in the _Echinos_. If only to satiate her curiosity, she nods and follows him to the hallway lined with cabin doors. No one else waits outside; Bist’ri can smell the scent of Gry’Sui and Ikthya-De from the medical bay, as well as two scents within the containment cell, but M-di-H’chak’s _n’dui-se_ is lost in Guan’s, utterly overpowered by the Adjutant near her.

 _“Are you alright?”_ His words are softer now; uncertain.

The tone takes her aback. Bist’ri nods firmly. _“Sei-I—I rested, I am awake, perhaps the past day cycle has been unbecoming but it’s nothing to linger on. I do not enjoy holding grudges…”_ She trails off in her clicks when she sees the other Adjutant tense. For a moment—She tastes a flicker of fear in the air, the kind to come and pass quickly, quick enough that she almost questions if it was there at all. Bist’ri’s green eyes stare at the man’s bio-mask. _“…Guan.”_

She hears his sharp exhale. _“Forgive me. I was…worried.”_

 _“You don’t need to worry about me,”_ She nods affirmatively to the string of chirps. _“Honorable Tjau’ke selected me as her Adjutant for a reason. I have seen more than you think and lived to tell the tale.”_ Her voice is confident, a reflection of who she represents most of the time. Bist’ri’s pride in her work goes without saying.

It is why the man’s sudden loss of words perplexes her. More than that—It concerns her, as if something obvious is oblivious to only her. Bist’ri detests the feeling of helplessness crawling up her spine. Her hands hang limply at her side while she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Bist’ri has half the mind to leave him in the hall and return to the medical bay. She knows she must get a start on documenting Ikthya-De’s rate of healing, measuring the vitals of M-di-H’chak, and checking the level of sedative left for the _ic’jit_ contained in a medical pod. The latter is especially crucial; she does not need to stick around if the Adjutant holds back his comments. She will not leave angry, but she will leave to give him space to think if the man needs it. Bist’ri does not want to crowd him or hog his space. 

_“Who is Tarei?”_ The other Adjutant clicks softly.

* * *

Goddamn Throex is back on his shit again. The crustacean never gives her a break; every _damn_ time he shows up, the bouncer has a run for her money trying to track him down and eject him from the club. It isn’t like Yautja patrons, who are individual enough to make for interesting experiences while she loopholes her way through their Code of Honor. _No._ The Throex is the same Throex who comes from fucking Throex-central and makes her life a living hell for a solid half hour _every_ day. Always with the dancers, throwing his big, meaty claws unto the stage and raised platforms, as if there aren’t a shit ton of signs posted _everywhere_ saying not to touch the dancers!

She imagines Xnnzk is fed up with the lobster’s insistence. It isn’t cute seeing the patron’s nonstop idolization of Xnnzk—It’s _terrifying._ Or it would be, if Fiona wasn’t fucking pissed. She has no patience for assholes who can’t take a no. When she catches word from Hapfiwi the lobster’s been sighted, Fiona takes off across the _Chickpea Night Walk_ in a sprint. Her hand pulls her blaster from its holster at her hip; the smooth metal feels _perfect_ in her hands and carries a glow from stage lights reflecting off the surface. She flips the safety off but holds off on touching the trigger, not _yet_ ; the woman’s brown gaze hardens.

She walks up to where Xnnzk has stopped dancing. The sex worker’s sixteen arms are crossed in irritation as she cusses out the Throex in her species’ primary language, a series of hoots which always soud the same to Fiona’s human ears. Xnnzk’s graceful form straightens upright with a double grin; her two mouths reveal needle-thin teeth as she nods at Fiona. The Throex cuts off his bubbly babbles and turns just in time for Fiona to lunge forward and tackle him. She smashes the barrel of her gun into the slit between his shoulder carapace and the chunk of chitin covering his torso.

“You got _nerve_ to pull this shit again, Krabs,” the human hisses. “You think she wants you? You’re just another wallet walking around—And right now, we don’t need more fucking wallets harassing this lady. I’ll make it real simple for you—We take a nice walk to your ship in the docking bay, or I blow you to heaven high and draw a picture in your blood.”

The Throex squirms and cusses in his bubbly, watery language, but the lobster gives up when Fiona hisses at him. His claws go up in defeat. Fiona gets off him and pulls him up by the claws, knowing he won’t dare close the pinchers when she’s present. Xnnzk hoots loudly and twirls with only a ribbon obscuring the ten swollen mammalian glands along her chest.

Fiona grunts at her. “No problem. Now, Krabs,” her brown eyes return to the lobster. “Let’s take a walk.”

The Throex is cooperative, but cooperation doesn’t mean she gets off scot-free. Fiona grits her teeth as she marches the crustacean patron to the docking bay. The space station is in the day cycle; she’s forced to pull shades from her bag and throws them on before making the Throex move. The lobster bubbles expletives she doesn’t understand—something about fish, probably—the _whole_ way to his ship. When he’s boarded and the ship flies to the airlock queue to leave, Fiona returns to the crowded, light-riddled club she calls ‘home,’ blaster returned to her hip holster.

 _Not home. Place of employment I sleep at on occasion. Fuck, didn’t mean the pun…_ The woman rubs her temples as she walks up the steps. Music blares in her ears. She double-checks to make sure Xnnzk has no other patrons disrupting her routine and stage time before Fiona retreats to the bar.

The bartender is a _tall_ humanoid of approximately seven feet, with obsidian-black skin and gleaming red eyes. Fiona doesn’t recall what the name of his species is, but she grunts and nods his way when he pours her a drink. She takes the glass and gulps it down; the wine is supple in its spicy, tangy flavor.

“Miss Fiona—You should consider applying for a manager’s position.” The bartender speaks so _delightfully_ , it makes Fiona consider dumping the rest of her drink on his head. She doesn’t—he’s a nice fellow, a bit strange for an extraterrestrial but nice all the same—but the thought tempts her like a dark indulgence brewing inside her chest. “You care more about the staff here than any bouncer I have seen in my seamless immortal existence.”

“The fuck does _‘seamless immortal existence’_ mean, Sullivan? You go around using these cryptic phrases and I just— _Don’t_ —Get it.” Fiona sips her drink.

“I’m a… particular individual, Miss Fiona, you must understand—I am here to serve! My job entails customer service meeting the utmost professional standards featured across the cosmos!” The humanoid takes a bow, the angle causing his hair to fall in such a way his short black horns are visible on his head.

“Yeah, that. I don’t get _that._ No offense.” The woman growls. “You could lose the butler costume. I’m not fucking over how they let you keep it on for your shifts.”

“How would anyone know I am here to _serve_ them if I do not dress to _please_?” The man shakes his head, black hair like a shroud as it shifts from the movement. “Miss Fiona—I do my job, as you do yours, but I wish to point out—The owners of this questionable establishment do not run the place with the dignity bestowed upon yourself.”

 _Dignity._ Fiona snorts. “Nah. I’m not interested in management. They wouldn’t give it to me anyways; you got any clue how much the owners _hate me_ here? I’m the big bad bitch who comes in and fucks up their patrons. To them—I chase away _credits_.”

“Ah, but the rest of us don’t view your actions in such a manner. You are a woman of upstanding character who keeps the dancers safe from dishonorable actions. My employer enjoys hearing tales of your valiant efforts against the scourge who frequent this place of _debauchery_ ,” Sullivan takes her glass when its empty. He moves it to a tray full of other used glasses and mugs. “I told him he must come here and meet you himself, but my employer is a terribly busy man—”

“Didn’t you say he’s in the middle of a war? Right _now?_ And you’re here serving drinks? Where’s your priorities?” The woman snorts again. She shakes her head. “I don’t get you, Sullivan.”

“I would not expect you to understand, Miss Fiona. But I digress, customers, let us talk another time,” The man flashes a pleasant smile, red eyes twinkling. He turns to begin serving two vaguely bee-like patrons as they buzz up to the bar.

Fiona yawns, stretches, and cracks her neck. She pauses at the sight of one of the dancers, Hapfiwi, waving frantically at her. The human straightens upright and squints. She waves back and walks over, the dancer meeting her midway. Hapfiwi is a friendly individual with a penchant for wearing expensive, frivolous shrugs and scarves across their equine-like body. They remind Fiona a bit of _Earth_ ’s mythological centaurs, only where a human torso protrudes from the neck of a horse in the Greek stories, Hapfiwi has the bust of a toad with an inflatable blue throat and two slippery arms with six webbed phalanges.

“Xw wwi xixxwn’i xi wwi,” The dancer shoves a wireless headset at her, previously concealed by the layers of silky materials around their waist and shoulders.

Fiona doesn’t know what the words mean, but she nods anyways and takes it. She plops it on her head and walks to a quieter part of the club. “What?”

She recognizes the clicks on the other end of the communications line immediately. The woman’s fucked a Bad Blood more than enough times to tell when a Yautja is involved. The clicks and chirps are rough and brooding, exactly what she expects for a species full of prideful hunters. Fiona curses internally. She almost cusses into the communications line, but the built-in translater activates before she has a chance to. The clicks dip in volume and words play into her ear, _“…Requesting clearance to enter the Chickpea Night Walk docking bay. We are in possession of one speed craft and a transport ship.”_

“No shit, everyone wants to come here,” her reply is laced with every ounce of frustration she feels now. “Who are you, exactly? This place’s off limits to a couple of assholes and I’m not looking to forgive them anytime soon.”

_“Adjutant Night und—Under Explosive-Dagger—”_

“Not your fucking name—Your _clan,”_ Fiona cuts off the translated clicks. The urge to cuss the speaker out grows in her chest. Her eyes narrow. “Which clan do you belong to?”

_“The Ruthless.”_

“The… Oh, for fuck’s sake, more of those assholes. God damnit, hold on,” she begins a short series of expletives before finding a wall to lean against. Her eyes scan the patrons and nearby staff. She thinks back to one of the regulars, a Bad Blood who’s got an eye for ass. _Her_ ass, specifically, and the lust is mutual. She bites her lip.

 _Sharp Knife hasn’t been by this place for… Half a cycle. If he shows up… Would they hunt him? Since he’s a Bad Blood? Fuck. Fucking…_ She grits her teeth. Her anger is usually unleashed on disrespectful patrons, but at present time there’s no one to throw out of the club. Fiona’s mind debates possible actions; she knows the two owners of the Chickpea Night Club will be _pissed_ if she tells a possible patron to fuck off. She can handle being chewed out in front of the staff. _But two ships… sounds like a lot of Yautja. I know Xnnzk complained yesterday about customers tipping less. Money's not coming in hot. And... Yautja always bring credits.._

She hates it, she does, but the other staff members of the Chickpea Night Walk are her _family_. She will babysit and monitor a bunch of large, burly meat shields if it means her family gets paid what they’re owed.

“I’ll give you clearance, Adjutant Night, but you aren’t allowed to hunt here. The only one hunting is _me_ and that’s for your ass if you or any of your pals try and pull a fast one on the staff. No touching, you tip, don’t expect freebies. Understand?” When a pause follows, Fiona growls into the headset. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”

_“…Yes. I understand.”_

“Good.” She taps a button on the side of the headset to end the communications line. Fiona rubs her temples and sighs. “Hapfiwi’s buying me shots when this is done.”

* * *

“Ta…” Her eyes widen behind her mask. Her body freezes. She knows the feeling.

It comes upon her once in a blue moon cycle, descending on her like a trap triggered against her will. She does not ask for fear, but the feeling comes in waves. Small ones at first, lapping at her sides, calling to her to join them in the past, to drown herself in her guilt. Then the waves grow—From small and subtle to high-rising, foamy-crested tidal waves, all of which crash over her and leave her soaked in the memories she will not let herself forget. The final waves are tsunamis, monsters in size, enveloping her and swallowing her whole until she remembers the sound of her brother’s voice and the look of terror in his vivid green eyes. 

He always says one thing, the word floating in her head at all hours of the day cycle. It is the word she often debates carving into her back, so as to never forget and always acknowledge.

_Ic’jit._

_Ic’jit._

_Ic’jit._

She knows the past is an alluring, engulfing thing, a maelstrom pulling her to the deepest depths of the ocean. She cannot afford the panic attack. She will not let anyone ask questions. There is nothing she fears more than the past coming to life and rising from the coastal shores like a sand-swept _bhu’ja_ of a long-forgotten shipwreck. Instinctively, just as she has done many times before, she pulls a lancet from a hidden pocket sewn into her thermal mesh suit. She can hear the other Adjutant say something, but not even the comfort he offers does _cjit_ to quell her rising breaths. She knows she has a minute cycle worth of time before she hyperventilates to the point the lack of air leaves her weak.

The man cannot grab her fast enough before she makes the long cut down her left forearm, just past where her wrist computer ends. The sting of pain cuts through the voice in her head until a surge of glowing green falls in a cascading waterfall. Bist’ri curses and staggers backward, lancet falling as the pain fights the past in her head and the panic subsides. She hears someone shout at her. Probably Guan; the Adjutant cares too much for his own good.

A hand grabs her bleeding arm, clamping over the wound tightly before someone drags her down the hall. Bist’ri does not care. She has no cjit left to give even when the others in the medical bay balk at the sight, at her weakness. She says nothing when someone sits her down. She cusses them all out when the regeneration serum is injected into the site. She returns to silence after, unwilling and not wanting to answer any of the questions no matter how many of them Guan trills at her. Not even Ikthya-De’s blunt remarks can break her resolve. Not even Gry’Sui’s grumbling or H’chak’s cold statements and stare can make her flinch. Her arm remains tender a long time after the other Adjutant injects the serum into her.

Not unsurprisingly, the man refuses to leave her side. Guan’s presence in the room does nothing to cease H’chak’s growing malice. The tension in the room, between _so many Yautja,_ feels tandem to the pain clawing at her throat inside. She detests it. She wants it all to go back to normal, to return to a time of awkward pining, blatant hate, and the past remaining in the past. But something has changed; she knows that feeling almost as well as she does _panic_. She has broken composure not once but twice on the _Echinos_ , both in view of witnesses, both in view of bio-masks.

She has no doubt it will be reviewed by the Elders and Daga come the return to Gahn’tha-cte. The first one could maybe be written off, _maybe_ , but this is undeniable. Clan Leader Daga will demand a review of her abilities the second he catches wind of it. She cannot handle the scrutiny of the Clan Leader and the Elders. She cannot handle facing them all and repeating what happened, _justifying_ her reactions, explaining and _trying_ to convince them she is worth life, _again_. Trying to convince them she can manage it. Begging them not to cull her, throwing her Honor beneath her to appeal to the Clan Leader’s ego.

Her green eyes dim behind her bio-mask. She sits on a metal table, one identical to Ikthya-De’s several _noks_ away. Her legs hang off it. She knows at least one set of eyes on her have not moved, because Gahn’tha-cte-Guan has yet to leave the medical bay.

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri.”_ The use of her title indicates something. She isn’t sure what, but it’s not good.

Her gaze shifts to Guan’s mask. She is grateful he wears one, because she cannot stand the thought of lying to his face, to his Jupiter eyes. She nods once in acknowledgement.

 _“What is going on?”_ His words are blunt but firm. He too carries a stubbornness about him, an empathy most Yautja view as weak. She does not view him as weak. She does not think _weakness_ equates to flaws.

She knows he expects an answer. And, technically, she does not lie when she chirps in response, _“Nothing.”_

 _“Bist’ri—"_ The man’s composure fractures. He takes her left wrist and holds up her arm. She hadn’t noticed the man unstrap her wrist computer, but her arm is bare of the device. There is a tear in her thermal mesh where she cut through it. The smooth blue pelt is not blue here. Her arms are marked in crisscrossing scars. Most of them are old. One of them is a taut, dull indigo, an indication of its freshness on her body.

Bist’ri looks away. _“Nothing is going on, Adjutant Guan. Not right now.”_

She doesn’t know if he catches the meaning in her words, the way she twists them to suit her liking, to protect her from opening the can of worms. He has already suffered enough on his own, carrying the weight of his past decisions in tandem with the pain Ikthya-De causes him. She finds her chest tightens at the thought, at the _realization_ he has willingly put himself in a room with his abuser to stay by her side. She grits her teeth. She is there to _protect him_ , not the other way around.

The Yautja inhales filtered air. She calms herself, slowly, in a deep desperation to end the attention on her and shift it elsewhere. She doesn’t want eyes on her. She doesn’t want _anyone_ to look at her right then—Not even him. _Especially not him. Don’t let this ruin his image of me. Payas. Please. I pray. Don’t let it drive him away._

It is a selfish thought, but Bist’ri sees herself as a selfish individual. The nurse clears her throat and looks back at the other Adjutant. She tastes no fear in the air, but she knows he isn’t convinced. She knows he worries. The man will get himself killed one day because of it if others do not look out for him. _It’s why I’m here. To protect him. To keep him safe. Tjau’ke wanted me to watch over him on this trip. I will not fail the head of the medical division._

She stands despite the other Adjutant’s protests. Bist’ri stretches and exhales, her thoughts and emotions re-centering and growing clear. She glances at Guan and clicks briskly, _“I require my compact computer to work, Adjutant. I have three patients to tend to and you are in my way.”_

She knows the words she picks are a means to distance him. Guan falls quiet.

When he doesn’t budge, Bist’ri growls impatiently, _“I am not above filing a grievance upon our return to the clanship. My computer is necessary to conduct business in the medical bay. You are overstepping your authority. Return it.”_ She holds out her hand expectantly. She can tell he thinks, possibly taken aback by her sudden change in behavior. It is a good sign; perhaps she can convince him to write off the event as heavy sleep deprivation. _It would be one less problem to worry about._

 _“Gry’Sui, monitor Adjutant Bist’ri and report any changes in behavior to me immediately. Do not leave her alone.”_ The other Adjutant snaps the order to the Elite standing off to the side. The man nods at Guan. Guan tilts his head at the nurse; she stares back at him. He slowly pulls her personal computer off a clasp at his waist, hooked into a belt around his armored kilt. His movements are stiff. When she reaches for her wrist computer, she stills at his free hand briefly clasping hers. His clicks are impossibly soft, _“If you—Want to talk about it—I’ll be around.”_

 _“There’s nothing to talk about, Adjutant.”_ The nurse pulls her hand and wrist computer back.

She does not bid farewell when he rises and leaves.

In the end, it’s for the better.

He is a paired Adjutant, and she is an _ic’jit_ with blood on her hands in place of Honor.

* * *

The entity in front of her is going to kill her.

She can’t stop the creature.

…

_Do you see, FLORA?_

_Do you see me?_

_This is what we are—Entities who use the flesh of others, who carve out new shapes, new forms, and new variations to blend in with our opponents._

The world is an anomalous blend of swirling lights and soft, flashing colors. She does not know where she is, nor does she know what she does as her mind drifts on a course not her own. She does not take on a tangible composition in the chapel of prismatic hues. She is not even light, merely the connection of electrical charges linked in such a way sentient thought is possible. It is all she is in the presence of an entity far deadlier and more powerful than she could hope to achieve.

She is simply an existence within another: lost among the silver mass and captive to elements of the universe. Yet her mind continues to wander of its own accord—

_It is not common for many of us to… express affection. In this way._

The entity encapsulating her is a being whose connections give her insight into what both are. She, her, they, are hivekind; _Vekin._ That which sculpts the skin of others and builds bodies for itself in an unending pilgrimage toward the knowledge of the worlds.

She is part of another now. She is not tangible, yet she knows her existence surrounds the primary entity, serving as fuel when the time comes. The electrical connections of FLORA’s consciousness will break apart and dissolve. In the end, nothing but the Vekin’s memories will remain of her fate. She cannot react to the news; she does not possess the strength to fire electrical charges in acknowledgement of the emotions. Even if she did—She does not remember what the emotions are like.

_It sounds so… formal. We do not live in one of those medieval fantasy films. What is the name of the one with the wedding ring everyone fights about?_

Her critical mass drops from twelve to nine percent.

_Lord of the Rings. One of these days I’ll help explain the plot of those books to you, okay?_

The primary entity is fading. Vekin are not immune to expiration.

_I guess math is universal across the galaxies. This is a sequence of numbers._

The remaining critical mass depletes from nine percent to three percent. The Vekin cannot sustain continued loss.

_You look… really dead when you do that. You don’t… Breathe._

One percent.

_We won’t leave this facility alive._

The heat scorches the world of dancing lights. She does not have a body to scream with, yet the agony is unbearable as blue fills her perception of the world. Her electrical connections fizzle out and separate as the blasts of superheated plasma tear through the Vekin’s body.

_I promise._

The remains smear the walls of the building, painting the corner of the hangar with rivets of silver.

_I do not believe I can break us out._

The Vekin GHOST expires.

_I will do my best to assist you in escaping these grounds._

She has less than one percent critical mass remaining.

_Why?_

Without any senses available, the only way to move is through the expense of her remaining mass. Instinct drives her to reconnect with remaining pieces of mass, seek out tissue, and build a new physical composition for her to hide in. There is no ability or sense available to determine the closest source. The remaining mass falls off the walls. Most of it is unresponsive. What little pieces react are collected as the liquid state of critical mass slugs forward.

_I did not help you out of expectation._

She does not know the passing of time between when she is reduced to less than one percent critical mass, and when she finds a source of flesh. It is not quick; she is not ‘enough’ to be _quick_. The Vekin engulfs the remains. The remains provide some protection, but the chunks of flesh are not enough substance to build a new physical composition. She requires more. She seeks more. The memories, the flesh, the taste—It calls out to her, beckoning like a flower glistening in the sun with mucilaginous glands where she is a fly.

_I worry I am not mimicking humanity._

The word _drosera_ drifts through the electrical charges sparking her consciousness.

_Her sister. I took her sister away._

The world transitions to a different surface. She cannot _feel_ the change in texture, but the way her form falls and spreads across the current surface alerts her to the transition.

_I am not a liar._

The Vekin struggles to pry open the object. She cannot identify what it is, but her electrical charges push her in the direction. She pushes something and finds a gap. The liquid state of her critical mass slips through and falls.

_This is going to be your big break in the field._

Splash.

_I’m trying to be here for you, and you keep shoving me away!_

The entity latches unto the flesh soaking in the liquid.

_What the fuck happened?_

In an eternity of nothing, where only the awareness one continues to exist remains, she wraps herself around the corpse and begins to digest it. It is what she needs. The other flesh did not feel right, the chunks and pieces she collected on the way, but this—This is right. This _feels_ correct.

_I always knew you would make your way in the world._

When the flesh absorbs, the construction begins. New organs are required to help sustain the growing physical composition.

_Don’t you dare—Bring up—Monet—Keep her out of your mouth!_

Time passes.

_She was my best friend._

_I have lived through worse. You won’t break me._

_Why offer hope of a different outcome?_

_I do not want to go back there—I will not. I cannot._

_My name—Merciless. No mercy. It once meant something in my clan. Before…_

_It is why I came here. Is it? To return the Cassini-Hyugens and… And to find GHOST?_

_I require a sharp, please._

_Have I understood right, Synthetic? Your kind is capable of… repossessing memories?_

_Do not make me repeat myself, FLORA._

_I am a threat to them._

_We are not friends._

_I agree with—It. With what you say. GHOST._

_Then you may call me something else. Perhaps a flower. I would enjoy a floral term… An Earth flower._

_I will come back to you no matter the circumstances beyond us, H’chak._

_Please trust me._

A set of clear eyes open.

_Sun-Dew._

It is dark. The only light comes from outside the pod, drifting in lazily and illuminating the inside of the pod.

_Please refer to me by my given name, my Doctor._

The physical composition bobs up and down in the liquid, neither warm nor cool.

_She’s a sundew. A sundew holding prey._

“I’m...” The Vekin cannot finish the sentence.

Something fine and thin tickles the side of her physical composition. She attempts to move and grab it, only to find ghostly white hair in the liquid. She pulls on it. It attaches to her head. Her hands rub it between her fingers. It feels strange, as does the rest of existence in her current form. Her physical composition is a blend of multiple sources of flesh, but the dominating source is that of a human woman, one whose memories now permeate her consciousness and flood her system.

 _Annie…_ The Vekin holds her head in her hands. She feels a disconnect from her body. It is purely mental, a dissociative sensation she struggles to think through. Things are missing in her mind. Chunks, gaps, and pieces—Lost, erased, ripped from her. She hears voices in her head, but she cannot recall who they belong to outside of Doctor Louanne Garcia’s perspective.

None but a name.

 _H’chak. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy…_ She stares at silver palms while the world spins around her. _I promised I would… I would come back to him. I promised… I… I promised. I will come back to you. Please trust me._

When she rises and pushes open the hatch of the medical pod, part of it and the surroundings feels familiar. Only the doctor’s memories are roused. The Vekin does not climb out of the pod with grace, but in a desperate pull of limbs not quite her own. She staggers forward and falls from the open hatch unto the ground with dark liquid landing in droplets across the floor. Her body feels light yet heavy at the same time; she knows she is meant to be _more_ but she is what she is right _now_.

She is an entity that has not been forced into expiration. 

She is an entity who made a promise.

Sundew does not break her word easily.


	47. FLUX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw:  
> -pregnancy  
> -sex work  
> -implied attempted sexual / physical assault  
> -implied organ trafficking  
> -death / grieving

The _dah’kte_ on the table at the left side of their bed emits a high-pitched note at a range too high for most lifeforms to process. Yet for the one the noise is intended to they cannot miss it; the Yautja is already awake. Their hulking figure, an impressive seven-foot-two, is partially curled around the body to their right. Rightfully so; they do not want to let go and move from where FLUX’s soft back greets their bare chest. The feel of her flesh is all their mind drifts to. _Flesh, smell, taste…_

They know it cannot last. Another time, perhaps, but the Shadow rises when light calls.

Dto-Bhu’ja stares at the glass ceiling of the cabin. Light falls through the panes, but it isn’t until they don their bio-mask do they remember how beautiful Photon is. The planet is endlessly illuminated by a trio of rotating dwarf stars, each seemingly infinite in the light produced despite the knowledge all stars die one day. Even with a predestined fate, the stars bathe the planet in warmth and allow Photon’s unique ecosystem to flourish. It is a world of gold and yellow, a plain of endless, towering fungi forests and great mushroom caps. Honeybees fly in swarms while a saffron-colored songbird sings a silent song from the roof. The colored panes of glass let Dto see it all.

None of it is as beautiful as the soft brown gaze turning to look at them. They pause and meet FLUX’s eyes when she rolls over and smiles, reveling in the specks of amber highlighted in the cool depths. Dto finds their wife’s hand rises to touch their chest even as they still, a white sheet strewn about the two.

“You’re up early,” FLUX speaks with a laugh in her voice, a warmth that makes them exhale and lean down to touch their forehead against hers. She doesn’t shy away, humming and leaning into the touch of their mask. The curly strands of her hair, a coiling sort of golden blonde which have since coiled into the rounded shape of an afro, bump against their scales.

The Shadow breathes slowly, calming their four hearts. _“…Work.”_

_“Dto…”_

They count the light of a thousand stars in her smile when she draws back and peers up at them. She is not much shorter, only a foot, but the distance feels miniscule, _irrelevant,_ when she puts a hand on the back of their neck and pull them down so she can press her lips to the ridge of their helmet. The kiss is never long enough for either the two, but Dto knows time is a resource a Shadow cannot waste. They purr softly until FLUX lets go and flops back into the bed. Light filters through glass panes and illuminates her dark brown, almost black skin with a soft golden glow. Every one of her freckles, each seemingly luminescent to their eyes, jumps out in Photon’s light.

They want to admire, to long for, to pine after another hour or two or dozen, but their _dah’kte_ emits the same high-pitched note it did earlier. FLUX does not notice, though she watches them when they throw their legs over the edge of the bed and pick up the _dah’kte._ They sync it to their bio-mask and fall silent as their helmet’s optical system pulls up the incoming message.

“Will you be gone many cycles?” She looks like a _Paya_ in white robes from how the bed sheet drapes over her body.

 _“I don’t have an answer to that.”_ The Shadow rises and strides to a dresser made of light, grainy wood. It has a shining finish which gleams and reflects light when they pull the top drawer open and retrieve clean wrappings, a cod piece, and thermal bodysuit. Though they long for FLUX to help them dress, they know it can only end one way, and there is no time to dawdle when the Matriarch issues an order.

It takes three minute-cycles for them to dress. They gaze at the individual pieces of their armor lined up neatly across a shelf protruding from the far wall.

Everything about the furniture and décor of the two’s cottage is _ancient_ compared to Yautja technology, yet it is precisely that attribute Dto-Bhu’ja loves. They do not want to have a home in the dark, dim mechanics of the Ka’Torag-Na spaceship. They are a Shadow, but they need their light. Not the light imposed by the sworn oath binding them to Ka’Torag-Na’s leader, but the light found in the expanse of stars and warm rays showering Photon’s surface. Dto closes their one good, white eye, and inhales the faint aroma of ambrosia wafting through the outside. Within it is the mingled scent of their partner, of FLUX, of the love waiting for them on their return. Even in the throes of heat, the Shadow’s restraint is impeccable; they do not falter in crossing the room to don armor.

They catch FLUX’s sleepy, curious gaze as they put on each piece. Dto nods at her, a brief click of warmth following, before they resume. There are many pieces to the full body suit they put over the mesh matrix hugging their muscles. The metal alloys are each a void so dark not even Photon’s stars can illuminate it, linking and connecting through intricate sensors and systems built into the body armor. Their _dah’kte_ on their right wrist automatically syncs with the armor’s system, connecting not only the armor to the augmented _dah’kte_ ’s computational processors, but the armor to their bio-mask. The last piece is the helmet transforming their bio-mask into an airtight helmet covering their dreads, their long skull, and their neck.

They are so focused on donning their armor they almost miss FLUX rising from the bed and walking behind them. Dto does not jump; they detect her presence five _noks_ out and identify her scent. The walking suit of metal pauses when FLUX wraps arms around their torso from behind, hands resting atop the other over their abdomen.

“You’ll tell me about it when you come back.” She does not ask but _states._ Dto’s mandibles twitch inside their helmet; they know she knows the answer. Her quest for reassurance perplexes the Yautja on occasion.

 _“Always.”_ One of the Shadow’s hands fall to hers, the gauntlet slowly caressing the cool brown skin.

“I’m not one for assumptions,” FLUX nuzzles their back, indicated by sensors prompting alerts into the Shadow’s helmet. They turn around when she lets go of their torso. Their white eye falls into the mess of her gleaming brown ones. They watch her take one of their large hands—covered by an equally large gauntlet—and shift it to her abdomen. “But I think—Ray likes to hear about them. Their big, bad, scary sirer—Running around, going on adventures, tales exciting as the stars…”

A quick run through existing optical filters confirms the cells within FLUX’s uterus has grown to the size of an apricot. Though they know she cannot pick up on their flutter of fear, they resolve not to dwell on it regardless. They have time to figure out the complications inbound from the _experiment_ the two began. The offspring is not guaranteed to be anything more than a pure Yautja created through stolen organs turned synthetic. There is no indication FLUX’s species will pass traits to the eventual pup. It is preferable; Dto does not enjoy the thought of the conflict to come should the pup be a hybrid.

Much less should their enemies learn of the circumstances of their partner, or their pup. 

They exhale into their helmet, the filtration system picking up the air and replacing it automatically. Dto nods. _“I will… bring you a new story. Both of you.”_

 _“And be careful.”_ FLUX clicks in the Ka’Torag-Na dialect.

 _“I will.”_ The Shadow begins to shift back into their title, their role, and their responsibilities. Yet when the Vekin in front of them squeezes their hand, detected in the gauntlet’s pressure sensors, the Shadow lingers as Dto-Bhu’ja a moment longer. They inhale recycled air before their throat rumbles. _“I’ll come back to you.”_

The Vekin smiles, edges of her brown lips perking up in a display alien as it is intimate. “You better.”

* * *

Seeing the golden planet disappear in the distance when the _Ptero_ finishes slingshotting off Photon’s gravitational pull and launching away stirs a strange feeling in the Yautja’s chest. They feel their chest constrict and a sense of isolation return to them, ensnaring them like a boa with its prey. Becoming the _Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na_ and stepping away from the life of _Dto-Bhu’ja_ is as physical as it is mental. They do not give themself time to revel in their thoughts as _Dto-Bhu’ja_ before they embrace the Shadow they are and shift their sight to preparation for their mission.

They have a special target. Though the Matriarch could send them anywhere, to _any_ part of the galaxies, to the furthest realms of the ever-expanding universe, she has chosen to send them to the star system _Cassowary._ There, surrounded by two stars lost in an eternal duet around the other, is a space station of hedonism. The _Chickpea Night Walk_ is a well-known and famous strip club featuring dancers of various species from across the cosmos.

They have been there once before, during their early years as Ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow, fulfilling orders to assassinate a political figure belonging to the _Nrache-dte_ Clan. Supposedly, the past thirty cycles has prompted a turnover in staff, leading to a notorious hire: an ooman, Fiona Greeves. Why a club serving as a hotspot for intergalactic sex work puts the safety of its workers into the hands of a _ooman_ remains unknown, but the Shadow does not like unexpected surprises. They prompt their cloaking to activate long before their spacecraft comes into range of _Chickpea Night Walk Station_.

They are early to the scene. It is not early in the sense of a day or night cycle, nor in the sense of escaping the long queue of spacecraft to the station’s airlock and docking bay. They arrive prior to their prey. The spacecraft they target is absent. The _Ptero_ ’s cloaking remains as the long, double-winged ship hovers patiently. The Shadow rises from the pilot’s seat and strides out of the cockpit down a short corridor. The craft does not have much in way of personal commodities, but at the very back is a storage long since converted into their armory.

The small, rounded plasma charges in their possession sit patiently on a shelf. The Shadow picks one up, tests its weight, and nods in satisfaction. They begin to load the charges into the compartment of their left _dah’kte._ It has been altered specifically for this assignment. They do not anticipate being overpowered, but in event a sudden exit is needed, they can eject the gauntlet’s sub-compartments and remotely detonate the charges inside. Their orders are clear.

The mission will be quick and simple. Extra collateral is not advised but expected. By the time the Shadow returns to their seat, they have compartmentalized _Dto-Bhu’ja_. The attachments they hold as the Yautja fade in favor of the detachment they embody as a Shadow. They pilot the _Ptero_ into position and begin the waiting game.

* * *

When the tablet is first handed over, all she does is hold her breath. Jo does not know what Mercy wants, only that she has zero idea what goes on outside her containment cell. Aside from Mercy, Yautja across the ship do not come by. Not even Barbecue Man with his delicious barbecue smell.

 _Not delicious._ Jo holds her head in her hands briefly before looking up and back at where Mercy sits cross-legged next to Ivon.

The latter looks better than they have since the start of the intergalactic adventure with the two humans’ new Yautja friends. Though they have yet to get past their concussion, the electrician has spent the past days—or what she thinks are days—resting. Jo is grateful the electrician does not insist on trying to get out of the room and to Maelstrom. She does not want to imagine a Yautja throwing Ivon into a room and locking the door like what one of the Yautja did to her. Ivon is not _weak_ , and _weakness_ in of itself is not innately a bad thing, but she feels _concern_ for their mental health. She does not know when the withdrawal will set in, but she knows they no longer have access to any of their prescriptions.

Jo also doubts the aliens have extra _ooman_ drugs on hand.

The inability to communicate with the aliens is the biggest reason she feels so _tense._ The fact Mercy visits in the first place is reason for surprise, but the Yautja bringing a piece of alien technology to share is… Not something she expects. She knows he does not care for the oomans. He cares for _Sundew_ , and Sundew is dead. She expects him to let the other Yautja tear the two limb-from-limb.

 _But… no._ Jo stares, fascinated, as Ivon blinks slowly and stares at the slab of alien technology. Small holographic symbols float in the air just about the ‘tablet’.

“On the ship… The ship… Echidna? No—Echinos. _Echinos._ On the ship _Echinos_ ,” the electrician pauses and tilts their head to one side. For a thirty-eight-year-old, the human sounds younger. “The others are allies.”

“Allies who lock me in with barbecue breath.” Jo crosses her arms. Her brown eyes narrow on Mercy. Her flinch is small when he growls at her from beyond his facemask.

Mercy takes the tablet from Ivon. The alien lifts a gloved hand and begins tapping something unseen to her eyes, talons dancing across the air just above the surface of the electronic. When finished, he clicks and shoves it back at Ivon. The latter pauses and slowly reads, “My ship is… Behind… Behind us. Your ship is behind us. Following?” Ivon pauses and looks at the alien for confirmation. Mercy grunts and nods. Ivon continues, “We are visiting a… space? Oh—Space station! We’re going to a space station, Jo.”

Jo smiles faintly. “Okay, that’s—It’s a little cool.”

“—You are not permitted off the _Echinos._ ” No sooner does Ivon read the words do both humans make faces.

Jo glares at Mercy, annoyed. “Why can’t we get off the ship? Walk around? I’m going to cry an’ it’ll be _real_ ugly if I have to stay in this _one room_ another million years!”

Mercy snatches the tablet back and does the claws-move-through-air thing again. The Yautja trills loudly when he hands it back. He sits upright, shoulders square.

“My… My… My… Uh, hold on,” Ivon leans closer to the tablet, studying small, red-colored holographic dashes with a stubbornness Jo appreciates. The human taps their chin slowly. “…My brother? Brother?” At Mercy’s growl, Ivon grumbles. “It isn’t—It’s not like it’s my first language, Mercy—I’m sorry if I—If I—Don’t understand context?” They sigh.

Mercy’s hiss makes Ivon flinch away.

“Okay, okay…” The human mutters under their breath.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Jo remarks.

Ivon gawks as Mercy emits a sound that reminds Jo of a rattlesnake’s hiss. A moment of hand-air-moving later, and Ivon reads aloud. “Not by blood. By clan. Okay. But what did you say before? Is… There a way to scroll up?”

Mercy leans over, holds a claw over the tablet, and flicks it down. Ivon’s face flushes pink. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

Jo holds back a snort and waits patiently for Ivon to continue.

“My brother is in… My brother is in charge. He is higher ranked. I do not… Not… Not have? Not have—Auth… Author? Authorize? Authority? Is this one authority?” Ivon points to a collection of geometrically arranged, holographic dashes.

Mercy clicks incessantly, pauses, and begins to nod instead.

Ivon runs a hand through their blond hair. It’s gotten longer, down to their ears, but remains just as messy. “I do not have authority over the crew.”

“Great. We’re, what? Rats waiting to be tested? Dissected? Fuck. What a mess,” Jo holds her head in her hands again. Her coiled locs shift from the movement. She exhales shakily. “I wish Louanne were here. Or—Sundew—”

She regrets the words the moment they leave her lips. Jo clams up and Ivon freezes while the alien between the two stills. Mercy’s mask hides his face, but she knows his body language enough to tell when he becomes tense and rigid. Jo feels guilt swell up inside her. She opens her mouth to speak but Ivon beats her to the punch, “Sorry about… About… I’m sorry. For your loss. Mercy. I’m sorry she died.”

The alien does not respond, instead taking the tablet back and beginning to rise.

Jo leaps to her feet, brave and foolish but _especially_ foolish at this second. Her brown gaze dims, but she voices her thought. “—She was—She was our friend. I know she meant more to you—But to us—She was our friend. Before we were marched out—By—Alma—GHOST—that _bitch_ ,” Jo doesn’t hide the anger in her voice. “—She tried to make Alma agree to… spare us. Let us go. She didn’t have to do that. But she did, and—And that’s what I’ll remember for the rest of my life. She tried to keep us safe to the end. She was a good friend. I’m glad I got to meet her.”

At first, she doesn’t think her words mean anything. Jo doesn’t know what she expects; she _knows_ Mercy does not enjoy watching over _humans._ She knows he detests her species, to the point he was happy to strangle Ivon half to death when he first found them on the ship. Part of her expects him to leave. _Why_ he hasn’t perplexes the woman. She finds herself at a loss for words when Mercy’s fingers glide through the air over the Yautja tablet. He holds out the device to Ivon, who seems just as surprised as Jo is.

The human mumbles something under breath before Mercy takes the tablet back and leaves. Jo’s heart sinks in her chest. She sighs and looks at Ivon. “Did he tell me to fuck off?”

“No.” Ivon meets her gaze. The human purses their lips. “He said—He’ll try to keep us alive. For Sundew’s sake.”

* * *

The Chickpea Night Walk was originally a station hosting the strip club, but in the past ten cycles the station has expanded to several casinos, back-alley markets, and hotels. Likewise, the docking bay has been expanded upon to ensure room for both staff and patrons of all establishments. Fiona remembers when it was a tiny thing with one airlock and spacecraft jammed nose to orbital. She feels relieved knowing even the shitty owners of the Chickpea Night Walk recognize the importance of spacial distancing.

Each ship has a distinct zone marked for docking. Fire-suppression systems built into the complex are set to activate and smother a spacecraft once flames breach the hull. In extreme cases, shields of an alloy built to withstand a thousand megatons of force drop from the ceiling and separate the craft from the rest of the docking bay. It is imperative one flaming spacecraft cannot cause a chain explosion with other spacecraft present.

 _Simple things._ Fiona adjusts her shades and grimaces. Before she started working as a bouncer, she heard tales of how docking bay negligence led to a catastrophic station shutdown, with ten craft lost, dozens injured, and casualties in the double digits. _Like I’ll let that happen._

The translator headset sits in her pocket as she waits. Part of her desperately wishes Sharp Knife was around, but the woman knows it would only end in blood. Even though she has threatened the incoming Yautja crew, she knows clans take their honor _too_ seriously. Her words will not stop an Honor-bound Yautja if an _ic’jit_ is present. She _will_ shoot to kill, but the potential for collateral damage in the time it takes her to get muscle meatbags under control is too high for Fiona’s comfort.

A lot of what she deals with is outside her comfort level.

It is one of the reasons she’s grown loud and blunt over the cycles. There’s no place for softness in intergalactic sex work; aliens manipulate and traumatize humans just as much as humans do on her home planet. With the safety of the dancers, of her _family_ , riding on her back—Fiona doesn’t give a flying fuck how hostile she comes off, or her lack of etiquette. She acts how she acts to ensure aliens, humans, _everyone_ attending the club knows she means business, that she is as serious about blasting a hole through their brain or hearts or ocular organs as she is about getting a drink after work.

 _I wonder how much of ‘me’ is still left._ The woman grimaces, longing for a shot or two. _Left in this lean, mean guard with a stick up her ass. Fuck, can’t believe I used to call myself shy._

She cuts her retrospection short when the double airlock at the end of the docking bay releases one of her expectant spacecraft. Fiona’s brown eyes peer at a ship vaguely resembling a cuttlefish or squid, with definite lines for tentacles to unfold from the back of the head. It isn’t the weirdest ship she’s seen, but she can’t say she expects Yautja to take an interest in her home planet’s marine life. The thought of intergalactic, space-faring alien squid isn’t pleasant, either.

She pulls her headset from the pocket of her baggy pants and puts it on. The universal translator slowly clicks on. Fiona has a perfect view of the ship, the _Echinos_ , as it flies to its designated docking zone and lands. She stands on the edge of the club’s outer grounds, where the club ends and the docking bay zone begins, her hands in her pockets. She observes the second expectant craft, a slender, snake-like ship called the _Kukulkan_ , emerge from the double airlock a moment later. The _Kukulkan_ glides effortlessly through the air, almost _majestically_ , as it flies to its docking zone on the other side of the docking bay.

She knows it will annoy the Yautja crew, but Fiona doesn’t take chances. If things go bad, she intends to make it easier to split the muscle heads up. Humans, even humans who’ve ingested Yautja blood, are physically weaker than an actual Yautja. She needs to count on her speed and her aim if things go south.

 _If. Not when._ Fiona reminds herself. She observes a ramp protrude from the _Echinos_ ’ fuselage. A second later, four Yautja march out, their distinctive dreads not unlike her own locs, but longer. She cracks her neck and wishes for a bottle of gin. Not surprisingly, two Yautja head directly for her while two others split from the pack and begin the walk to the _Kukulkan._

Her first contact with the two Yautja approaching is a nonplussed, “You fucks better tip.”

* * *

The bouncer is an ooman. A woman, with noticeable muscle and white, tinted spectacles contrasting her brown skin. She reminds the Elite of the ooman onboard the _Echinos_ , the one who received his help taking the _akrei-non_ collar off her neck. Like the ooman on the ship, Gry’Sui notes the bouncer has locs tumbling down her head. Unlike the ooman on the ship, Gry’Sui spots small rings clasped around some of the woman’s locs. His black eyes focus on the features of the rings from behind his mask, taking note of the craftsmanship and distinct _Yautja_ handiwork while the Adjutant at his side addresses the ooman.

 _“Thank you for allowing us to dock here.”_ Adjutant Guan’s clicks are firm and neutral; polite. The man’s composure remains even after the ooman bouncer snorts at him.

“Give my friends inside your thanks. Credits only. Remember what I said—You touch, you’re out. Freebies ain’t a thing. Try a hunt and you’ll wind up dead on the floor.” For an ooman, Gry’Sui notes the woman reeks of confidence.

 _M-di h’dlak._ No fear.

Adjutant Guan nods once. Gry’Sui finds the sight amusing: the taller, hulking Adjutant is quiet, as is he, while the shorter, easily squashed _pyode amedha_ faces the two like they are the ants. The Elite is too amused by the spectacle to be offended. His optical system scans the ooman; she has a plasma handgun strapped to her hip, and several knives stashed on her person, but is otherwise defenseless. _He_ could defeat her, easily. Part of him wishes she would challenge one of the two. Her demeanor reminds him too much of _Kwei-Bezas_ ; Gry’Sui is infinitely grateful the engineer got sent directly to the Kukulkan with M-di-H’chak when the four disembarked.

 _“Gry’Sui,”_ the Adjutant chirps at him when the bouncer lets the two go. _“I will take care of crediting the dancers; find someone selling a universal translator and meet me at the front of the club.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ The Elite nods.

He feels only the faintest ping of envy for the Adjutant as he watches the Yautja stride past club patrons and enter the establishment, disappearing behind a curtain of sheen black cloth. Music thumps faintly in the background, but Gry’Sui does not care to stay. He ignores the scents coming from the club, turns, and walks off to the adjacent shops.

* * *

With rounded heads, big eyes, and soft fur covering their entire body, Fiona does not enjoy roughing up Pogs. The mammalian creatures are humanoid from the neck down, aggravatingly soft, and prone to making high-pitched yipping sounds whenever she punches one. Yet for the sake of keeping them off Xnnzk’s back and letting her friend resume her dancing number, the bouncer has no choice but to knock three drunk Pogs’ out. Her heart aches when she looks at the patrons yipping from the ground, but she tucks the thought away for a time when she isn’t bouncing. The woman hauls one patron up and growls in their face.

“Leave.”

The universal translater headset translates one Pogs response to, _“Sorry—Sorry—Sorry m’am… Just… Wanted a feel…”_

“How can you say sorry after pulling that bullshit? You think you can walk in here, throw money, and that means your paws have a go-where-they-please pass? It’s on the goddamn wall,” she grabs one of the Pogs by the scruff of their neck. Not unsurprisingly, this one wears the same denim jackets as their companions. _“You don’t touch the dancers!_ If you got a hard on, arrange for a VIP room or go jack it in the wash. Now, I’ll _kindly_ ask you to leave before I rip off your furballs and shove them down your throat.”

 _“She looks so soft…”_ One of the Pogs mumbles to their companion. _“Soft human… Soft flesh… Could eat… Why let her boss...”_

Fiona’s grin is wicked as she kicks the Pogs down and smashes a foot on their chest. “Try it.”

The yips she suffers through dragging the three Pogs out of the club and to the docking bay draws stares. She glares at each of the mammalians until the three rise, pop the collars of their jackets, and sulk back to their ship. With any luck, the fluffy creatures won’t return for another cycle. Pogs look cute, but their looks have yet to distract Fiona from the nonstop complaints she receives from dancers. She makes a note to add the ship’s identification number to the ban list for patrons.

She pauses on her way back in, the music loud in her ears and a pleasant aroma catching her attention. The woman glances at the bar where she spots one embarrassingly formal black humanoid pouring two drinks. Fiona’s eye twitches as she walks up to the bar and leans against it. Sullivan smiles merrily and pushes a glass toward her, red eyes twinkling like a star.

“It’s a new mix,” the man intones, winking after. “Miss Fiona, if you were to try it, I would be most _pleased._ ”

“Will you change out of that costume if I do?” The bouncer huffs. “You’re making me feel underdressed.”

“I apologize, but one of the owners specified I not stroll around nude after the husband made one too many passes at, and I quote, _‘that ass.’_ ” Sullivan’s sincerity in the apology is baffling. He nudges the glass toward her. “But—Should you desire to taste my creation, I will not charge you for it, and you may drink your fill.”

“You won’t charge me anyways.”

 _“Touché_ , Miss Fiona.” The man takes a bow. Fiona rolls her eyes. 

She takes the glass and sniffs it. It reminds her of apple cider vinegar. With a grimace, the woman brings the glass to her lips and dips her head back. The taste is far from the smell: though it carries hints of apple, it reminds her of a cold floral tea. She can’t decide if she likes it or not. The burn in her throat when she finishes swallowing is enough for her to only finish half the glass. Fiona pushes it back to Sullivan and shakes her head. “Not for me, but you should offer shots to the dancers when we close tonight. I bet Hapfiwi would enjoy it.”

 _“Did someone call my name? Oh, Fiona, darling, my sweetheart, how are you?”_ The equine-like, partial frog figure trots up to the bar and wraps two slimy arms around the woman. Normally, Fiona cannot understand her, but the universal translator is a work of art. Fiona makes a note to order an extra set for personal use.

Fiona grimaces at Hapfiwi. “Fuck’s sake, Hap, you’ll get mucus on my clothes—”

 _“It all dries, it all dries! Sweetheart, you must learn to live a little. Where is your sense of adventure?”_ Hapfiwi’s arms release her. They tilt their head to one side, the brilliant blue throat puffing up briefly before contracting against their neck. They adjust a bedazzled black-and-gold scarf around their shoulders before leaning forward and fluttering large eyes at the bartender. _“Sullivan, sweetheart, you agree, don’t you? Lovely Fiona here’s got to live a little, mm?”_

“My sincere apologies, Mx. Hapfiwi, but _naturally speaking_ I do not know _her_ desires,” Sullivan laughs and shakes his head. “But I must inquire, is Miss Fiona here not one for risks on her own? She demonstrates considerably reckless behavior in using force to eject unwelcome patrons—”

“For your safety, dickhead.” The bouncer cuts him off.

Sullivan tilts his head to one side. His black lips remain curved and poised in a smile. “Forgive me, Miss Fiona, I do not take problem with your actions, and I fear my point has not been made with focus where focus is due. I am attempting to convey—You are an individual with a penchant for violence, justifiably thus as it pertains to the safety of the staff, but violence all the same. Your actions pit you against different species capable of crushing you in a heartbeat, yet your courage knows no bounds. You do not fear the patrons; you invoke fear and rule it with a fist. Sometimes—A gun.”

“Blaster.” Fiona crosses her arms and glances away briefly, scanning the music-filled halls for trouble.

“Is it not fair to say your behavior is deemed reckless by some?” Sullivan pours Hapfiwi a drink and hands it over.

“I hate it when you say things that make sense.”

“Oh, who isn’t upset when I speak truth?” Sullivan chuckles at the notion it could be anything but. The man meets her brown gaze with his red, deep and inviting. “But even if one was to dismiss your record of violence against patrons of this establishment—Does ingesting Yautja blood not count as _living a little?”_

“It’s fucking necessary.” Fiona growls.

“You didn’t before the Bad Blood began showing up. What a lovely gentleman, too. He once asked if I was interested in joining you both, but I declined; my plans for the night cycle were taken by… other figures.” The bartender nods, merry as ever.

 _Sharp Knife._ Fiona’s brown eyes dim. She’s developed a soft spot, a weak link, for the bastard. She prays he doesn’t stop by the station while the other Yautja are around. The woman’s hands tense into fists at the thought. It is a nagging worry: one she can’t afford to have when she has the staff to look out for.

“Speaking of Yautja—Miss Fiona. I am not certain if you’re aware, but it appears there is a Yautja stalking the Chickpea Station grounds.” Sullivan refills Hapfiwi’s drink while the latter nods at his words.

 _“Sweetheart, I didn’t want to worry you, but I bumped into a cloaked Yautja earlier in my shift. They weren’t even polite enough to give me the money to make up for it, god bless them—But my mucus disrupted their armor’s cloaking. They have armor void as the stars are bright.”_ Hapfiwi’s shoulders slump and they begin to chug their drink. They burp loudly after and look back at Fiona. _“I can’t help but think they don’t want to be seen. But what brand of fool ignores attention in this club? From me? My dear, if I must make an ass of myself, I daresay I shall go make assumptions that this individual has ill intents. The kind requiring light-bending technology.”_

“Those fuckers,” Fiona hisses under her breath. Her teeth clench. She resists the urge to slam her fist unto the bar counter. “They come here together? Trying to sneak someone in? Fuck—What would they want here? What do they need that requires _cloaking?_ If they touch one of the dancers—I’ll let Pynn’f eat their bodies!” She looks at Hapfiwi, then to Sullivan.

The latter shrugs. “Miss Fiona, I am afraid reading the minds of others is out of my repertoire.”

 _“Oh, Sullivan, you dear, darling man, nevermind that,”_ Hapfiwi shakes their head. _“Fiona, sweetheart, they have another thing coming if they think they can waltz inside the Chickpea Night Walk and scoop up one of our lovelies. We’ve been practicing when you ain’t around. And during the busiest time of the day cycle? They won’t get nowhere, not without blasting a hole through the airlock. You’d need mighty fine plasma power to break through those doors.”_

“Do either of the Yautja ships have plasma cannons? Most clans I’ve met have access to plasma technology.” The bouncer cusses the world out under her breath. She grits her teeth.

Hapfiwi shrugs. _“Honey, if I knew, would we be hassling sweet Sullivan here at the bar? I think not.”_

“I’m making them leave. All of them.” She grits her teeth. “I don’t give a shit why they’re here, or what reason they gave, _no excuses,_ I’m not taking chances with fucking Yautja. Not this time.” Fiona pushes herself upright and cracks her knuckles.

Sullivan bows politely. “I believe the gentleman by the name of _Gahn’tha-cte-Guan_ finished making rounds tipping the dancers. I do not know his destination, but it may be worthwhile checking the exit in case…?”

“Fuck, got it, thanks!” Fiona takes off running, waving at her two coworkers as she goes. She instinctively draws her blaster from its holster, flicks the safety off, but keeps her fingers from the trigger as she sprints to the front of the club and passes the dark curtain-like tapestries obfuscating the entrance. She emerges onto ramp leading to the _Chickpea Night Walk._ The station is well lit during the day cycle; Fiona adjusts her shades and scans the patrons walking past her. Her eyes land on shiny veritanium armor and masks; the woman howls at the duo walking away and shouts, _“You fucking assholes!”_

* * *

Explaining the expenses of the trip is not something the Adjutant looks forward to when he returns to _Gahn’tha-cte._ Guan grimaces as his optical system reviews the transactions in his bio-mask’s visor. The numbers climb higher and higher as he reviews the credits spent. His chest tightens; Daga will not be pleased with the news, but that is a problem for another time. Without a universal translator available, and none for sale according to the Elite following him on the long walk to the _Kukulkan_ , communicating with the _oomans_ on the _Echinos_ remains an issue.

 _Another to add to the list._ Guan grimaces internally. He can think of too many off the top of his head, everything between Kwei-Bezas insubordination, his _mei-hswei_ insisting he is having an affair with the other Adjutant, and _Bist’ri._

He doesn’t want to dwell on her right now, but the Adjutant finds his mind circles back to the incident two day cycles past. The nurse had reacted in a way he couldn’t anticipate, choosing to cut her own flesh to the point of requiring serum. Everything fell apart afterward. The friendship he thought the two shared was abruptly severed by the nurse’s choosing. He recalls attempting twice to reach out to her after the day cycle the events took place, but neither time has she addressed him as anything but his title. Hearing her address him in such a way hurts him more than he wants to admit.

 _Who is Tarei?_ The question still nags at him, gnawing away in his mind. He only knows the name after hearing Bist’ri utter it in her sleep, shortly before Kwei-Bezas unlocked the door of the cabin. She sounded afraid.

 _And you go and make it worse for her. S’yuit-de, Guan._ He chides himself, too busy thinking to notice when Gry’Sui’s hand latches unto his arm and pulls him back. Guan flinches and narrows orange eyes at the man. Gry’Sui grunts and waves behind the two, releasing Guan in the process.

 _“You fucking assholes!”_ The translator on the ooman’s head conveys her shout of fury.

Guan pauses. He looks at Gry’Sui. _“You abided by her rules?”_

 _“Sei-i. I am an honorable man.”_ Gry’Sui pounds his chest with a fist lightly. “And you, Adjutant?”

 _“Sei-i.”_ Guan’s orange eyes dim. _Another problem, then._

He does not attempt to run. The two have done nothing wrong, and he doubts an ooman can overpower two Blooded Elites. Gry’Sui stands at his side, tense but observant, as the ooman runs the length of the docking bay and stops feet from them, panting and breathless. “You—Fucking—Fuck’s—”

Gry’Sui growls but Guan clicks at him to shush. The Adjutant stares at the woman. _Fiona._

 _“What is the problem?”_ Guan chirps, unwilling to break composure even when the bouncer steps forward and gets in his space.

She hisses at him. “You fuck-faces think you can skirt the rules? When I said no goddamn Hunts—I meant it—No fucking invisible shit—No goddamn cloaking!”

_“—We haven’t—”_

“Don’t fucking lie, Adjutant Night,” the ooman cuts him off. “One of my dancers saw them! Who but a Yautja wears fucking Yautja body armor? You really thought just ‘cause it’s vantablack it wouldn’t give you away? _Get the fuck off this station.”_

Further shouts at him go unnoticed. Guan stills as the ooman’s words sink in. His orange eyes widen behind his mask. _“—Gry’Sui, set up a communications line with the Echinos—I’ll—”_ The station _shakes_ and both Yautja and ooman stagger as a shockwave goes out from the other side of the docking bay. Guan snaps his head up and stares in horror as sirens begin ringing.

Part of the Echinos has exploded.


	48. protector type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -miscarriage  
> -dead infant  
> -self harm  
> -blood  
> -talk about transition / transitional surgery 
> 
> Vekin are silver vampire wannabes.  
> As a reminder, this chapter happens when Gry'Sui and Guan are off in the space station.

The nurse steps back and watches Ikthya-De hold up the container and turn it over in her hands. The fetus within the container is small, just shy the size of her fist. The motion makes the preservation liquid inside the container shift, prompting the cluster of cells to sway. It is a solemn sight; Bist’ri’s green eyes fill with sympathy for the woman sitting on the metal table. As the nurse watches, Ikthya-De hugs the container to her chest. Her voice is strained as she trills in soft chirps, _“My pup…”_

 _“You may hold unto them as long as you wish.”_ Bist’ri nods once. _“When we return to Gahn’tha-cte, I will see to it arrangements are made for an honorable burial. Ikthya-De.”_

 _“…Thank you,”_ Hearing the words from such a dangerous individual is strange. It reminds Bist’ri that Ikthya-De, as wretched and heinous she is, is just as capable of being vulnerable or weak as the rest of the universe.

Bist’ri exhales slowly behind her mask before breathing in filtered air. She strides to the one active medical pod off to the side. The _ic’jit_ Vayuh’ta bobs up and down in the dark liquid of the pod, visible through the pod’s glass hatch at the top. Once more, Bist’ri finds herself taken aback by the sheer similarities in Vayuh’ta’s and Guan’s appearances. Yautja are a diverse lot, with dozens of scale textures, colors, and patterns atop the varying types of locs, the shape of the forehead crest, eye color, and the size and curve of mandibles. Bist’ri knows the likelihood for two Yautja to be _exact_ is minuscule.

 _Even twins can look different._ She finds guilt in that line of thinking, so Bist’ri tucks the thought away. She will not think of Tarei, not right now, not when she has patients and a dozen other problems to worry about come the return to Gahn’tha-cte. She does not know how she will explain her breakdowns to Akrei-non-Daga or the Elders. She does not have an explanation which paints her in a good light. Her lack of subordinance on _Terra_ will be addressed. She knows she may be branded an _Arbitrator_ as punishment and forced to carry out what is often a suicide mission in pursuit of redemption. If she is lucky, she will only lose her rank as Adjutant and the respect of the clan, but even social shame leaves its own kind of welts.

 _And… Guan…_ Her chest tightens. The man knows her brother’s name. She does not know _why_ or _how_ , but she knows he is observant, and that the Adjutant will not forget even if she asks him to. The other Adjutant cares in that way: he remembers the little things she says and does. He looks for her when she is around. He notices her absence. He notices her shifts in mood. What others view as formalities Gahn’tha-cte-Guan knows is _distance_. When she began pushing him away using his title two days past, the man picked up on it immediately.

Bist’ri’s green eyes dim behind her bio-mask. _You’re a kind man, Guan. Kind. Honorable. And… paired._

She won’t let him throw away his honor for her. He matters too much, regardless how selfish her desires and impulses are.

Bist’ri returns her attention to the _ic’jit_ inside the medical pod in front of her. Vayuh’ta is no longer injured, but the nurse knows the drug sprayed into the pod will keep her unconscious. The huntress is too dangerous to have awake. Judging by the length of her locs, Bist’ri estimates the _ic’jit_ ’s age to be at least three-zero-zero cycles, but likely closer to four-zero-zero cycles. Though the possibility the huntress is like _her_ , with only a handful of Hunts to her name despite being alive for one-eight-six cycles, it is not something she risks.

 _You’re older than Guan._ The nurse stares into the pod. _Are you his sister? Cousin? Aunt? How is an ic’jit of Ka’Torag-Na related to Gahn’tha-cte’s Adjutant? Unless…_ Bist’ri’s eyes widen. _You’re the pup… Leader Daga gave to… Ka’Torag-Na… But that—Wasn’t that pup a boy?_

She inhales filtered air slowly. _No, you might have been perceived as a boy. But that’s not what you were._ She recalls, during the long hours of plucking tiny needles out of the Yautja’s flesh, how the woman had faint, _old_ scars around the groin. Bist’ri’s mind puts it together. _Surgical alterations to adjust how your body is perceived by others must have taken place before you were… five-zero? One-zero-zero cycles? The scars faded into the creases of your skin over many cycles. Only a nurse would recognize the scars as result of medical procedures and not battle._

It baffles her in part. Bist’ri tenses where she stands. _Daga never considered his pup would grow up to be a woman._ _None of us considered his progeny was the ic’jit Ka’Torag-Na wants dead. What do I do now?_

She doesn’t know what to do with the information. It is grossly private, not something she feels right to hand out to others. She doesn’t know if relaying the information to Adjutant Guan helps or hinders the current assignment. Nor does she know if Guan would believe her words. Her green eyes dim. _I don’t know what to do. Do I wait? Tell Tjau’ke when we return to Gahn’tha-cte? I may be stripped of my status as her Adjutant, but…_

Bist’ri jumps in surprise when the medical bay door opens. She snaps her head up and looks at the doors. Her green eyes blink, puzzled, when no one comes through. The woman glances at Ikthya-De, who remains focused on holding her deceased pup. She walks over to the medical bay doors and peeks out. The _n’dui-se_ given off by herself and Ikthya-De comes through her olfactory receptors, as well as the presence of a third scent she cannot identify. The scent reminds her of the jungles of Yautja Prime, but less humid.

 _One of the oomans? Or—Vayuh’ta?_ The nurse thinks in bewilderment. She walks out of the medical bay and strides to the containment cell, shifting from her bio-mask’s full color optics to her species’ natural thermal sight. She doesn’t see bright red heat signatures hiding, only the reflection of herself on a metal wall: a seven-foot two outline of faint pink. Bist’ri turns to the containment cell. She presses a palm to the glass door.

It opens just as _something_ slams into her. Bist’ri falls forward and staggers to her feet. By the time she spins around, she sees an invisible, shimmering figure shutting the containment cell door. The internal lock sounds. She balks and runs up to the door, pounding vigorously as the figure walks away.

 _“Bezas! Kwei-Bezas! Ikthya-De! Gry’Sui? Adjutant Guan? H’chak? Pauk_ —” Behind her, she hears the sound of two oomans saying things in their strange language, none of which she understands. Bist’ri grits her teeth. She attempts to connect a communication line with Ikthya-De, but it fails. The nurse clicks in surprise; she initiates a communications line with Kwei-Bezas, speaking the second she hears input come from the other end, _“Bezas, where are you right now?”_

_"Is this a trick question? Oomans do that, ya know."  
_

_“What ship?”_ Bist’ri is quick to chirp at the engineer.

 _“Uh,”_ Bezas pauses. The hesitation makes Bist’ri freeze. The engineer adds a moment later, _“Kukulkan? The snake ship. The Elite’s ship. Not the Echinos. Why?”_

 _“Who’s with you right now?”_ She demands.

 _“Geez, geez, relax, relax! I get nervous when ya yell, pauk’s sake, Bist’ri,”_ Kwei-Bezas trills loudly into the line. _“—So, Nok Nok and that one Elite guy is here. Gry’Sui and the Adjutant went to do cjit in the station, but they’ll join us here after. I may or may not've pissed off the Elite, haha. He's rummaging about the ship...”_

Bist’ri suddenly recalls something about her two patients. Vayuh’ta, sedated in the pod, only has wrappings and the thermal mesh bodysuit. Ikthya-De, she remembers, wears the mesh suit, modesty wrappings, and possesses her wrist computer and bio-mask, but isn’t wearing the latter. The two don’t have cloaking devices. Guan and Gry’Sui wouldn’t try to lock her in a containment cell. The others are at the Kukulkan.

It paints a very bad picture. Bist’ri curses loudly, _“Bezas, I think—”_ A sudden screech cuts into the communications line, filling her mask with _static_ as the line jams. Bist’ri shuts it off with a growl. Another Yautja has boarded the ship, and they aren’t friendly.

* * *

Seeing _his_ ship again does wonders for the Elite. When _Adjutant Guan_ finishes voicing the rules the group must abide by, when _Adjutant Guan_ finally lets him off the damn _Echinos_ and into the docking bay, it is like wearing a bio-mask for the first time. The Yautja’s orange eyes widen in glee as he looks around the space station, noting everything from ships to airlocks to the assortment of shops lining the curving outer grounds of the Chickpea Night Walk. When his eyes fall on the docked _Kukulkan,_ on _his_ precious, divine serpent on the other side of the docking bay, H’chak breaks into a run.

He doesn’t care if Kwei-Bezas begins yapping at him to slow down. He doesn’t care about other station attendees staring at him. All he cares about is his _ship,_ about one of the few things he has left in his life, and about cleaning the flying serpent head-to-toe and ensuring _Adjutant Guan_ ’s crew didn’t muck up the insides. To his relief, H’chak finds the cockpit open and waiting for him. He trills in satisfaction when he makes a running leap into the open cockpit, landing next to a Yautja who gives him but a passing glance.

H’chak straightens upright and clicks, _“Which of them are you?”_

 _“Nok Nok.”_ The engineer replies coldly. Her eyes are hidden by her bio-mask, but H’chak notes the intense, cobalt blue hue of her hide. She has long locs reminding him vaguely of Adjutant Bist’ri, though Nok Nok’s locs are darker green and coiled less tightly than the nurse’s locs. Nok Nok wears very few adornments in her locs, with a handful of veritanium rings and only two platinum clasps H’chak sees at first glance.

 _“Nok Nok, then. I am M-di-H’chak_ ,” the Elite clicks firmly. _“This is the Kukulkan, my ship. I understand you’ve piloted it from Terra to now. When—”_ H’chak grits his teeth. “Adjutant Guan arrives, I will ask if I can take over—”

 _“No need, buckaroo!”_ Kwei-Bezas throws their legs over the side of the cockpit, leaning forward and jumping to the metal floor. The Yautja huffs. _“I got piloting duty for the Kukulkan. Go paukin’ figure.”_

 _“I prefer no one but me pilots my ship.”_ H’chak emphasizes the long trill of the word _‘my’_.

 _“It was decided by Adjutant Guan in response to Kwei-Bezas’ lack of subordinance. You do not have a say in the matter, M-di-H’chak.”_ Nok Nok tilts her head to one side. She is indifferent in how she addresses him, neither compassionate nor condescending; neutral.

 _“The Adjutant should reconsider his final decision.”_ H’chak snaps. His hands tense into fists. He is already losing sight of the calm emotions he feels being back in _his_ ship. His mind drifts to other things, like the gross smell of Kwei-Bezas nearby, and Nok Nok’s surprisingly fiery _n’dui-se._ The latter’s scent is one H’chak is unable to tell if it arouses him or repulses him. He decides to go with the former, preferring not to make more enemies than he already has. The Elite turns to Nok Nok and chirps to get her attention. _“I heard you encountered a bhu’ja on this ship?”_

The composed engineer freezes. H’chak cannot resist from clicking his mandibles together in amusement. He quiets when he tastes genuine fear in the air. His hairless brows rise, perplexed. The man waits for her to go on. She doesn’t.

 _“What did you see?”_ H’chak chirps.

 _“Did you not see the videos?”_ Is the engineer’s response.

 _“…Videos? What videos, Nok Nok?”_ H’chak asks. He begins to tap his foot, gradually growing impatient with how drawn out the conversation is.

Nok Nok turns to Kwei-Bezas. The latter holds up their hands and clicks sheepishly, _“So, so, uh, sei-I, ya know, I might’ve forgot to show everyone the—All the vids, uh—”_

 _“You are a respected engineer, Kwei-Bezas, but an awful individual.”_ Nok Nok snaps, the coldness returning to her vocals.

 _"You cjit—"_ H'chak is about to go off on the engineer when Nok Nok lifts a hand to silence him.

She nods at H’chak. _“—I will send them to you.”_

The Elite doesn’t know what to expect when the recording pops up. It is of Nok Nok’s bio-mask feed; the date indicates the feed was captured approximately three days prior to viewing. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow as he observes Nok Nok’s perspective of turning and facing the cockpit door. He watches her approach it in the video, open it, and look at the lift. The man’s four hearts feel like they come to a crashing halt when he hears a disturbingly familiar voice call out his name.

“H’chak… H’chak… H’chak…” The voice in the recording says.

 _“Did anyone search this ship? Did anyone tamper with cjit?!”_ He spins on his heels and roars at Kwei-Bezas and Nok Nok alike. The man’s hearts race, pulse pounding wildly in his head. He cannot process the exact emotions interwoven in his chest, but he knows what it means. He _knows_ and he hopes and he _prays_ to every Paya he can he is right. H’chak growls loudly when neither Yautja answer him. He bolts for the cockpit door, throws it open when it doesn’t open fast enough, and makes a leap for the lift. Being dropped from the upper to lower floor gives him a headache. He doesn’t care. He sees the _kehrite_ empty and runs through to the kitchen segment.

He comes to a sudden halt when he steps into a pile of hard tack wrappers. The Yautja balks and stares as the scent of gruel-colored hard tack wafts through his mask. He snaps his head left and right, vigorously counting the piles upon piles of hard tack wrappers. Someone has gone through seven-two packages of the tasteless tack, with a mess of crumbs scattered across the metal floor. H’chak stands still as stone a long second. He strains trying to pick up on the smells permeating the room, but the endless hard tack packages overwhelm him. He grits his teeth and listens for outside noise, but his hearts race too wildly in his chest for him to hear anything else.

He is about to move on, to check the lower cargo hold, already crossing the length of the room and extending his palm to the circular door, when he hears a distinct breath. An _exhale_ , quiet and subdued. The Elite resists the urge to extend his _dah’kte_ when he turns around. At first glance, there is nothing but hard tack wrappers, crumbs, and metal shelves, counters, and stools slowly accumulating dust. The Yautja pauses and eyes one of the larger cabinets. He drops to a crouch and approaches it. The smell of hard tack grows stronger.

The metal cabinet is covered by a sheen of white alloy. He double-checks the inscriptions on the side of the cabinet, confirming it is one of the few capable of sliding into the wall of the kitchen unit to provide more space when not in use. His hands shake when he lifts them to the handle of the cabinet door. He trembles as he pulls it open and peeks around the door. The sight takes him aback.

Piles upon piles of partially chewed hard tack riddle the inside, with wrappers and crumbs everywhere. The mess would normally aggravate his need to keep his space _clean,_ but when the dozing figure breathes again, the man falls apart. The Elite’s eyes water behind his mask. His teeth clench. He is not certain if it is a dream or a nightmare, but the rational side of his brain tells him it simply isn’t possible. He knows she is gone. She’s _dead._ The other Vekin killed her on Terra.

The dozing figure suddenly sits up, eyes blinking slowly. There are no pupils or irises or sclera to judge where the ocular organs look, but the Yautja can _feel_ the clear gaze slowly move up his form. He freezes when the feeling stops at his face, mirrored by how the silver figure’s head tilts up at him.

“H’chak?”

 _“Hi,”_ he clicks once, soft.

The Vekin’s lips tug up in a sleepy smile. “I’m hungry.”

“ _Sei-i.”_ The man begins to shake. _“Me too.”_

His hands reach for her, unable to hold back any longer. The Vekin feels cool to the touch when he plucks her from the cabinet and sits with her in his lap. She is smaller than he remembers. Shorter, by at least three inches. She weighs less. The muscle definition is lacking. Her physical composition is incredibly weak, and the man has no clue how she is there at all. He can barely think with her against his chest, leaning into his touch, relaxing in his arms. Not even the heat which had spurred his body to feel like _fire_ the same day cycle can distract him from the mess of emotions milling through his head.

He cannot wrench his mask off face enough, ignoring the scent of hard tack and leaning down to inhale her. She is not the same as before. He sees why when he identifies her outfit as something Louanne Garcia bought when shopping with Ivon in Chile. The Vekin has consumed the remains of the deceased woman, along with most of his hard tack rations. When he thinks of the circumstances to provoke the creation of a new body, when he recalls the time the Vekin’s head _exploded_ in the research facility, chills rake his body. He shudders violently and draws the quiet entity closer. He doesn’t stop until she presses against him and looks up. The shapes her outline makes in his thermal vision is almost as fascinating as she is. 

“Please do not be sad.” The Vekin mumbles against him. 

He continues to shake even as he puts his bio-mask back on. It is one of _Adjutant Guan_ ’s spares, lacking in the universal translator. He hopes she can understand him regardless. He doesn’t know what she can or cannot do. Part of H’chak fears to find out, that letting her go might entail waking up from the bizarre dream unfolding around him.

Thin strands of _something_ fall against his mesh suit and armor. H’chak blinks slowly and activates the optical system in his bio-mask. He stares in silent bewilderment at the mess of white hair. It takes him a moment to shift how he holds her so he can lift his hand to her head. Sundew stares as the Yautja tentatively touches the hair with one clawtip.

“This is,” it horrifies him to hear her strained words. “It belongs to Annie. Because of Annie. She is with Muppet now. She… They are gone. I am not.”

H’chak does not understand a word she says. He knows the words, but the meaning is beyond him, save for the implication of Louanne Garcia’s body serving as the foundation for Sundew’s current physical composition. The Yautja stiffly nods. He holds off on speaking, afraid to wake up. His mind cannot make sense of what is or is not part of the dream anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell. Reality is a mess of wet eyes and clenched teeth and him, a mess, but a mess with her. He instinctively pulls her tight against him again. The woman rests her head on his chest. Her hands trace shapes over the Yautja’s bodysuit, slow and serene.

He tries to think of what he would do if it weren’t a dream. The man grits his teeth. He nuzzles her head with the surface of his mask, unable to care when the white strands of hair become a mess in the process. H’chak can smell more of her, but the scent is still so _weak_.

 _Would my thwei help?_ The thought swims into his mind. H’chak stills. He is healthy enough to give a decent dollop of blood. He knows she will copy the memories within it, draining them from his cells like a vampire bat does its prey. He knows there are cases of Yautja blood enhancing the physical states of other lifeforms. He _knows_ she adores him, every bit of him, as indulgent in the taste of his blood as she is in his eyes.

He clicks to get her attention. The Elite is suddenly aware he has no idea if she understands him or simply rambles off words in response to his chirps and trills. He sits her up and draws his arms back long enough to pull the collar of his mesh bodysuit down and expose his collarbone. The Yautja continues to click as he gouges a deep gash into his flesh using one claw. Bright green blood begins to pour out, lighting up the dim kitchen unit.

Sundew tilts her head to one side, watching everything.

 _Good._ H’chak feels pleased by the gesture. _“Drink.”_

“Are you sure?” The Vekin asks him in a wavering, tentative volume.

The Yautja nods quickly. He holds still when the Vekin slowly—too slowly, far too slowly, he needs to remedy that faster—rises against his chest. Her physical composition is unbearably small, prompting thoughts of _small, frail, small, frail_ to run through his head. H’chak grits his teeth when he feels her lips press against the injury.

This time is not pleasant. Though the man has always felt a sting of pain, he is not ready for how hard she grips his neck and her nails dig into his hide. H’chak growls lowly as the Vekin takes her fill, sapping more and more of the luminescent green blood from his body. It is not quick; he begins counting the time in his head. A minute cycle passes. Another minute cycle passes. He begins to question just how much she intends to take, when the Vekin draws back, satisfied. H’chak holds a hand to the wound until the blood begins clotting. He grimaces at the mess, a stain of bright green on both individuals and the floor.

“That is… much better,” Sundew imitates a person inhaling. She sounds more awake. Her cheeks have a faint glow of gray to them. She wraps her arms around his chest and presses her forehead against his chest. “Much better—It helps. Thank you.”

 _“Sun-Dew,”_ The Yautja remains hesitant saying her name, pressing her too deep, half-paranoid it is all still a dream yet to turn a nightmare. _“Do you understand me?”_

It takes another long minute cycle. The Vekin looks up before returning to flop against his chest. “I do not know everything you say. But—It is better than hearing only clicks and screeches.”

 _She didn’t before._ He feels relief the idea worked. The man lifts a hand to her head, idly playing with the white strands again with his claws. He does not know what to say. He forgoes words in favor of emitting a low rumble in his throat, feeling it reverberate through his chest. His orange eyes shut behind his mask as he revels in the feeling of her back in his arms, right where everything should be.

 _Cetanu, Black Hunter, if ever there is a time I come before you as a humble kv’var-de, it is now when I beg,_ his grip tightens. _Don’t let this be a dream._

He freezes when he hears surprised clicks come from the door connecting the kitchen unit to the _kehrite._ The door slides open; H’chak looks up and his eyes flicker between multiple optical lenses until he returns to his natural thermal sight and spies Kwei-Bezas looking on. The other Yautja’s arms are crossed. H’chak returns to viewing the world in a full spectrum of color when they approach.

 _“Well, Nok Nok, we found your bhu’ja!”_ Bezas trills over their shoulder at the _kehrite._ The blue figure of the other engineer appears in the open doorway.

Nok Nok visibly tenses at the sight of the Vekin in his arms. _His_ Vekin. _His_ mate. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow behind his mask.

 _“What is that?”_ The engineer sounds aghast. 

_“My mate.”_ H’chak snaps back immediately.

 _“Ah, great, another overbearing, protector type, pauk, guys are so predictable…”_ Kwei-Bezas shakes their head.

“Greetings,” Sundew tilts her head to one side. She is reluctant to move, but when H’chak rises to his feet and sets her on hers, she stays upright. “I am…” She trails off. The strange, thin white brows on her head furrow. “I am…”

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ Worry fills his chest as he finishes the sentence. His orange gaze returns to Sundew’s form. He clicks softly, _“What happened to you?”_

“I am not sure.” The woman’s neutral smile and stiff nod do nothing to quell the worry. “I am… not sure of a lot of things right now. I was hungry, but I am full now. I was Muppet, but now I am Annie. And… I am sorry, I am still hungry. I thought I could take enough to satisfy the hunger, but it appears I am hungrier than first anticipated.”

 _“Do you need more?”_ H’chak clicks, already shifting to grab the collar of his mesh suit and pull it down.

Sundew shakes her head. “If I took more—I do not know if I could stop.”

 _“Took more of what? Oh. Oh. Oh. Wow.”_ Kwei-Bezas stares at the bright green stains of drying Yautja blood across both guilty parties. _“What the pauk.”_

 _“Kwei-Bezas, Nok Nok, this is my mate—Sun-Dew.”_ H’chak clears his throat and begins chirping the introductions. _“Sun-Dew. These are… members of my clan. Gahn’tha-cte.”_ He remains tense throughout the long string of chirrups. The man remembers what he swore to do to ensure he could keep her as his mate.

“Hello. _Cue-Bee-Zeus._ _Knock-Knock.”_ Sundew nods politely.

 _“That’s not—Okay. Fine.”_ Bezas throws hands into the air. 

It occurs to H’chak Sundew does not react how he expects her to. She does not show hesitation or concern with interacting with Clan Gahn’tha-cte. His chest tightens. He does not know how much she does or does not remember, nor how much she may have lost permanently in the transition from one physical composition to another, but he intends to make it clear to members of Gahn’tha-cte exactly what the two are. He will not tolerate an inch of disrespect toward her. He will not let them call her prey. His orange eyes harden behind his mask; convincing _Adjutant Guan_ to pauk off is a problem he does not look forward to dealing with.

* * *

She is forced to retype the command after entering it incorrectly in her panic. The second time, the ship recognizes the authority as Adjutant and unlocks the door. She throws it open when it doesn’t open quick enough. The nurse repeats the command for the medical bay door. She grits her teeth as the medical bay door opens and reveals a disturbing scene.

A figure stands next to the metal table Ikthya-De previously sat on. They are covered in armor she does not recognize, of a color so dark it appears to absorb light itself. The technology is nothing she knows firsthand, not even what the woman has seen of _Gahn’tha-cte’s Military Force_. She stands in stunned silence as the intruder pauses where they stand, one hand holding Ikthya-De’s squirming form by the throat, before the intruder looks over their shoulder at her. The other Yautja’s helmet obscures any facial markings.

She is not equipped for a fight. She does not have armor on, her weapons are her _dah’kte_ , and the foe wears a full suit of body armor. Everything in her head _screams_ to turn and run away, but the nurse does not abandon her patients. Bist’ri’s green eyes narrow behind her bio-mask; her _dah’kte_ extends and she sprints forward, _“Put my patient down—!”_

A crack rings loudly when the intruder throws Ikthya-De at the medical pods. Two of the pods tip over from the impact, and the one containing the _ic’jit_ falls when Ikthya-De struggles to stand. The intruder spins on their heels and their _dah’kte_ extend in time to meet Bist’ri’s. Sparks fly as Bist’ri throws her body weight into forcing the intruder back against the table. The intruder ducks and throws Bist’ri’s _dah’kte_ off to the side, lurching away while she staggers and catches her balance. Bist’ri growls louder; the intruder says nothing.

 _“—Ikthya-De, get out—Find Guan,”_ Bist’ri roars at the woman. _“They’re after you!”_

 _“That’s the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na,”_ The woman hisses back. _“Death follows where they walk!”_

“ _And they want you—Stop pauking around,”_ Bist’ri’s words are cut off as the intruder tilts their head and taps something into their left _dah’kte._ The nurse hisses. _“I’m giving you an order as an Adjutant!”_

 _“Pauk,”_ Ikthya-De curses. She clutches the container holding her deceased pup to her chest and ducks along the side out of the medical bay.

Bist’ri moves herself to stand between the door and the intruder. She feels adrenaline licks her heels as she watches and waits for movement. She feels uneasy watching the Shadow do nothing. It feels almost like the Shadow waits for something. _For me to do something? For Ikthya-De to do something?_

 _“…An Adjutant.”_ The voice passes through a filter. _“Adjutant Bist’ri. The Adjutant Nurse of Gahn’tha-cte.”_

She can taste the fear. It is hers. She stays blocking the doorway regardless, refusing to budge even when the Shadow retracts their _dah’kte_ and pulls a deactivated _combistick_ off their back. The staff extends a second later, revealing dark alloy in the serrated curve of the spear’s ends.

 _“You are not my target.”_ The Shadow is on her in a second, bringing the combistick down with a speed unlike anything she’s seen before.

Bist’ri howls when her _dah’kte_ can’t parry; her body strains to push back but the momentum is too much and she slips. The combistick crashes past the gauntlet and slams into the left side of her collarbone. She drops as the Shadow pulls the spear back; Bist’ri ignores the spray of _thwei_ and tackles the Shadow’s mid-section. The two Yautja drop to the ground; she grapples the Shadow while green coats the two. Adrenaline holds off pain; she gets on top of the Yautja and forces their hands to the ground. She drags herself up enough to force a knee into the Yautja’s chest.

The Shadow goes limp against her grasp. Bist’ri’s weight and the force exerted pinning the Shadow’s wrists to the ground slack in her surprise. The Shadow throws her off and into one of the walls, filtered clicks voicing irritation as she slips in the mess to get up. Her left arm _screams_ with fiery pain. She gasps for air behind her bio-mask as a metal gauntlet encloses around her neck and lifts her into the air. Her _dah’kte_ slashes at the Shadow’s arms but they throw her across the medical bay and into the cargo hold door before she has a chance to stab at the body armor.

The door dents from impact. All air is forced from her lungs as she hacks and sputters. She looks up in time to see the Shadow retrieve their combistick. The intruder looks like an emissary of Cetanu when they stand upright and walk to her, towering over her form with a spear in one hand and her _thwei_ coating the other. She rolls to the side when the Shadow plunges it into the floor, but a hand catches her by the ankle when she attempts to scramble past. The Shadow flicks their wrist and slams the Adjutant against the cargo hold door. A terrible crack sounds and pain shoots through the nurse’s right hand.

She curses and curls up into a ball, clutching the broken bones and trying to calm her breathing. She can’t afford to panic. She will not let the asshole hurt her patients.

* * *

The stubbornness of _Gahn’tha-cte_ ’s Adjutant nurse begins to irritate the Shadow. Their clan did not expect Gahn’tha-cte to send two Adjutants on this assignment. Killing the Adjutant isn’t their primary objective, but she won’t leave, and they have done what they came here to do. All that remains is to burn the _Echinos_ of the poison’s evidence and escape. The Shadow clicks behind their helmet as they observe the Adjutant Nurse cussing them out from the floor. They restrain the bloodlust welling up inside their chest and finish entering the command to detonate the first set of plasma charges.

The living quarters of the _Echinos_ explodes in blue light. The Shadow turns away to avoid looking as the plasma charges go off and the shockwave thunders. It is quick, contained, _precise,_ and exactly what they need to ensure no trace of Ka’Torag-Na’s involvement remains. The charges are not strong enough to flatten the entirety of the _Echinos,_ but the flames left behind after are already spreading; the damage will render the ship inoperable even if put out. In the distance, the Shadow hears sirens go off as the space station picks up on the smoke and heat. Time for an escape is running out.

The Shadow grits their teeth and looks at the medical pods splayed across the floor of the room. They identify the individual hanging halfway out of the pod as _Vayuh’ta._ Maelstrom. She lives; Gahn’tha-cte’s actions are playing to the tune of the matriarch’s lute.

The Shadow tilts their head to one side as their attention shifts to the Adjutant on the floor. She has backed away where she lay previously; they easily track the trail of _thwei_ to the medical pods. The Adjutant Nurse slowly rises and pants.

 _“Stubborn.”_ The Shadow clicks, helmet filtering their voice automatically.

 _“Most nurses are. Live by the medical bay, die by the medical bay. Leave no patient behind.”_ The Adjutant snaps. The fear in the air is gone, but it is clear her injuries are overwhelming her. The woman’s lack of protection against the shockwave is punishing; the Shadow sees her shake in pain and struggle to hold herself up. Her resilience to this point is commendable, but they tire of futile efforts. They have other things to do.

The Shadow shakes their combistick free of _thwei._

They face the Adjutant and click their decision, _“Then die.”_


	49. hungry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little shorter but I hope all of you lovely people still enjoy it. Thank you to everyone who's been following along this adventure. ^_^!!  
> It means the world!! 
> 
> Almost done with this side arc. The arcs left afterward are the Gahn'tha-cte arc, the Ka'Torag-Na arc, and the Saturn epilogue. Slowly but surely... I'll get there. :D

The shockwave is felt through the ship. Instinctively, H’chak wraps Sundew in his arms. He sees Kwei-Bezas stagger and catch their balance. Nok Nok looks from one to the next, silent. The _Kukulkan_ shakes as the shockwave passes through. Sundew grabs hold of H’chak. He looks down at her.

 _“Are you okay?”_ He clicks quickly.

“I am hungry.” She mumbles against him. A second later, the Vekin begins to squirm and H’chak releases her. He watches her teeter back to the cabinet she previously napped in, open it, and grab remaining chunks of hard tack. Sundew aggressively begins to eat, quickly munching through one and then another.

 _“I cannot activate a communications line,”_ Nok Nok chirps. She turns to Kwei-Bezas. _“Did you do something to the lines?”_

 _“Me?”_ Kwei-Bezas sounds offended. _“Really? Really?”_

 _“Answer the question. You were the last one to use it.”_ Nok Nok’s chirp is less indifferent versus pissed.

 _“What—No! What the pauk, c’mon, Nok Nok, I ain’t that fucking big a prick, even if I like ‘em,”_ the Yautja clacks their mandibles together behind their mask, the chortles loud and off-putting. Bezas pauses and straightens upright. _“Oh—Wait. I forgot. Adjutant Bist’ri activated a line with me a moment ago. It ended weirdly. I just thought she was bein’ rude. Fancy that.”_

_“Fancy that?”_

_“It’s an ooman expression, Nok Nok.”_ Bezas grunts.

 _“The lines are down, then. Pauk.”_ H’chak grits his teeth. He calms his nerves, looks at Sundew, and blinks when she turns back to him with her arms piled with unopened packages of hard tack.

“I am going to eat these.” Sundew nods.

 _“Sun-Dew,”_ H’chak clicks to get her attention. He notes it takes several seconds for her to look at him.

 _Pauk, she is still… She needs more rest._ The Elite thinks. His hands tense at his side. _I don’t want to leave her here. But outside… Can I trust these two to protect her?_ He snaps his head back at Nok Nok and Bezas, orange eyes narrowing behind his bio-mask. _One is… S’yuit-de. One is… Apathetic._

“H’chak?” Sundew tilts her head to one side. She frowns at him. “Did you want one?” She extends one of the unopened packages to him.

The Elite pauses and glances at her. He shakes his head. _“M-di. They are yours. Everything on this ship—What is mine is yours, Sun-Dew. Eat your fill—Do not eat the ship.”_

“I would not eat this ship,” the Vekin says, but she smiles now, picking up on his jest. “The _Kukulkan_ is a beautiful ship. I want to keep traveling on it with you until I… I…” Sundew trails off. She blinks and quiets, saying nothing more but looking like she should have more to add to the statement.

 _“You need to rest.”_ H’chak clicks. He glances at the two engineers. _“Nok Nok, Bezas. What do you intend to do?”_

Nok Nok chirps _, “Our orders are to stay on the ship until Gry’Sui-bpe-de and Adjutant Guan arrive. Kwei-Bezas, given your lack of subordinance, it is advisable you refrain from taking unnecessary actions conflicting with your orders.”_

 _“Aw. For a moment it sounded like ya were concerned for lil ol’ me.”_ Bezas trills in delight, nodding vigorously. 

Nok Nok ignores them and turns to H’chak. _“You are under the same orders as us, M-di-H’chak. Until the two arrive or word comes in, we are not to leave the Kukulkan.”_

H’chak grits his teeth. He _despises_ the idea of taking orders from _Adjutant Guan._ He hates the man’s influence and authority. He stills when Sundew returns to his side and leans her head against his arm. The act is distracting, enough to quell the bitterness he feels toward the Adjutant. The Elite relaxes and nods. _“Nok Nok, Kwei-Bezas the medical bay on the first floor—Any supplies left should be prepped in event someone’s been injured.”_

 _“This is my first time here.”_ Bezas growls.

Nok Nok clicks at H’chak. _“—I have not taken inventory. The bhu’ja—”_ Nok Nok gestures at Sundew. _“—Kept me occupied.”_

 _“Oh! Oh, let me help ya,”_ the Yautja follows Nok Nok when she walks back to the _kehrite_ ’s lift. _“This could be a great bonding moment for ya and I, eh? Yah? Ya want to hear some ooman jokes while we work?”_

_“Shut up.”_

H’chak turns back to Sundew while the two bickering trills fade. He pauses. _“I should help them. In event your ooman companions or Vayuh’ta are injured—"_

“Jo. Jo and Ivon.” Sundew says the names as if seeing light for the first time. Her clear eyes widen. She drops the packages of hard tack and grabs hold of his arm. “Are they alright? There was—GHOST—She—Are they okay now? Are they on Earth? Are they here? Where are they? And V… V…” She cannot pronounce Vayuh’ta’s name. The woman bites her lip. “Maelstrom. Is Maelstrom here? Is she okay?”

 _“They’re traveling with us—But—It’s—”_ H’chak exhales into his mask. He wraps arms around the Vekin and pulls her tight against his chest. _“Things have become very complicated. My clan is involved. I will do what I can to keep them all safe—But I cannot guarantee anything.”_

“I only understood half those words.” The Vekin sounds distraught. When she looks up, H’chak takes the opportunity to lift his hand and slowly caress her cheek. Her flesh feels soft and cool under his clawed fingers; _perfect._

 _“You’ll learn in time,”_ H’chak clicks softly. _“I’ll teach you again. Everything.”_

“I would like that.” The warmth of her smile is equal to the heat in his face when she beams at him.

* * *

 _“—Gry’Sui, set up a communications line with the Echinos, I’ll—”_ The station shakes, interrupting the Adjutant’s words.

Gry’Sui barely keeps his balance. Other station patrons further back are not so lucky, tripping or stumbling from the impact of the shockwave. Drinks hit the ground, the music halts in the club nearby, and the crowd falls silent. Gry’Sui snaps his head up; his black eyes widen in horror at smoke and flames rising from the _Echinos._ Sirens begin howling and shrieking throughout the station.

 _“M-di, m-di—”_ Gry’Sui hears the Adjutant exclaim before Guan takes off in a running leap.

Fiona curses them both out as the Elite follows his leader. Smoke continues to rise from the _Echinos_ while the two head for the other end of the docking bay. Gry’Sui catches up with Guan several hundred yards out from the ship, where a crowd of concerned onlookers have gathered around shaking, bawling figures. Ikthya-De sits on the edge of the crowd, saying nothing but clutching a container to her chest.

The scent of _lav'a-da_ fills the Elite’s head.

He hears the Adjutant say something, but he is too busy shoving aside others to get to the center of the crowd. There, with other aliens watching on, the ooman who smells too much like flowers is attempting to comfort the second ooman at her side. Gry’Sui has no idea what either say, but the pasty white ooman blabs and weeps loudly while the _lav'a-da_ ooman utters soothing noises.

If the situation were anything else, Gry’Sui knows he might have taken the time to interrogate why _he_ finds an ooman soothing. His hands tense into fists as he stares at the two oomans. A second later, the Adjutant pushes patrons aside and curses at the sight of the two oomans. Adjutant Guan spins around and looks across the docking bay. There is a noticeable waft of fear rising from his body.

 _“—Where is she? Where’s Bist’ri!?”_ The Adjutant howls and shoves his way back to Ikthya-De. Gry’Sui follows, but both halt when the sirens increase in pitch across the station.

The smoke rising from the _Echinos_ mingles with flames. Long cylindrical barrels slowly lower from the ceiling, connected to an array of wires and cables running into the docking bay ceiling. Lights on the side of the turrets flash briefly before the barrels shift and move with a mechanical groan to face the _Echinos._ Gry’Sui’s eyes widen as the turrets begin spraying a thick black foam across the ship. He balks at how quickly the foam begins to build upon itself, coating the upper half of the ship’s hull.

 _“Ikthya-De—Ikthya-De! Where is Bist’ri? Why isn’t the nurse with you? She doesn’t—Bist’ri doesn’t abandon her patients!”_ Adjutant Guan kneels next to the silent woman and grabs her by the shoulders. The panic in the man’s clicks is clear; Gry’Sui hears the desperation grow as Guan begins to curse endlessly. The fear encroaches even the scent of _lav'a-da_ milling around his head, overtaking all odors and taking him aback. He had suspicions, but the Elite hoped they were unfounded—Yet when the Adjutant rises and takes off toward the ship, Gry’Sui is quick to intercept him, tackling him from the side mid-leap and sending the two rolling over one another and themselves across the metal floor.

He hears Guan curse at him and rise. Gry’Sui growls and leaps to his feet, no hesitation stalking forward and ducking the Adjutant’s swing. The Brawler has not challenged the man’s title out of _respect,_ not skill, and with the Adjutant’s heightened emotional state, the match is one-sided. Gry’Sui catches one of the man’s fists mid-air and pulls it _toward_ him. He wraps his arms around the man’s torso and throws both to the ground. Guan chokes and sputters from the impact; Gry’Sui takes the lapse in movement to pin his arms to his sides with the weight of his legs.

 _“Gry’Sui-bpe-de! I am ordering you as your Adjutant to release me—”_ The Adjutant writhes and howls against him.

Gry’Sui clicks harshly. _“—You aren’t going to reach the ship. The foam will bring you the final rest long before the fire.”_

_“Bist’ri—The Adjutant nurse is still in there!”_

_“We don’t know that—”_

_“She wouldn’t abandon her patients—The ic’jit—Vayuh’ta—Is still one of hers—"_ The man bellows and begins a new string of curses.

Gry’Sui grits his teeth. He does not let the Adjutant go until Guan falls quiet, stops struggling, and begins to shake. Only then does the Elite release him and stand, though he remains close enough to grab him again if necessary. Guan sits up, but he does not stand. The Adjutant holds his head in his hands. Gry’Sui looks away. _“Adjutant—”_

 _“She’s going to die!”_ The man hisses. _“She’s going to die and I—Can’t—Stop—It—”_ Guan throws his head back and roars at the docking bay, prolonged and full of frustration directed at himself. _“What kind of Adjutant am I if I can’t protect those I care about? What kind of man? I’m no one! I’m nothing!”_

Gry’Sui’s black gaze hardens as he watches the man cease words and begin to weep. The bio-mask hides the evidence, but Gry’Sui can smell the mucus and salt in the air. He fights a sting of jealousy. It is petty to feel jealous over how the Adjutant nurse took to Guan’s side and aid. He does not understand how the Adjutant could draw her back to him time and time again. Gry’Sui wanted that. Gry’Sui wanted _her_. The nurse rejected him and gravitated toward the other Adjutant like the two were opposing magnets seeking each other out.

The Elite tenses as the thoughts flow through him, as shameful as they are jealous in nature. He will not let pettiness influence his actions as an honorable man. Gry’Sui inhales softly before he clicks at Guan, _“You have my… condolences. For your loss, Adjutant Guan. I know the other Adjutant meant a great deal to you.”_

Adjutant Guan falls silent. He climbs to his feet.

 _“I won’t,”_ Gry’Sui clenches his teeth briefly. He swallows his pride. _“I will not judge you if you—If you mourn her—the way a mate would.”_

_“We were not—”_

_“I will not judge you, Adjutant.”_ The Elite reiterates.

Both men freeze at the rumble of a distant explosion. The two watch as the Echinos’ front hull flashes with blue light before concaving in bits and pieces on itself, the debris mingling with flames and smoke.

Gry’Sui shudders. _“Plasma charges.”_

 _“Ka’Torag-Na sends its Shadow out with military-grade plasma,”_ Guan utters in disgust.

The shockwave hits a moment late, knocking both men flat to the metal floor. Gry’Sui’s head rings as he struggles to his feet. He sees the Adjutant stagger and stand just as footsteps come pounding across the metal floor toward both Yautja. Fiona howls at the two, “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You don’t run at a burning spacecraft! The blast shield’s about to drop! This parking zone will be sealed off—"

 _“Pauk, Adjutant—Adjutant Guan! We have to go!”_ Gry’Sui clicks.

For a moment, the Elite thinks he may have to drag the Adjutant away by force. He feels relief when the Adjutant nods at him and follows the direction Fiona is already running back to, toward the crowd of onlookers. Gry’Sui-bpe-de offers a prayer to those inside the _Echinos_ before he takes off in leaps and bounds after his leader.

* * *

 _“Stubborn.”_ The voice of the Shadow is a terrifying one, augmented and distorted through complex filters built into the Yautja’s helmet. It is in line with Ka’Torag-Na’s mode of operations: dissonant and detached.

Those who lurk in the darkness are a weird bunch. She finds irony in how _her_ pride feels insulted at the fact. Yet when she rises from the mess of dark liquid spilled across the floor, her silence and focus is telling. Her origins are obfuscated in the darkness, lost among the shadows, lurking with the clan she spent hundreds of cycles defending and upholding. There is a strange ping of delight at seeing her former mentor in the flesh. The fact she is not dead is key to discerning their motivations; if the Shadow wanted their former ally dead, she would have met the Black Hunter.

The Shadow is toying. Perhaps carrying out an act of _mercy_ in not deliberately sniping the lot with the plasmacaster and plasma guns hidden within their armor.

 _“Most nurses are.”_ The nurse in front of her is a younger Yautja, perhaps two-zero-zero cycles, maybe a little less. _“—Live by the medical bay. Die by the medical bay. Leave no patient behind.”_

 _What a load of cjit._ Vayuh’ta is silent as she pulls herself up. _They weren’t trying to kill you, s’yuit-de. You seek the final rest?_

She has only vague memories to go off from the past day cycles. Some are heinous, recollections of her unable to move or speak while the nurse plucks needles from her flesh. Others are only glimpses into the medical pod the Yautja of the ship put her into. She does not know where she is or who she is with, but she understands the Yautja in front of her has saved her life. Vayuh’ta does not have patience for the nurse’s asinine adamance, but she is an honorable woman. She knows Dto-Bhu’ja will murder the nurse where she stands if she doesn’t act.

_“Then die.”_

Vayuh’ta leaps forward. Pain shoots through her damaged nerves across her backside, and her limbs cramp and _ache_ , but she crashes into the nurse’s back and wraps herself around the woman like a bear in a tree. The nurse yelps in surprise and staggers to the ground. Vayuh’ta uses her left arm to wrench the nurse’s arm with the _dah’kte_ back while she attempts to pin the woman’s right to her torso and _not_ fall off at the same time. The amount of _thwei_ coating the nurse spells ill.

 _“There’s sedatives somewhere—Get them!”_ Vayuh’ta barks at her former mentor. Her orange eyes blaze in anger when the Shadow stands idle. _“You didn’t come here for a massacre, Shadow.”_

 _“I did not think you were awake.”_ The Shadow lowers their combistick and strides idly to a cabinet protruding from the far wall. Flames lick and dance at the medical bay door where the charges detonated. Smoke begins filling the room. Sirens continue in the distance.

 _“What the pauk are you doing?!”_ The nurse growls at Vayuh’ta. _“Get—Get off me! Get off, get off, get off—"_

 _“By Cetanu, you talk a lot,”_ the _ic’jit_ clicks, agitated. _“Shut up and stay still before I change my mind.”_

She tastes fear in the air. It surprises her, but not enough for Vayuh’ta to loosen her grip on the woman, not even when the nurse attempts to body check her into the wall. Vayuh’ta curses in pain. Her anger hits a tipping point; the _damn nurse_ knows cjit about how the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na acts! Vayuh’ta spreads her mandibles and bites down into the nurse’s shoulder. She ignores the roar of pain and draws back. The fear permeates the air now, drowning out the sickly seaweed _n’dui-se_ of the nurse and the—she doesn’t even know—coming from the Shadow.

But the nurse stills, shaking and quivering like a Suckling seeing death the first time. Vayuh’ta lets go but twists the nurse’s arm with the _dah’kte_ behind her back. She stays clear of the _dah’kte_ blades while unstrapping and ripping the gauntlet off.

The smoke grows thicker.

Vayuh’ta ignores the nurse as the latter begins to hyperventilate, audible even through the woman’s bio-mask. She releases the unarmed woman but reaches for the bio-mask. The nurse pleads with her not to, but Vayuh’ta rips the bio-mask from her face. She puts it over her own and grimaces as the mask's sensors dig through her flesh. She relaxes when the optical system adjusts to a full spectrum of color. She makes out the smoke pouring in and shouts at the side, _“If you intend to leave, Shadow, now’s the time.”_

She catches the case of syringes when they toss it at her. The Shadow’s face is concealed, but there is no denying the soft note in her mentor’s clicks when they respond, _“You are right, Vayuh’ta. I did not come here for a massacre.”_

 _“I know I'm right."_ The _ic’jit_ growls, but she feels a degree of satisfaction in hearing her old mentor validate her judgement. She notes the nurse at her side has begun to shake and mumble incoherent things under her breath. Vayuh’ta grabs one of the syringes. It is part of a field kit, with certain syringes already full of drugs in varying blue hues and intensities.

She takes care to grab a syringe of _dark_ blue liquid; the last thing Vayuh’ta needs is a nurse full of serum attempting to strong-arm her way past the Shadow. She jams a needle into the bleeding nurse’s body and injects the syringe’s contents. The shaking nurse writhes briefly before slumping, unconscious.

 _“You push your luck, Vayuh’ta.”_ The Shadow warns. _“One day the matriarch will order me to take your head.”_

 _“That day is not today.”_ She clicks.

_“But it will come. I will not hesitate to cut you down. I expect the same of you for me when we meet in battle.”_

_“You know I didn’t murder Kiande, Dto.”_

_“I am sworn to obey the residing leader of Ka’Torag-Na. What I know is irrelevant to the orders I receive.”_ The Shadow turns away and taps an input into their augmented _dah’kte_ ’s computer. Their plasmacaster rises from the armor’s right pauldron with a hiss and aims, firing a blast of blue energy over and over until it cuts through the wall of the ship. Outside, she sees black foam falling everywhere.

She doesn’t know where the ship is, but she doesn’t want to walk through the foam. If it is what she thinks it is, then the slightest contact could make her extremely sick, minimum. The chemicals necessary to suppress the chemical and plasma fires of spacecraft are incredibly toxic to bare skin. Even a Yautja’s pelt won’t hold up against the most common of anti-fire suppressant.

 _“Vayuh’ta,”_ Dto stands at the gaping hole blasted through the hull. _“The second set of charges are primed to detonate in two minute cycles. The third—Two minute cycles after. I advise you remove yourself before the third set detonates; the blast shields of the station will drop and seal the area.”_

 _“Pauk, why can’t you try non plasma weaponry for a change?”_ Vayuh’ta curses. She throws the unconscious nurse over one shoulder, grabs the field kit of drugs, and runs for the door not blocked by spreading flames. The _ic’jit_ doesn’t know where, but she hopes for escape pods. _Cetanu damn any spacecraft useless enough to lack escape pods!_

Her stolen bio-mask cycles in clean air while smoke fills what appears to be a cargo hold. Vayuh’ta grits her teeth and drops the drugged nurse and field kit to begin moving aside broken pellets and containers. She spots the gleam of metal on the far side of the cargo hold. The _ic’jit_ backtracks just as the cargo hold floods with brilliant blue light. As the light fades, an explosion rumbles in another part of the ship. Vayuh’ta is thrown off her feet as a second shockwave rolls through her and the cargo hold. The smoke _pours_ in droves and fills the room.

Vayuh’ta groans; her head rings in pain. She staggers to her feet and picks up the unconscious nurse nearby. The woman takes the nurse to the escape pod before remembering the field kit; she growls and navigates the mess of shelves and crates back to where the case of medicine sits on the floor.

She is disoriented, but not enough to lose track of her current objective. She pulls the escape pod open and shoves the nurse inside. Vayuh’ta climbs in with the field case and locks the nurse into one seat. She shuts the escape pod door, sits, and activates it. As the engines of the pod kick up and it prepares to eject, Vayuh’ta fumbles with the case. She grips the syringe of light blue serum in one hand and steadies the unconscious nurse with the other, eying the bite mark left on the woman’s shoulder.

The roar of the pod engines mixes with the _screams_ following the injection. Vayuh’ta loses her grip on the syringe. The syringe and field kit fly across the escape pod and smash open, spraying the nurse and herself in a mixture of serum and sedative. Her body howls in pain before the sedative kicks in and she passes out.


	50. raw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut is coming up in the /next/ couple of chapters. hold unto your Smut Confetti, everyone!!!! I've been waiting so many chapters for a bunch of side ships to get their ship together (ha) AND IT'S HAPPENING!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> This chapter takes place 14 days following the events at the Chickpea Night Walk Station.
> 
> TW:  
> -murder  
> -mention of self harm

The _Kukulkan._ A beautiful behemoth of a ship with three segmented fuselage parts and a shimmering, iridescent triage of outer panels perceived as vibrant blue, red, and green. They don’t know when they started to look at it as _home_.

Maybe it was after they escaped with the clothes on their back from the research facility, narrowly avoiding a nuclear death that led to one-hundred-thirty-thousand casualties. Maybe it was the time they made friends with an alien huntress who took up the habit of watching them work. Maybe it was when they reached the point of throwing a birthday party for one of the other humans, of viewing the two—now one—humans in their life as enough of a friend to care about celebrations. Ivon Yurvchik doesn’t know, and that’s okay. Right now, they feel content to simply call the serpentine ship _home_.

In the two weeks’ time since the incident at the space station, the electrician has restarted their prescriptions. There is enough medication left for another month, at which point they hope Mercy’s clan will assist them in obtaining more. Being on and off their medicines is a grueling experience. They cannot speak of the humiliation they felt having a panic attack in the middle of a group of extraterrestrials. Jo’s presence at their side helped, but the electrician cannot fathom repeating the experience.

It doesn’t help the two _engineer_ Yautja won’t stop hounding them. Ivon doesn’t understand their fascination, but rarely do the cobalt blue Yautja or the Yautja with washed out, graying yellow scales leave them alone. They constantly bring them tiny bits and bobs of the debris salvaged from the remains of the _Echinos_. Sometimes, the two engineers break their own equipment and hand it to them to work on, only to click with laughter—or an alien variation of applause—when they successfully repair the device. If not for Maelstrom constantly sitting at their side, Ivon doubts the two Yautja would leave at all.

Maelstrom’s presence is a wonderful thing. To see her up, moving, _alive_ , it fills their beating heart with a heat they cannot pick apart, not that they want to. After going through captivity at the hands of Stargazer Corporation, after believing they would never see the huntress alive again, Ivon feels more secure in where they stand with her. They do not know how to express it nor what to expect, but they have a better understanding of how _they_ feel.

Presently, the blond-haired human sits on the floor of the _kehrite_ while they work, with the dusky, coal-gray huntress next to them observing. The room is quiet, absent of the lighter blue Yautja who has been coming here to train over the past ten days, and of the two engineer Yautja. 

Since Maelstrom was first dragged out of a pod in the space station, unconscious but alive, Ivon has not said more than small talk. It is a result of their own fumbling anxieties and their capacity to flub words and sentences. They want to speak, but they know she likes the silence, and they know their heart races a little too quickly whenever they think about _what_ they want to speak about.

 _The conversation in South America. Right before… Right before…_ Ivon feels the heat spike in their face again. Their hands shake trying to hold a pair of human pliers still against pieces of metal and split cables. The person swallows nervously and glances over their shoulder. The visor of the huntress’ mask greets them, Ivon musters a flimsy smile and nod before returning to their work. _Before she and Mercy were captured. Before… Before Louanne died._

The exact words they mumbled were, _‘I like your eyes. I like you.’_

And then they went and denied the authenticity of their words. Ivon winces internally.

The memory of waking up at her side after Jo’s party, clawtips in their long blond hair, it does something to the electrician. It gives them a deep ache across their abdomen. It makes them feel hot and clammy in a way that isn’t entirely uncomfortable. They take deep breaths through their nose to calm down, only to inhale the glorious aroma of rain over a campground. Ivon’s chest tightens and their heart pounds in their head as they think about what it would be like to be stuck with Maelstrom in a tent, together, the two alone and sharing a bed and blanket and _touching_ …

They hear the huntress nearby pause. Ivon clams up. They know she doesn’t have a nose, but they can’t remember if Yautja can smell panic. _Fear,_ yes, but they are not afraid right now. They are nervous: a ball of anxious nerves attempting to find a sliver of courage in their stomach. Once more, the question rings in their head, _how do you court a giant, muscular huntress? What do you do? Say? Give? Is sex even possible? Mercy and Sundew seem happy but—Sundew’s not a human!_

Their groin throbs. They shift the way they sit and pray the loincloth can keep the evidence of their arousal out of sight.

 _God,_ it hurts to ignore. Ivon concentrates on watching their fingers. They try and note the way their hands instinctively move, dancing across cables and wires as if guided by an invisible force rather than randomly picking.

Until someone takes their hand. Maelstrom’s skin feels raised and scale-like when her hand reaches around their torso and she grabs their hand. Ivon feels their face flush deep red; they balk and sputter in surprise. They can barely think as the huntress coaxes their fingers from three electrical wires to one thick, braided chord of wires. Maelstrom clicks, seemingly satisfied, and draws her hand back. The gorgeous texture of her hand leaves, but her hand accidentally brushes their hip as she moves away.

“Áh,” Ivon cannot hide their shudder or breathless moan.

They drop the device they are working on and clamp hands over their mouth. Ivon feels the heat simmer inside their chest. They hear nothing from Maelstrom besides the shifting of the alien’s mesh bodysuit as Maelstrom moves up to sit directly next to them. Ivon rakes their mind for an excuse or explanation. All that comes out is a weak, _“Sorry._ I. Sorry. Maelstrom. I was—I just—Startled. You startled me. Sorry.”

The masked alien tilts her head to one side and clicks softly. They don’t understand what she clicks at them, but it does not sound angry.

“Well, that’s a—That’s a step into an awkward conversation.” The electrician laughs nervously. They rub the back of their head, their mop of long blond hair now past their chin. “Do—Do you understand me? With that mask?” They get a click in reply. “I don’t… Is that a yes?” When the same click falls on confused ears, the Yautja lifts a hand and makes the thumbs-up symbol. “Oh. Oh. Good, good. Um. Where do I begin…” Ivon trails off.

They begin to fidget in place. It would be easier if the two were _alone_ , but acknowledging the fact leads to the other problems impeding their ability to think: the presence of a tall, muscular amber Yautja with stacks of metal armor and long red locs with an unusual double-twist opposed to the single twist style Ivon has seen on most of the others. The sentinel stands by the lift, silent and reeking faintly of burnt pork. Ivon’s stomach churns with nausea as they shrink in their seat and inches closer to the huntress at their side.

“Actually… Um… This isn’t… Maybe this isn’t the best place for a conversation,” the person mumbles. “I—I think—The topic—Is better—Not here. Alone. _Alone._ Yeah.”

If Maelstrom laughs at their confession, they want the privacy of closed doors to hide their shame. To Ivon’s surprise—and relief—the huntress snaps her head at the amber Yautja standing guard and trills curtly at him. The guard growls in response. Maelstrom rises to her feet and crosses her arms. Ivon notes the huntress lacks in armor and weapons, whereas the guard is donned in armor and has two massive Gauntlet Knives on his person. The two Yautja go back and forth a moment before the huntress grits her teeth and plops down next to Ivon. She grunts at them, but they have no idea what it means.

The guard doesn’t leave. Ivon bites their lip. _What do I do? Do I hope the guard doesn’t speak English? I mean, Maelstrom understands me. Kind of. But… But… But I have no way of knowing about this other Yautja._ Ivon refrains from giving the guard a nickname. While Jo tends to do so, and while they have done so in the past, they no longer feel comfortable assigning nicknames to aliens when they know each of the Yautja has their own name. Even if they cannot properly speak the name, they can call the Yautja by the name’s translation.

They don’t know what to do. To talk or resume working and pretend they didn’t break down sobbing thinking Maelstrom had died when the other ship went up in flames. Act as if they didn’t stay at her pod’s side the full day it took for her to stir in the medical bay.

 _No. I don’t want to mess things up further._ The person cringes internally. _But if I don’t… If I don’t say anything… Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Or—No. Fuck, Ivon, you already started the conversation!_

They hold their head in their hands.

* * *

_Cetanu._ The days have not been kind to her. Since coming to aboard the _Kukulkan,_ surrounded by strange Yautja, and learning she is now en route to be taken to Clan Gahn’tha-cte and handed over to Ka’Torag-Na, Vayuh’ta feels like a laughingstock of the Payas. She wants to curse and howl and rampage in fury, all separate from the deep, perforating lust burning her body.

She knew the time for the heat was close. She barely had a day awake before it arrived twelve-day cycles prior to today. It has drastically altered her willingness to be around others, the huntress now begrudgingly torn between homicidal tendencies and a desperate need to seek out a partner. Her body aches at all hours. She cannot relieve herself when the hulking amber guard, _Gry’Sui-bpe-de_ , refuses to _pauk_ off. The man is assigned to watch her every move, save when she must shower or piss. Even then, one of the other Yautja accompanies her and stand with their backs turned, with the individual often being the cobalt blue lady whose name reminds her of one of Ivon’s attempts at a _joke_.

_Ivon._

In what may be the most spectacular display of sheer irony, she finds the most alluring scent across the ship comes from them. Not one of the other Yautja, not even Gry’Sui-bpe-de, but _Ivon._ The ooman. The ooman who has strangely soft hair and drunkenly confessed to her. The ooman who not only drunkenly confessed but backtracked and admitted it was alcohol and not a genuine admission. _That_ ooman. The very one she has slowly come to know, to learn about, to hear bad jokes with, to teach about the intricacies of Yautja technology, and to be rendered speechless through the ooman’s touch and scent, the ripest and sweetest fruit she can imagine.

She does not know whether to pin them to the ground and request to ride them for days or back away and attempt to find solace in one of the Yautja. The former idea tempts her more than any of the Yautja. She does not think the others of her kind will let her retain the control she held during her days as a sirer. She does not want to be pinned to the floor, limp as a wet noodle and waiting for someone to finish in her. She wants to be in control, on top, alive and writhing, demanding every second be the most enthralling bliss a mating partner has ever experienced.

Not having a universal translator in the bio-mask she dons does not help. She cannot converse with Ivon outside hand gestures and the pitch of her clicks and trills.

By the Payas, by Cetanu himself, by the shadows of Ka’Torag-Na and the brutality of Gahn’tha-cte—She is losing sight of herself, lost in the fruity _n’dui-se_. She doubts Ivon realizes just how _pauking obvious_ their arousal is. She tastes every second of it with each breathe, tormenting her further and leaving her tense and ready to jump the person.

She wouldn’t, but she _wants_ to.

She _thinks_ she knows the conversation they want to have. It’s one which has been on her mind since waking up, since coming to terms with what’s gone on, since having H’chak quietly explain she is now a prisoner of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. Surprisingly, her inevitable fate executed at the hands of Ka’Torag-Na is not on her mind in favor of her rampant lust. She wants the ooman. She _wants_ the ooman. She wants the ooman and no one else, but she wants the ooman to want her, too. She needs to know the ooman has their sights set on _her_ , because if she is going to pauk an ooman then the ooman better be one who wants to worship every inch of her body.

 _Pauk._ Trying to sit still and not rip off clothes is aggravating. She understands why she hasn’t seen H’chak since waking up in the medical bay. The man claims to be teaching his mate the Yautja language _again_ , but the noises she occasionally hears through the walls of the first floor proves otherwise.

H’chak is lucky. _He_ has a mate. _He_ has someone to pauk into the next century cycle. She has a guard who won’t leave her the pauk alone and an ooman who hasn’t stripped her nude, _yet_. Part of Vayuh’ta appreciates the respect but she has _needs_ and she _needs_ to have the pauking guard Gry’Sui jump into a hole for a couple days so she can pauk Ivon silly until she can’t walk and they understand they have earned her respect. Not _feelings_ , she will not admit to feelings, not _yet,_ but she can openly give her respect. 

Maybe feelings. Only a small amount, and nothing she would miss if they were to up and leave suddenly.

The huntress winces at the thought. _Pauk. I would miss you. When did this happen? Why is your hair soft? Your skin soft? Why are you soft and not under me?_

 _“Gry’Sui!”_ She cannot handle more days of idling around pretending she isn’t losing her head over how desperately she needs the ooman with soft hair. The huntress rises to her feet and glares at the amber guard. She dislikes leaving Ivon’s side, but she needs to make the man _go_ so the two can finish the _damn conversation_ they need to have before the two can move on to _other things_. 

The man growls. _“Ic’jit.”_

 _“Get the pauk out of here.”_ Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes blaze behind her mask.

She can tell her presence has a certain effect on him. She smells the _n’dui-se,_ pork, rise and thicken in the air. The musk isn’t appealing, not when she wants the _ooman._

 _“My orders are to watch you, ic’jit.”_ The Elite’s body tenses. He has a nice body, full of bulging muscles and contouring scales. She doesn’t want bulging muscles or contouring scales. She wants fuzzy soft ooman skin and bright red ooman flushes while she takes them to a whole new level of ecstasy and euphoria. She wants _them_ for days, but she is willing to compromise for hours.

 _“Take a walk for five. I’m not going anywhere.”_ The huntress cracks her neck.

 _“My orders are to watch you.”_ Gry’Sui’s stubbornness is slightly arousing, but nowhere near what she needs to consider him. Perhaps, if Ivon does not work out—by Cetanu she prays that is not the case, she’s gone too far down the rabbit hole, to the point she uses _ooman_ expressions in reference to _herself_ —she can pin the Elite and see how good he looks panting and moaning for more beneath her. She’s been with enough Yautja of all genders and bodies to know how to please even the ‘toughest’ of warriors.

She needs to hurry up. She needs to hurry up before she winds up _pauking_ someone in front of the damn guard, before she winds up staking a claim on the guard and leaving him a mess on the floor.

 _“I’ll cut you a deal,”_ Vayuh’ta snarls. She knows how the man works, she’s seen his type before in Ka’Torag-Na. He wants to pushed and goaded. He wants to hit a point where he can unleash sheer lust in a million ways. She knows _she_ arouses him. She relies on that as she strides up to him and looks up at his face. _“Jehdin-jehdin. No weapons. I win—You pauk off for a bit, an hour, maybe two.”_

The Elite seems surprised by her words. He leans down to her eye level and hisses softly. _“If I win, Bad Blood?”_

 _“You’ll learn just how bad I am beneath you.”_ The huntress trills at him. She walks to Ivon and clicks to get their attention. There is only a second for her to gesture for them to move to the side before she hears Gry’Sui’s clicks.

 _“Ki’sei... You think I am easily tricked, ic’jit.”_ The guard spits. _“M-di! I will not accept your challenge.”_

Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes narrow behind her mask. She shoos Ivon to the side faster—poor ooman does not know what is about to unfold, she hopes they can figure it out before doing anything rash—and marches back up to Gry’Sui, unafraid. The woman tilts her head to one side. Even with the Elite donning his mask, she can _feel_ his gaze follow her movements. She trills with humor before rearing back and punching the man in the arm, where his veritanium armor doesn’t quite cover his muscles. He roars in surprise. She inhales to confirm it has riled him up and prompted him to release more musk.

Gry’Sui-bpe-de shoves her backward by the shoulder. His agitation is obvious, but Vayuh’ta is a clever one, trained by a shadow over a hundred cycles past. When the Elite unstraps his _dah’kte_ from one wrist, then the other, and faces her, she jogs backward and crouches in anticipation.

 _“Fine! If you are that desperate to taste my cock, I’ll make it quick.”_ the Elite snaps.

 _“You better lose quick.”_ The Bad Blood clicks her mandibles together in amusement. _“I have cjit to do.”_

* * *

The current day cycle is approximately one-four day cycles past the events of the Chickpea Night Walk Station. In that time, she has been awake for a total of thirteen days. Though her injuries have healed, her questions on what occurred throughout the trip and who exactly the other _ic’jit_ on the _Kukulkan_ is only seems to triple. She does not understand, both why she lives when she shouldn’t, and why the _Echinos_ was the target of the Shadow in the first place. There are too many angles to consider and she has burnt herself out of attempting to dissect and analyze them all.

Her current priority is preparing herself for when she faces the Elders and Leader Daga. In eight day cycles, the _Kukulkan_ will reach Clan Gahn’tha-cte. She must have the strength to face them, even if she does not have the answers she _knows_ they will seek, even if she does not want to give up the answers she hides.

It means training. Lots of training. Training and practicing with her fists, her legs, every limb in her body until she burns with a fire of exhaustion. Training with any weapon she can get her hands on and borrow. The likelihood of being branded Arbitrator, even if she does not get her title of Adjutant stripped from her for her disobedience on Terra, is high. She must be able to fight and Hunt and engage with an enemy to the very end. Hesitation will get her killed if she is sent to hunt Bad Bloods; she does not want to die.

She hates the flickers of fear she radiates. She needs to calm herself, but every second feels like a timer ticking down to the meeting of Elders and Clan Leader Daga. She fears being thrust in front of them all again. She fears being asked questions which rip open the past she tries to forget. She fears, and her fear is almost as potent as her _n’dui-se_ on occasion.

She stares at the ceiling of her cabin. Today, her training was overseen by the _ic’jit_ who saved her life, and the ooman who seems surprisingly okay with keeping the _ic’jit_ at their side. Bist’ri does not understand why.

She wants to rest. She feels tense and antsy, coiled like an uncomfortable spring jammed into a place far too small to fit. When she lays down, she wants to rise. When she sits up, her chest feels like dead weight dragging her down. Sometimes she sits and stares at the wall, un-moving save for blinking behind her bio-mask. Sometimes she stands and leans against the wall, lost in thought with the name of her dead twin on her tongue.

_Tarei._

Another problem she doesn’t have time to address. She doesn’t have time at all. There’s no time and with no time there is no rest. She needs to do everything and nothing in a second. Her head aches. Her throat feels dry. She knows she hasn’t eaten properly in a day cycle. Her stomach growls lowly at the thought. Bist’ri growls back at it.

The only food is hard tack, in the kitchen unit. It requires leaving her cabin, which she detests. She is too conflicted and overwhelmed to handle others right now. Even in her training—She can barely tolerate the other _ic’jit_ and the ooman who sit and watch. Going to the lift does not sound enjoyable, nor does attempting awkward small talk with everyone she passes by. Bist’ri hisses at her stomach growling again. The nurse begrudgingly stands and opens her cabin door, stepping out after double-checking she has her wrist computer on and active. The hall of the living quarters connects with the _Kukulkan_ ’s cockpit and medical bay, with a lift next to the cockpit door.

Bist’ri hears the cockpit door open just as she reaches the lift. She is about to step unto it when the smell of _earth after rainfall_ fills her head. She stiffens and snaps her head back to catch sight of Kwei-Bezas heckling Nok Nok deeper in the cockpit, partially obscured by the figure of the other Adjutant in front of the two.

Guan’s bio-mask is tucked under one arm when he steps out of the cockpit and looks up. His orange eyes are easily made out, wide and sunk into his face. Heavy bags hang under them. He has not been sleeping well. Bist’ri’s chest tightens. She affords him a single, rigid nod in acknowledgement. _“Adjutant Guan.”_

He looks. _Something._ Something she doesn’t know. Something she isn’t used to. _Something, something, something._ His exhale is sharper than it should be, encompassed by worry she doesn’t want him to carry.

 _“Bist’ri.”_ He clicks softly, slowly, nervously. Nothing like the composed Adjutant she knows he can be. _“Are you—Busy? A moment?”_

She swallows her nerves. Her stomach pains her. She glances at the lift, at the easy drop to the second level of the ship and away from _him_. She hesitates. Her green eyes dim behind her mask. _“I was on my way to the kitchen—”_

 _“Right. Ki’sei. Forgive my interruption.”_ The other Adjutant clicks in a whisper. His hands are tense. His entire body looks like it’s trembling.

It takes a moment for her to realize he _is_ trembling, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Her eyes widen.

_“Guan—”_

She doesn’t know what to say until after she clicks his name. The nurse stills and blanks on words as uncomfortable silence creeps in. The cockpit door slides shut behind the two, separating them from the engineers and leaving the two Adjutants alone in the corridor.

The air becomes thicker. Not with the scent of _n’dui-se_ radiating off both individuals, but with the unbearable tension freezing the two in place. Both Yautja stand there, silent and still as if the two are statues. But Bist’ri _knows_ time passes. She hears it in the pounding of four hearts in her head, the feel of her pulse racing in her veins, and the sudden realization someone has moved closer. She doesn’t realize she moves until her hand is reaching for the other Adjutant’s face, smooth blue scales caressing his cheek.

The other Adjutant shakes as his hand rises to cover her own. He leans into her touch, eyes closing. His breath hitches.

 _“I,”_ he shakes against her. His hand trembles even as it lays over hers on the side of his face. _“I thought—You were going to die. In there. In that. In the ship. Alone.”_

 _“I should have.”_ Bist’ri trills quietly, only vague recollections of the _Echinos_ coming to mind.

 _“Why didn’t—Why didn’t you leave? Run—With—With—”_ He shudders again. His hand grips her tighter.

_“A nurse doesn’t abandon a patient—”_

_“But you aren’t—Not—Not just a nurse—"_ The other Adjutant clenches his eyes shut. His teeth chatter. The air reeks of fear, and this time it is not from her. Bist’ri stares at the terrified, trembling man, the man who cares far, far too much for those who would spit on his grave.

 _“I’m still a nurse.”_ She reminds him, gently. _“You’re still an Adjutant.”_

 _“Not—Just—Not—Not just a nurse—To me,”_ the man chokes on his own words, the clicks becoming garbled. Guan opens his eyes and she sees just how deep the orange irises are. The Adjutant leans his forehead down until it bumps against her bio-mask. _“I’m scared to lose you.”_

 _“I’m not dead.”_ Bist’ri answers softly.

He shudders against her. His breathing isn’t right. She does not know when, but at some point, her other hand found his and took hold of it. The soft clang of metal alerts the nurse to the fact the two have moved. Not intentionally—But like their feet have their own ideas and agenda. Guan’s armor sounds when it scraps against a cabin door, his back pressed against it but the two Adjutants maintaining the same distance with one another.

 _“When the ship exploded—And I thought—You were dead—All I could think about—All I could—Think about—Was you,”_ his clicks and chirps are nothing more than whispers now. The man hisses softly through clenched teeth. _“When you—Cut yourself. And how that—How I—I messed everything up—Between us--”_

 _“That’s not—”_ She lets go of his hands and cups his face. Her chest tightens. _“You didn’t—You didn’t know—”_

 _“I don’t—I don’t want that,”_ Guan chokes on his words. _“—To be—The last thing we have of one another. I don’t—I’m sorry.”_

Her eyes water behind her mask. She drops her hands and wraps her arms around his torso, pulling him to her. Bist’ri shudders; she hears him repeat the sentiment. _I’m sorry._

Even after she distanced herself from him—He takes the blame of speaking of _Tarei_. He carries the weight of guilt. He seeks to make amends.

Her grip grows tighter. She feels his arms move and latch unto her, the two locked in the moment and woefully oblivious to everything else in the world. When she breathes him in, he smells of comfort and of peace, of everything being right in a world where it isn’t. Her teeth clench and she grips him tighter, unwilling to let go when all she wants is the opposite.

All she wants is him.

 _“I can’t have what I want.”_ She clicks softly against his shoulder. Her four hearts begin to thump loudly in her head when the man loosens his grip and draws back.

He stares at her, transfixed. _“What?”_

The nurse shuts her eyes. _“Nothing. It’s—”_

 _“What can’t you have?”_ His words are so soft and fragile.

She doesn’t want him to break. He cares too much. He will let himself shatter to keep others intact. The ache in her chest grows as she shakes her head. _“I can’t—Answer that—"_

She opens her eyes and sees his orange gaze dim. The _something_ swirls around in the depths of his irises.

_“Would it—Be dishonorable?”_

_“Sei-i.”_ Bist’ri clicks once.

The other Adjutant clutches her to him. His arms do not keep her pinned, but they feel warm. He feels warm. He feels right. When he nuzzles her neck, she sighs against him and shifts her head so he has more room. When he draws back, she bumps the ridge of her bio-mask against his forehead. His scent overwhelms her senses. She gulps it in as it filters through her mask. All of it— _him_. Him. Him. Him. She can feel his shakes match her shudders. He leans back into her as her hands fall to his hips. Her touch is gentle.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ He throws his head back and exhales loudly. When she turns off the optical system in her bio-mask—She can see how deeply flush his face is, how vigorously his four hearts wail in his chest. The other Adjutant shakes again. _“What I want—Is—Dishonorable—Too.”_

 _“Don’t—Say that,”_ she pleads with him, bowing her head and bumping his neck with her bio-mask. _“Don’t—You have—So much—Ahead of you—Guan—”_

The nurse’s words are cut off by one of the two accidentally bumping against a glowing indentation on the door. The cabin door slides open automatically for the two to fall through. Guan takes the impact, grunting loudly. Instinctively or not—His arms immediately encircle her, as if trying to protect her from something unseen, or keep her all for himself. Both thoughts do things to her. Things she _knows_ cannot be.

Yet for a moment—She yearns to stay like that, tucked away with him, as eager to protect him as he is her. The nurse looks up at the Adjutant’s face. His orange eyes are already on her, but he says nothing.

 _“Sorry.”_ He breathes aloud.

The threshold between loyalty and dishonor sits in the distance from where the two lay, imposing its invisible presence between them and the bed built into the floor. It is too easily available, too ready to assist.

Her body trembles as she pulls herself away from everything she wants. She backs up to the wall, holding her head in her hands and struggling not to cry. There is so _much_ and so little and it hurts, and it hurts, and it _hurts,_ and when Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan sits up and on the other side of the room, it hurts enough to make her curse in her head, to scream internally until all she thinks about is how _pauked_ everything is to lead them both to this moment.

She can see him withdrawing. His fear comes back, thick enough to taste, heavy enough to _feel_. He’s never been rawer to her, bare in spirit and stretched thin enough to look through. The two come from what feels like vastly different worlds, but his pain is as significant as hers feels. He carries it on his back, choosing to shoulder it so others can walk freely. It hurts. It hurts. He hurts. Both of them hurt, trapped in the messed up world of clan politics and past tragedies. She doesn’t want him to walk the path alone. She wants him to know he has someone, even if the two can’t step on the same stones.

It means swallowing the fear of everything that haunts her sleep and forces her dreams to battle, baring herself as raw as he has until there are no secrets left to hurt each other with, to _fear_.

 _“Tarei—”_ She looks up and meets his eyes. He reflects surprise. _“—Tarei was—My brother.”_

Guan looks away. _“—You don’t—You don’t have to—”_

 _“He was my twin. Tarei-Jehdin.”_ Bist’ri cuts him off. Her eyes begin to water again. She struggles to click the words but forcing them out is what she _needs_.

She knows he wants to help her. She’s seen it before; Guan wants to lift her up when she tires from her own past weighing her down. He cares about her. She cares infinitely about him. She wants him to know she trusts him, that even in the present circumstances they can rely on one another. She wants to let him in.

She starts with herself, with her brother, with her chiva, with everything that spiraled into eight cycles of terror. Maybe, when that is done, she can start with the guilt that doesn’t let her sleep since the night she strangled him to death.


	51. lucky me (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (smut confetti) 
> 
> tw  
> -mention of transitional surgery
> 
> note: the last section is a continuation of the previous chapter's section with guan and bist'ri!!  
> I'm so happy we're almost to Clan Gahn'tha-cte. I think I'm going to give this detour arc one more chapter and then throw everyone into the glorious world of more clan politics and political trials.

Waking up in a bed versus a pod, in cool arms versus warm, with the weight of his mate curled up against him and using his chest as a pillow, there are few greater things in the known universe. The thrill of a Hunt comes close, but the intimate connection he shares with the Vekin resting against him leaves the _kv’var-de_ ’s body humming from head to toe. Every one of his nerves bathes in warmth as he shifts the way his bare body lays sprawled across the floor bed. Not even the pain of his bad calf lingers as his orange eyes flutter open and he casts a glance at the faded pink outline of the Vekin dozing off on him.

 _Sun-Dew._ H’chak clicks the name in his head, careful not to wake his mate. She is as tired as she is hungry in recent day cycles: spurred by not only a desire to touch _him_ , but also to eat with him. Sometimes, to try and eat him—But not in the way he originally thought. The memory of her cool form coaxing him to lay down and relax while she got on her knees is enough to make heat stir in his abdomen.

H’chak exhales softly, willing his loins to relax while his mate slumbers. No matter how wicked her tongue felt on his body, or how inviting and stimulating it was for her to attempt to take him in her mouth, he does not want to lose himself to lust a fourth day. There is much to be done across the _Kukulkan,_ both in preparation for the return to Gahn’tha-cte and general tidying up. H’chak intends to conduct a full-fledged round of sanitation, disinfecting _everything_ and ensuring no one else leaves his beloved ship a mess. He grimaces at the thought of others using _his_ ship for the same exploits he and his mate use it for. _Some things are better off unanswered._

Getting up is the first problem of the day. He wants to rise, but Sundew’s grip on him is almost painful in how tight she holds unto his arm and flops across his chest. She is three inches shorter than before, but he doesn’t notice when the two are like _this_. Her bare chest presses into the scales covering his torso. The awareness of her nipples against his skin makes H’chak’s body shudder in growing want. He grits his teeth and reminds himself— _Calm. Calm yourself._

“Good morning.” The words come from the nude Vekin eagerly holding unto him. H’chak looks down and his thermal gaze catches sight of the woman’s outline shifting. He holds his breath when the alien crawls up his chest and cradles his mandibles.

The shaky inhale he gives when Sundew leans forward and kisses his tusks one-by-one makes her smile grow.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The Yautja clicks softly. _“Did you sleep well…?”_

“Better than yesterday.” The Vekin nods. “Especially after we spent time together.”

 _Pauk._ He almost forgot about how she approached him. Not to suck him off, but for very gentle, slow, passionate lovemaking, the kind a Yautja does not normally do but can indulge in all the same. It was, by far, the best session he had with Sundew since the start of the heat.

The memories of it are so enticing that when H’chak gulps in the scent of his mate, his groin throbs and he unsheathes. He groans and whines as his erection jabs his mate in the leg. _“Your words do something to me—Augh,”_ the Elite bucks his hips into the cool hand massaging the end of his cock. He can feel her fingers dance and skim the surface, occasionally rubbing circles around the sensitive organ before gripping the shaft firmly and moving her hands up and down. He slowly begins to pant. _“That—That’s so good.”_

“Do you want me, H’chak?” Sundew tilts her head to one side. She draws away and moves her head to his groin. She looks up at him for guidance. “I could—”

 _“I want you,”_ the Yautja growls this time. _“I want you around me. I want to pauk you.”_

She climbs off him before he can flip the two’s positions. H’chak is all too eager to scramble up and climb on top of his mate. He continues to pant even as he parts his mate’s legs and looks at the wet folds. When his fingers carefully spread her wide, Sundew cries out in want. She writhes against his groin while he slowly lowers his head to her pelvis.

The noises his mate makes when his tongue flicks past his tusks and teeth to taste her is _incredible._ Sundew gasps and arches her back on the bed. Her silver skin has a deep gray flush; she whines as H’chak pushes his tongue further. He strokes up and down her wet core, seeking to invoke every syllable Sundew speaks of his language, of his name. She writhes but he holds her steady to feed on. The fire in his crotch burns from lack of contact, but pleasing his mate is far more important. He takes his time plunging his tongue inside her, savoring the coolness of her body, and finding new ways to flick his tongue side-to-side or at her inner muscles’ ceiling to make her sing.

He must make her wet enough to accept him. H’chak pulls back his tongue and swoops up at her clit. He ensnares the bundle of nerves in his warmth. The Vekin shrieks and claws at his head to repeat the action. She goes so far to entangle her hands in his locs as he toys with her. He wants to do _so_ much but he knows it is so little, that the present is but a speck of passing time when he wants to spend eternity in her.

He lets his teeth _lightly_ graze the surface of her clit. He sees the Vekin writhe and squirm. Her pants are heavy. He reaches for her bare body and touches her hips with a knowing look. _“I want you. Right now.”_

“That makes me so happy—” Sundew’s words cut off as the Elite begins to rub his cock between her thighs. She throws her head back and pants. “Please—”

The Elite _revels_ in how her body squirms and her mouth hangs ajar in ecstasy as he shoves his cock inside. It is a tight fit. H’chak groans as he pushes deeper. He can feel and see Sundew’s toes curling on the bed beneath him as the two’s pelvises slowly inch closer together. He growls when she takes over half of him.

“H’chak,” she whimpers when the man sits on his knees, holds her up, and bucks the rest of the way into her body. Sundew’s chest heaves and she gasps as the deep rolling thrusts throw the two together. Her pelvis kisses his as the man grunts and pushes back against her.

The view riles him up for more. Watching how effortlessly his cock glides into her, feeling how she _clenches_ down around him and forces him to drag himself out against the cool, soft muscles, seeing how badly she writhes and bucks for him to do _more_ , for him to claim every inch of her and then some, it all does things to the man. He growls louder, harsher, as he sets her down and pulls out. He hears her surprised inhale when he plucks her off the bed and deposits her on her hands and knees. He pulls her ass into the air and hisses softly.

 _“—Mine.”_ Is the only word to come out of his mouth. _“Mine.”_

“Yours,” the Vekin is happy to agree.

“And I—I am—” He lines up and breaches her channel with a quick thrust. Sundew cries out his name. It sounds as perfect as she is, and it makes him ravenous for more. He becomes a frenzy of rolling hips and snarls at the ceiling of his cabin as he takes his mate to orgasm, and then to orgasm again.

The man is relentless today. Even through the contracting muscles of his mate’s orgasms—He thrusts and jams himself deep inside, hitting overstimulated nerves and eliciting gasps from the Vekin. The sounds grow higher in pitch the more he fucks her, until it sounds like she whines at how he touches her, as if it is both not enough and the perfect amount. His hands knead the cool flesh of her ass. His eyes scour her thermal signature.

H’chak hits a breaking point. His thrusts find the right angle for his mate to whimper in pleasure at his strokes. The Elite wastes no time flipping the Vekin unto her back and pushing her legs up to hook lazily over his hips. He meets her clear gaze with his adoring, lust-filled orange. His growl is sharp and needy, almost demanding, as he begins to snap his hips down and fill her.

“Right there—Right there, _ah_ ,” the Vekin’s hands ball into fists and she pants. _“Ah—H’chak—”_

He groans loudly as he feels her body begin to tense around him. She is a desperate woman, eager for each of his seedings with a hunger rivaling his during his heat. He clicks in lust, in mirth, in _desire,_ and the Yautja pours himself into pounding into the silver figure. His body weight crashes his pelvis against hers as his cock presses deeper, deeper, _deeper._ He feels something resist him within the Vekin’s body and with a string of curses the man rolls his hips forward and arches his back as his climax takes him.

 _“I love you, Sun-Dew. My Sun-Dew.”_ H’chak utters softly. A delicious feeling of bliss overwhelms him as his cock goes soft in her body. He humps remaining semen into her before pulling himself free of her grip. She pants heavily. As he watches the rise and fall of her chest, the Elite feels heat blossom in his face. He puts her beneath him and nuzzles her neck. His soft, thoaty purr fills the air as he imagines the rest of their evening, what he hopes to be a well-rounded cycle of eating, fucking, and cleaning, only the latter taking place while his mate sleeps.

Sundew’s arms shift and wrap around his torso. She has a smile on her face, warm and peaceful. It makes the man’s four hearts skip a beat as she offers a sincere, sleepy reply, _“My_ H’chak.”

 _“Yours,”_ he swears on it, leaning down to rub his forehead against hers. He sees her yawn and, following a series of soft, clicking chortles, the man utters a single word, “ _Sleep.”_

To aid in the matter, he resumes his purring, pressing his chest to hers and rubbing against her affectionately.

When he confirms the Vekin has fallen into her usual post-intercourse slumbers, the Yautja finally rises. He takes time to clean up, wipe things down, wrap a pelt around his dozing mate, and leave a pile of hard tack by the floor-bed for when she wakes up. Then he strides to the washroom, ready to continue the day into evening. He makes a note to seek out Adjutant Guan at some point. He despises the man, but he has finally thought of something the man can do to earn his forgiveness.

* * *

Pounding the Elite into the ground isn’t easy with aching limbs, cramps, and her backside occasionally firing up in horrible pain from damaged nerves, but Vayuh’ta likes a challenge.

No sooner than the Elite lurches forward does she run at him and duck his attempts to grapple. She shoves her palms into his abdomen, right below where his abdominal muscles end and his pelvis begins. The man roars in agitation as he falls back. Behind her, she hears Ivon yelp in surprise at the sudden fight. It’s not the kind of noises she wants them to make; the blood in her veins pumps faster at the thought of her prize. She wants to end this quickly.

Playing aggressive isn’t the answer. The Elite is a Brawler, not unlike T’gou, and she knows enough of the movements to understand his fighting style is all about drawing her close. He wants her in reach of his claws; she steps back and circles him at a safer distance. The initial strike is foolish in retrospect, but it _did_ earn her a yelp from Ivon, and the ooman is overwhelming her senses right now.

Vayuh’ta clicks sharply at the Elite. _“You this easy for everyone you want to fuck?”_

 _“Pauk off,”_ Gry’Sui hisses and charges, heavy footsteps ringing loudly as he crosses the _kehrite_ and feints a swing. The man wants her to throw a punch back, but Vayuh’ta leaps into the air. Like the call of a namesake, she twists her body and brings her leg crashing down on him in a quick, plunging arc. It clobbers the man in the head and he smashes into the _kehrite_ floor.

She huffs. _“Gahn’tha-cte ought to be renamed pyode if they can’t handle a little ic’jit.”_

There’s no point in hanging around. She needs to move before the Elite has a chance to rise and lash out. Her orange eyes shift to Ivon on the ground. The electrician is a stunned, shaky mess, and not the kind of shakes she wants them to show. She strides over and picks them up off the ground. They begin to sputter, face deepening red.

 _Cute._ She intends to see that face a thousand other ways this evening.

She retreats to the lower level cargo hold, past the kitchen unit and the endless wrappers of hard tack seemingly strewn across the floor there. The cargo hold is dark, and without _her_ wrist computer, she cannot access the lights. But Ivon mumbles something and gestures at the wall. She walks there and lets them fiddle with a loose panel; the cargo hold lights come on. It is an empty room, with five escape pods lining the far wall. The only acceptable place to put her ooman is on the floor. Vayuh’ta sets them down before she crouches in front of them.

“Um.” The ooman’s face is bright red. Vayuh’ta’s olfactory receptors pick up on the ooman’s arousal, though a quick glance at their crotch confirms what she knows.

She clicks at them, knowing they cannot understand her but hoping Ivon picks up the meaning all the same. _“The conversation. What conversation did you want to have?”_

Ivon’s eyes widen. They furrow their brows and look around the cargo hold. “Was this—Did you take me here to—To _talk?”_

 _“Sei-I,”_ Vayuh’ta trills once. _“To talk. To fuck. I want to mate you beneath me.”_

The ooman doesn’t understand the words, but Ivon seems not to care. They bite their lip and shift how they sit, as if she cannot see the growing bulge in their groin through use of the different bio-mask optical filters and her natural sight. The ooman begins to wring their wrist as they open their mouth, but no words come out. Instead, they resume sputtering, “This is—Um—I—Just—”

The huntress tilts her head to one side. She wonders if the ooman fears the mask. She unclasps it from her face and sets it aside. Her four mandibles twitch as her orange eyes settle on widening brown. Ivon holds a hand to their mouth. The blood in their groin increases and the ooman’s erection pushes against the fabric of their clothes. The reaction pleases her; she clicks and nods with satisfaction while the electrician sputters more.

“I. Your eyes.” Ivon breathes, hands shaking. She doesn’t taste fear.

Vayuh’ta watches their thermal signature as she approaches. She lifts a hand and touches the human’s lower lip with the edge of her clawtip. It is something she has seen during her cycles on _Terra_ ; oomans have strange ways of conveying affection.

It also does something to Ivon. They begin to pant against her, leaning into her touch. Their shaking lessens. “I—Okay. Okay. Okay. I. I can do this. I can…”

The length of her claw caresses their lower lip. Ivon’s face is a furious red. Their hips smell _enticing_ , practically begging to be clutched, felt, and kneaded. The ooman shifts their head to let her access their neck when she lowers her mandibles and begins to toy with the soft flesh there.

“I wanted—To—” Ivon pants more. Their hands curl into fists on the ground. “To—To talk—About—"

 _“Sei-i.”_ The huntress clicks, before her long tongue snakes out and she drags it along the ooman’s neck, dipping into spots that elicit gasps from the person.

“What I—What I said—About—Ah—Fuck,” the ooman grabs hold of her mesh bodysuit and moans. “I didn’t—Think—”

When she begins to emit a low, rumbling purr, Ivon whimpers against her. The ooman reeks of lust and want, of arousal, all for _her_ and her alone. Vayuh’ta purrs in satisfaction but refrains from sparking the ooman’s reactions further.

Ivon pants. Their legs are splayed open on the floor, letting the huntress crouch between their thighs and stare at them. The ooman’s cheeks remain a bright red as they look to the side. “—The—The conversation we had. Before. Before. Before, before, before, I—Um. Give me a second. I just…” They prop themself up off the floor by their forearms. Their teeth clench. “What I said—In South America—About not—Not liking you. That’s—It wasn’t true. I just… I didn’t want you to stop being my… Can I call you my friend? Fuck. I don’t know. My friend. Yeah. I like calling you that.” The way their lips twitch up at the edge in a warm smile is unbearably cute.

 _“We are more than that.”_ Vayuh’ta clicks quickly, climbing on top of the ooman. She smells no fear.

When her hips brush the mountain inside Ivon’s clothes, the latter throws their head back and hiccups, “I—I see—Is that—Does this mean the feeling’s mutual?”

She purrs her response, refusing to stop until Ivon nods and smiles faintly.

“Lucky me,” they whisper, the delight in their words seeping through.

Ivon feels soft and squishy below her. She will not hurt them, but she intends to make sure they understand how things change between the two, that they are not simply _friends_ anymore. She lets her clothed groin grind against the ooman’s erection. Ivon shudders and flops back down. Vayuh’ta clicks in satisfaction as she straddles them and looks down at their face. They are already flush with sweat, breathing hard, and their soft blond hair splays across the floor. Her _n’dui-se_ thickens as she rocks her hips against theirs, not yet taking off clothes.

 _Not until you beg._ Vayuh’ta feels thrilled at the thought.

Ivon gasps and cries out as the motions become rougher. They clench their eyes shut but she trills at them until they look back at her. It is difficult to maintain eye contact with a thermal signature, but she does her best as she begins to grind more roughly over their body. She savors every moment of their back arching and their moans falling out.

“Maelstrom—I—” Ivon whines as the huntress leans forward and rubs her forehead against them. “I—That’s—It feels—Good—”

 _“Soon it will feel even better.”_ The ic’jit swears on it.

She senses Ivon’s confusion when she stops the teasing. Ivon begins sputtering anew when she cuts through their clothes and wrangles the fabrics aside. “—I—I don’t have a lot of those—"

 _“I will make you more.”_ She clicks in response. Stripping the person bare is a glorious feeling, the kind she gets right before she skins and hangs prey. But she does not want to skin or hang the person underneath her. She wants to _pauk_ them. Vayuh’ta pulls off her mesh bodysuit before she returns to Ivon’s hips. Only the wrapping around her groin and a flimsy fabric garment on Ivon blocks what she _needs._

“I… I can’t believe we’re doing this.” The ooman’s words give her pause. She tilts her head to one side but says nothing. Ivon exhales slowly. “—I didn’t—I—I didn’t think someone like you would want someone like… me.”

 _Insecurities._ Vayuh’ta growls at the thought. She regrets it, because the ooman takes it as offense and begins apologizing. She lowers herself to their chest and presses the two’s bare skin together, rubbing back and forth while her purrs reverberate. Ivon whimpers and their arms rise to wrap around her torso.

When the ooman is calm and she ceases her purrs, Vayuh’ta licks one of the flat teats on their chest; it currently holds no milk, but the flesh appears sensitive. The nipple becomes erect and perky. Her ooman bucks hips into hers and moans. Vayuh’ta spends a long moment making them repeat the action. She becomes rougher with her tongue, to the point her ooman throws their head back and cries out loudly. Ivon’s arousal spikes and their legs quiver.

“I want you,” they pant. “I want—I want you—Us—Together—Please—Maelstrom—"

The last of the clothes come off. Ivon’s shaft drips pre as they shudder and tremble beneath her. She notes the way their chest rises and falls quickly, how their toes curl, and how their grip on her tightens when she starts to draw back.

“Please,” Ivon begs. “I—I need you—I don’t—Fuck! Fuck, augh,” the human moans and shakes as Vayuh’ta’s hand slowly caresses their penis. The phallus is not unlike a Yautja sirer’s, with a sensitive head and thick shaft. She admits the size is larger than anticipated. Not large enough to be a problem for her, but larger than she thought her scrawny ooman possessed. The electrician writhes and bucks into her grasp as she massages the head and watches their reactions. Ivon’s voice is nothing but _desperate_ when they plead, “I want you—Need you—Please—However—However this works—Maelstrom—"

Vayuh’ta feels her lust return and take over. She sits on her knees and gropes Ivon’s ass. The flesh is soft and squishy, and the ooman weeps with pleasure when she begins to squeeze and feel it out. She explores from there, a hand slowly following the curve of one cheek before it comes to their testes. She drags a clawtip further, locating the slight dip into what she knows is the ooman’s rectum. The person must be someone with a penchant for receiving as much as they give, because no sooner than her hand brushes the spot does the ooman shudder and moan weakly.

“Please,” Ivon begs again. “Fuck me.”

Vayuh’ta clicks in confirmation and pushes their thighs back, lifting their legs until Ivon’s hips are exposed to the air and their knees are shoved into their shoulders. She trills at them but when they stare, Vayuh’ta takes their hands and gently places it on their thighs. Ivon swallows and nods as they hold their thighs back, their ass easily reached.

It has been a while since she tried to copulate. Thirty-four cycles, minimum. She does not know how the lack of copulation has affected her body until she begins to lower her throbbing, swollen slit over their cock. Vayuh’ta growls as she feels the ooman phallus penetrate her. It feels larger than the sight, or she feels less elastic than in the past. It is all worthwhile; the pleasure shoots through her and her flustered ooman. Ivon groans loudly but the noise evolves into a shriek of pleasure as Vayuh’ta’s hips lower and take their entire length. She hisses softly at the sound of their pants beneath her. The noises are even better now than they were in her head.

She leans over them, a burn in her thighs as she keeps her body weight off their fragile, squishy form. Vayuh’ta begins to rise and fall on their hips, sucking in their shaft with a desperation to rut like no tomorrow. The ooman pants and gasps as she slowly increases the pace; her rolling gyrations smack her hips into their soft ones. The hunger in her body to engulf and squeeze them is overwhelming.

She is grateful the nurses at Ka’Torag-Na did such an exceptional job on her surgery long ago. Everything feels right, no loss of sensations, and Vayuh’ta fills with pride and glee as she begins to bounce and smack into Ivon.

She can feel their body tense. She hears their soft yowls become breathless shrieks as she takes them, and takes them, and takes them up the cliff of ecstasy. Vayuh’ta is a mess lost in her own euphoria as she slams her body against theirs. She feels their cock jerk inside her and she purrs at the feeling of heat bathing her insides. Her hips continue to roll throughout the electrician’s orgasm; she hears Ivon pant and gasp and whine as she drags them through their pleasure high back into the moment.

 _“Mine,”_ the huntress growls loudly.

Ivon takes her rolling hips, one gyration after another. The ooman cannot speak, only garble incoherent noises which increase in volume when she presses down and pushes their legs further up, seeking to drive their cock as deeply into her slit as possible. The ooman’s body tenses and their hands suddenly move to her hips, squeezing and grasping what they can as they plead for more in guttural cries.

The ooman orgasms a second time with her pinning them to the floor of the cargo hold. The sensation triggers her own climax, Vayuh’ta throws her head back and roars in victory as she feels Ivon release and go limp inside her. She drops back to them, bare chest pressing flat against theirs, and begins to purr and rumble her affection. There is no hiding it now. Her affection for the ooman is stronger than she thought. She hears the ooman hiccup when she rolls unto her back and plops them on her chest.

Ivon lifts their head. “I like your—Eyes. A lot.”

Her mandibles clack together in laughter. Her hands rub up and down the person’s body, admiring every soft curve of fat or muscle. She knows oomans do not have the stamina of Yautja. She fully intends to return Ivon beneath her later in the evening cycle, but for now she is content to purr and lick their face when she is not massaging their hips and ass.

“Next time—” The ooman’s words cut into her admiration of their body. Vayuh’ta clicks to indicate she hears them. Ivon rests their head on her chest. “Could I try—Being the one—Not on the floor?”

 _“Sure. You can…try.”_ Vayuh’ta trills softly, hands reaching to ruffle the messy blond mop of hair on _her_ ooman’s head.

* * *

_“Tarei—”_ Hearing the name shocks him. Guan snaps his head up to stare at her. _“Tarei was—My brother.”_

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want her to tear her past open for his sake. He looks away, mind a frantic rush of thoughts as he clicks, _“—You don’t—You don’t have to—”_

 _“He was my twin—Tarei-Jehdin.”_ She cuts him off with a shrill string of chirps. He glances in time to see her thermal signature tense. He smells the faint traces of salt and mucus, the mixture indicative of a creature’s tears.

 _Pauk._ He’s messed things up again. He’s overstepped and now the woman is a mournful slip of the tongue, sharing things he doesn’t truly know if she is ready to share. He doesn’t want the information, not like this. Even if his curiosity eggs at him, he doesn’t want her to rip herself apart trying to satisfy him.

 _“Don’t tell me if—If—”_ He strains in his clicks, struggling to think of what to say. _“—If—If you’re just—Saying it—To make me happy.”_

 _“That’s not—”_ The nurse cuts herself off and turns her head away. A heavy sigh follows.

Guan’s chest _aches_. His hands tense. _“It clearly pains you.”_

 _“I want to tell you,”_ Bist’ri returns to holding her head in her hands. _“I want you to know—You’ll be the leader of Gahn’tha-cte one day. I don’t want to hide anything from you.”_

_“Not if it leaves you like this. Not because I’m Daga’s Adjutant—”_

Her head whips back up to face him. She clicks softly. _“That’s not why.”_

A bloom of heat swells in his abdomen, rising through his chest and tickling his face.

 _Would it be dishonorable?_ He had asked.

 _Sei-i._ Yes, she had answered.

 _What I want is dishonorable, too,_ he thinks even now, the heat in his face and chest diminishing in favor of a deep, prolonged _ache_.

He doesn’t know what to say. Words fail him until the only thing he thinks to say is, _“Will doing this—Will it make you happier, Bist’ri?”_

 _“Sei-i,”_ the other Adjutant answers immediately. _“I don’t want anything... hidden from you.”_

Guan swallows. He sees her resolve in the string of clicks. It is one of the things he adores about her, almost as much as he adores everything else about the other Adjutant. He slowly nods, then looks to the side and pats the metal floor. Bist’ri pauses. Guan pats the spot next to him again. He feels like a Suckling trying to get a friend to play, utterly incapable of using basic words to convey himself, but the man feels his four hearts leap into his chest when the other Adjutant pushes herself up, walks to him, and sits at his side.

His chest tightens. She smells of salt, sand, and sea, but of a coast looking out over an incoming storm.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ the Adjutant tentatively takes one of her hands. He lifts it to his chest and rumbles softly for a time, trying to demonstrate through action what he struggles to say.

She exhales sharply. Her head bumps against him when she rests it against his shoulder. The two sit side-by-side, backs against the wall, each with a hand laced in the other’s. It feels oddly peaceful, like the two have found a gap in the fence neither dares to speak of. 

Having her close relaxes him. His usual nerves depart. The Adjutant inhales gulps of her _n’dui-se,_ reveling in how beautiful it is, how beautiful _she_ is. His orange eyes soften as he watches her thermal signature. The words he wants to say pop into his head after a long, comfortable moment of silence and peace. He clicks softly for each one, squeezing her hand as he states, _“I would be honored to hear about your brother. Tarei-Jehdin.”_

She squeezes his back. _“Thank you. Guan.”_


	52. strangely intimate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really has a little bit of everything if you could gry'sui being a horny fuck as smut. got some pining, some fluff, some plot, some plot drama, more pining, more fluff, bezas being an asshole, the whole enchilada right there. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW for:  
> -there's a lot of talk which has implications of past abuse, sexual abuse, rape, etc.  
> -talk of cheating  
> -mention of culling / I think this qualifies as eugenics?  
> -there is misgendering when gaun talks about the vekin, referring to the vekin as 'it'  
> -death / murder 
> 
> (and I lied I am giving this arc 1 more chapter because there is one other thing I need to address before Clan Drama)

It is strange to see the two individuals she calls _friends_ chat effortlessly with the Yautja around. Jo isn’t someone who is easily startled, but she admits having four of the aliens crammed into one space, with two of them donning armor and weapons, can be unnerving. She knows how easily any of the aliens could swipe her head off. She doesn’t think Maelstrom would attack her, and she thinks Mercy is a man of honor, but she doesn’t know about Barbecue or the light blue Yautja practicing with a wrist-blade-thing across the training room.

“Do you not get motion sickness?” Ivon sounds relaxed. They look like a mess, but a _relaxed_ mess where they sit cross-legged next to the silver figure between them and Jo. The person wears one of the Yautja bodysuits, with strange leather-like wrappings comprising a vague rendition of a loincloth merged with briefs.

Sundew blinks slowly. It is strange, because the face is distinctly _Louanne_ , but at the same time, Jo sees the face as Sundew. The entity mimics a shrug. “I do not remember.”

“I’ve been having motion sickness lately. I think—I don’t think I should sleep outside the pods,” the electrician reiterates, holding their head in their hands. “I want to—But—Um. It’s not. It isn’t working.”

From the far wall, where Barbecue is currently being heckled by Maelstrom’s clicking figure, the latter suddenly pauses and turns to face Ivon. Barbecue begins to snarl at the other Yautja, but Maelstrom ignores what he does—or doesn’t, Jo isn’t sure—says and strides to the four figures plopped in the corner of the training room. Maelstrom clicks repeatedly at Mercy, the latter busy attempting to braid the thin white hair on Sundew’s head, before the Yautja scoops Ivon up in her arms. Ivon flushes red and begins to sputter.

“—Maelstrom—Hi—" Ivon’s voice falters when the huntress begins to produce a soft purring noise while she clutches the person to her chest. The electrician’s blush deepens as Maelstrom turns and abruptly heads in the direction of the kitchen unit. Barbecue attempts to intervene, but a series of rapid, harsh chirps and screeches convince the Elite to roar before stalking back to his post. 

Jo shakes her head. “Sundew, can you give me the rough translation?”

“… thinks Ivon is sick,” the entity explains, looking back at Mercy who clicks in seeming confirmation. Sundew’s clear eyes return to Jo. The woman smiles politely at her. “She told Mercy she is going to make them feel better. The guard… he is Gry…” She cannot pronounce the rest of the name in a way Jo understands, but Sundew nods at Jo, then at Barbecue’s— _Gry,_ now that she has a name—hulking amber figure. “He is supposed to watch … Except she and him have some sort of… I am not certain. Arrangement? He gives her three-zero minute cycles of unsupervised time with Ivon in the _Kukulkan_ ’s cargo hold.”

“Yep. Knew it.” Jo hangs her head and sighs, but her lips perk up at the edge. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy those two are—Y’know—Just—I don’t… I guess I don’t really get it. How a human and a Yautja can form a significant relationship. It doesn’t seem… I mean, it seems like all of us come from very different worlds. Planets. Cultures? Ecosystems? Shit, I don’t know how to describe it, but—"

Mercy’s mask looks in her direction. Jo swallows her nerves and stares at it. After a moment, Mercy shifts the angle of his mask to Sundew’s hair and resumes the long braid running from one side of her head to the other. In a way, it almost resembles a French braid—Only Jo is certain the Yautja is not French, nor does she believe he has ever seen the human hairstyle in his life, however long that is. She hears the hunter emit a series of clicks and faint trills. Sundew nods—eliciting another chirp, this one mildly annoyed, from Mercy—and looks at Jo with the same pleasant smile.

“—He says—Inter-species relationships are not… Common?” Sundew pauses, Mercy clicks confirmation, and then Sundew resumes addressing her. “Not common across many Yautja clans. Hybrids between species are… They are… Not common. Or—Taken lightly. There is a word for them. I cannot say it properly at this time, but I believe it translates to _abomination_.”

“Damn.” Jo mutters softly.

Sundew nods. Mercy clicks at her. She smiles politely. “I keep moving to talk to you, Jo. … is not very happy with me.”

“Because he’s—He’s doing your hair?” Jo guesses.

Sundew nods in response. This time, Mercy growls softly and wraps his arms around the entity, drawing her against his chest and ensnaring her to him. He lowers his head to nuzzle her with his metal mask. It feels strangely intimate to witness. Jo glances away, scanning the side of the training room, while Sundew repeats an apology to the Yautja and Mercy purrs in response. As Jo’s brown eyes trail the training room, she realizes the sky blue Yautja is gone, either to the kitchen unit or through the lift. Jo makes a note to ask Sundew about the Yautja when the entity isn’t busy laughing with her alien boyfriend.

She continues to look around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. Her gaze drifts back to Barbecue— _Gry,_ she reminds herself—in lack of other interesting subjects to eyeball. Like the other Yautja, he is taller than either human on the _Kukulkan._ Like the other Yautja, the man has thick muscles, though his seem _exceptionally_ beefy. Most of his upper body is encased in strange metal plating, seamlessly adhered to the fishnet-like matrix hugging his skin. His skin, a rich amber, darkens in points to brown. In a way, it reminds her of a fossil. Jo smiles faintly at the thought.

Fossils hold a place in her heart, if only because of the times she begged her parents to take her and Tonya and Devon to the local museums. The memories are faint now, lost in images and recollections of ammonites and trilobites with the occasional larger skeleton. Her parents always encouraged her interests, but like most kids, she turned her sights on other things as she grew up. That was all before she and her siblings lost her parents, before the world turned upside down and she was forced to grow up with Tonya to take care of Devon.

She pauses, the bittersweet thoughts coming back full force. Her siblings, if they even survived the Tucson catastrophe, think she is dead. She cannot go back to check on them, to say goodbye, or to mourn if they passed when the research facility warhead detonated. In the back of her head, the numbers of the deceased echo. _One-hundred-thirty thousand. And I don’t even know if… If you were part of those. Tonya. Devon. Fuck. Fuck!_ Her fists tense.

She stands up, pausing when Sundew returns attention to her and inquires what is wrong. The woman throws on a smile and shakes her head. “Just—Tired. I’m going to go upstairs. Maybe—I dunno. See if there’s anything left from my birthday party in my cabin. I know we had alcohol for a bit, but I don’t know if any of it’s left.”

She glances at Gry right when she reaches the lift. The human pauses at the realization the guard’s mask faces her. It does not mean he looks at _her,_ but for a moment she feels like she is the target of his gaze. Her brown eyes narrow. She sucks in her nerves and nods once at him before activating the lift and letting it whisk her up and away to the first floor.

* * *

“Did she smell afraid to you?” Sundew asks him where she sits on his lap.

The Elite has reluctantly let her free from his hug, though his body has begun to stir with needs that entail wanting to drag her back to him and to the two’s quarters. It takes a moment for H’chak to process her question. He clicks softly, _“If she was, she did not show it. I didn’t smell it in the air.”_

He wants to blurt out _I was paying attention to you_ but Sundew is concerned for her friend and H’chak wants to try and support the oomans she cares about. To an _extent._ Hearing Vayuh’ta boldly declare her intent with Ivon before picking up the electrician and walking away is not something the Elite cares to know. He _does_ find reason to commend her skills; somehow, the ic’jit has found a way to coax Gry’sui-bpe-de into giving her and the ooman time alone. H’chak vaguely wonders if the Elite’s bruised ego has anything to do with it, but he does not pry.

“She left quickly. I hope she is okay.” His mate sounds uncertain.

H’chak puts his hands on the Vekin’s shoulders. She looks perfect in the mesh bodysuit, save for the lack of a hat. He needs to remedy that upon returning to Gahn’tha-cte; the Elite vaguely recalls once considering creating a hat out of bone for her. It would be perfect: a hat made from his trophies for the most valuable trophy of all.

Not that he views her as a trophy, she is worth far more than any trophy he can acquire, but the association is hard to avoid when she has the face of one. 

_“Perhaps,”_ the Elite considers his words carefully, trying to dissect the differences between ooman bonds and Yautja bonds. He tilts his head to one side when she looks back at him. _“Give her a period of rest before asking?”_

“You just want to do my hair.” She raises two brows, no longer hairless but thin and white.

The Yautja feels heat creep into his face. He looks away. _“I enjoy touching it.”_

“You can still touch it,” Sundew leans back against him, her back hitting his chest while the Vekin peers up and he looks down. “It feels nice when you pull on it, H’chak.”

 _“I need to finish the braid first.”_ The man clicks briskly. _“You can’t move while I work on it. Sun-Dew.”_

“That is silly,” She squirms against him, voice wholly innocent while the woman’s actions prove she is anything but. It brings the blood rushing back into the man’s groin. He growls softly and tenses where he sits, both unwilling to move but increasingly desperate to drag her back to bed for another round. “You can work like this.”

He swallows a thick gulp of air. _Payas, she smells perfect._

But he does not know if Vayuh’ta and Ivon may pop back into the _kehrite._ Or if Gry’Sui-bpe-de is a _cjit_ talker. Or if any of the other Yautja decide to dip into the room. He cannot stand the thought of running into _Adjutant Guan_ ; he has avoided the man for day cycles to procrastinate the much-needed conversation between him, Guan, and the idea of _forgiveness_.

It irritates him; for a man on _his_ ship, he feels as if he is confined by unspoken rules and limits. He grumbles under his breath and forces his eyes back to his mate’s white hair.

 _“Not right now,”_ he clicks quietly before returning to the braid. _“I do not want you to nap all day cycle.”_

“I would nap all day if it was with you.” Is Sundew’s response, polite and calm, neutral, yet every bit capable of increasing his pulse as the rest of her is.

He is in over his head, woefully smitten with her, and she _knows_ it.

 _“Later,”_ he assures her. H’chak begins to purr at her pause, the sound filling the quiet _kehrite_.

“I will remember if you do not.” His mate speaks with a smile, the kind telling him her words are true.

 _“I won’t forget,”_ he promises. _“Not when it involves you.”_

* * *

 _Cetanu,_ the other Elite’s _n’dui-se_ gives him a headache. It is clear from the way M-di-H’chak holds and touches and speaks to the Im-Gen that the man is hopelessly enamored with the _prey_ he calls a mate. Gry’Sui tries not to show his outward grimace, yet he struggles not to interrogate H’chak on the spot. How anyone besides an _ic’jit_ can take prey for a mate astounds him. There is no honor in mating prey, none, and he refuses to hear otherwise.

If anything—The willingness to pauk an Im-Gen, or an ooman in the case of the _ic’jit_ , spells ill for M-di-H’chak’s honor. It is not Gry’Sui’s place, but the Elite knows the man will face the Elders on return and be made to explain himself. The judgement will be kept quiet outside the Elders and their Adjutants, but it will be a judgement all the same. In that moment, when Akrei-non-Daga declares the outcome of the matter, anything between being branded an _ic’jit_ and sentenced to the final rest or his mate receiving recognition as a member of the clan may occur.

 _Lav'a-da…_ The Elite feels his chest tighten when he catches a whiff of her scent from earlier. All his thoughts about the biases he holds toward prey, _unworthy_ prey, becomes infinitely hard to uphold when his mind begins to think of the flower.

From there, his mind drifts naturally to the strange ooman woman who smells like _lav'a-da._ He does not know her name, but he thinks of her as _lav'a-da_.

Given he is to guard the _ic’jit_ , he cannot afford to run after the ooman when she initially goes up the lift. His sore ego means he will not interrupt the _ic’jit_ ’s mating session with prey— _ugh_ —but he has enough honor left to wait for the _ic’jit_ to finish staking her claim on the pasty ooman and return to the _kehrite._

But he keeps thinking about her. About _lav'a-da._ About the sweet floral aroma which subtly grabs his attention and leads him to stare awkwardly at the _soft prey_ ’s body. He does not have an explanation other than the heat inflicting strange compulsions upon his form, none of which he gives in to.

 _Why did you leave? Aren’t these your… allies?_ The warrior rakes his brain for possibilities, but none arise. He is not versed enough in ooman history or the culture of the region she comes from. He doesn’t even know what region she originates, only that she is from _Terra_ , and she smells of _lav'a-da._

She also does not understand his language. If he wanted to—which he doesn’t—ask her for her thoughts, she could not give an answer he knows.

 _But we communicated in the cockpit. With… body language. Gestures. Hand signals?_ Gry’Sui grits his teeth where he stands. His mandibles flare in aggravation. The scent of _lav'a-da_ fades, but he knows it is elsewhere on the ship. He eyes the lift. _Not that I would want to. I am an honorable man with proper judgement. Not a prey pauker like M-di-H’chak or the ic’jit._

Except his worries linger. Then—The realization he has _worries_ linger. Gry’Sui chides himself, but his mind doesn’t move from the fact. He cannot pretend he does not think about the smelly ooman’s wellbeing when he _does._ Perhaps out of respect for her ability to not be a sobbing mess when in his presence? _Sure, go with that. Pauk. Pauk!_ He curses loudly in his head. His posture becomes tense as he eyeballs the lift, ignorant of the conversation happening between M-di-H’chak and his ‘mate.’

_I must guard the ic’jit._

But it isn’t like the ic’jit can up and leave. There are no habitable star systems for light years; jumping into an escape pod spells certain death. It would be okay for him to back off for a few minutes and walk to his cabin or the medical bay. Stretch his legs. Gry’Sui decides to do just that; he grimaces and walks to the lift. He is sucked up through a chute and deposited on the upper level of the ship. When he inhales, he smells her: _lav'a-da._ He smells the scent of tears mixed in with the flower. His black eyes dim behind his mask. _Why are you crying, pyode amedha?_

Tentatively, his steps take him to the cabins. He stops in front of where the aroma originates, then listens. He can hear the sniffling and soft crying beyond. The noises irritate him, for a reason he is not yet sure about. Gry’Sui finds himself lifting a hand; he knocks before logic kicks in and he snaps away. The crying in the room stops. Gry’Sui stills and looks up and down the corridor. No one is there to see his flub. No one will judge him if he attempts to make the ooman not be _sad._ When the door opens and the ooman woman’s face peeks out, Gry’Sui blanks on what to do or say.

* * *

She stares at the taller, beefy form looking down on her. The last thing she needs is judgement from a Yautja. Yet the man’s sudden appearance baffles her. Save for Mercy and Maelstrom, the Yautja onboard the ship do not seem to care for her and Ivon, for the humans. Her brown eyes dim.

She knows the alien cannot understand her, but she utters nonetheless, “—If you came here to laugh at me—Fuck off. Not in the mood.”

She shuts the door. Her black locs sway faintly from the movement. They are quite long now, yet it feels like only yesterday she had decided to start growing her hair out and twisting it. Jo rubs the back of her head as she turns away from her cabin door. She flinches when the sound of knocking comes again. The human hesitates before she opens the door and squints at Barbe— _Gry_ —standing where he stood before.

Her heart leaps in her throat when the alien lifts a hand. It is not to kill; she _knows_ how quickly those hands can move if a Yautja wants to kill. Jo’s pulse quickens as Gry slowly, _slowly_ reaches for her. Jo’s gaze narrows, but she doesn’t rebuke him. She is not afraid. Baffled, but not afraid.

The Yautja slowly presses a palm to her abdomen, then tilts his mask at her and waits, as if asking for permission.

 _Okay?_ She narrows her gaze. Perhaps the large warrior is trying to say sorry or make amends in a Yautja way? _Is this how Yautja bond with one another?_ Jo looks up at Gry’s mask. Whatever the case, she knows he hasn’t killed her. His intentions are not violent.

She slowly nods. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Just—Keep your hand _there_ and off my boobs.”

He begins to purr. Jo almost bursts out laughing from how sudden it is, completely unexpected from the large, hulking, muscular Adonis-like alien. She keeps her laughter to herself, cracking a slight smile but giving nothing else away. She listens to the low, deep rumble coming from his form. It is something she recalls Ivon mentioning to her once, when Mercy and Maelstrom left to hunt Blake Kingston. The meaning of the rumble perplexes her, but she finds herself relaxing as it continues. A warmth permeates her body from her head to her toes, calming her nerves.

 _Ivon described it as… It felt like they watched something… intimate._ Jo’s face flushes red in realization. She stares at the silent, purring warrior in front of her. _Is he trying to start something with me? Like what—What Ivon has with—Maelstrom??_

She does not know how the electrician can handle the massive, muscular huntress. She does not know how Sundew can handle Mercy half the time, and Sundew isn’t even human. Briefly, her mind wanders to thoughts of what a Yautja looks like without armor or a mask. She glances at the purring figure’s amber-colored skin, a pelt of overlapping, faintly bumpy scales. Her eyes trace the contour of his muscles. Her gaze slowly lowers and stop at his groin, covered by a loincloth tied securely behind an armored kilt.

She wonders how big he is.

Her face lights up red. She removes the alien’s hand and mumbles something about a goodbye before letting her cabin door shut. Jo’s hearts race a mile a minute as she sinks to the ground and pats her cheeks. “No, no—You did not just—That—No! Fuck that. Fuck that. _Fuck.”_

* * *

He comforted an ooman.

He _purred_ for an ooman.

The Elite retreats to his room with the news _immediately_ , knowing he must resolve the growing problem before others pick up on it. A deep shame comes over him when he realizes his cock throbs miserably behind his loin cloth. For a moment after he purred, the ooman had demonstrated a flash of arousal, and the intoxicating aroma of _lav'a-da_ was enough to prompt his penis to fill with blood. Gry’Sui walks from the cabin door to his washroom.

He squats by the drain of the shower, flips his loin cloth up, and frees his shaft. The Elite grits his teeth as he watches the bright yellow phallus spring forth. He takes off one _dah’kte_ and growls as his hand clutches the head of his shaft. To relieve oneself is not embarrassing, but to do so over an _ooman?_

Gry’Sui grits his teeth as he bucks into his hand. He cradles his cock and grasps it tightly, thrusting himself through his fingers while the pressure builds in his groin. He is a needy man, turned on by disgusting prey, aroused to the point of grunting as he thrusts into his hand.

“ _Lav'a-da—Ooman—”_ Gry'Sui moans weakly, imagining her flesh under his touch, no clothes to obscure anything, his thighs twitching and quivering as he works himself into a sweat.

He never stops rubbing himself, dragging himself through the world of pleasure. His hand on his cock moves to the end and he begins to rub the pad of his thumb around the head furiously. His toes curl and his back arches as he fucks himself to a shaky climax. The Yautja gasps weakly as his ass clenches and he ejaculates over the floor of the washroom.

He is quick to clean up, both himself and the floor, satisfied at having resolved the problem—Until it hasn’t. The second he smells _lav'a-da_ , the man curses and feels himself unsheathe again. He feels weak in the knees as his thoughts drift toward the lewd side. It isn’t like him to be fixated on one individual—he has ten different mating partners lined up on his return—but it is as if a switch has gone off in his head. He tries to think of someone else, of a _Yautja_ , but his mind reverts to beautiful brown skin and dancing black locs, the kind one only finds on certain oomans. He thinks about the smell of the flower, about how _good_ it makes him feel, and about how badly his groin burns in want of it.

Clearly, his heat is getting to him. He needs to get the excessive energy out of his system. If it means hunting down the joke-loving _cjit_ who makes too many ooman references, so be it—He just needs someone to _pauk_ , to set his head straight.

When he exits the cabin with his armor righted and in place, Gry’Sui looks up and down before inhaling and frowning. The two Adjutants onboard have wound up in the same cabin, _together,_ away from others. The ooman who smells of _lav'a-da_ is still in her room; Gry’Sui resists the urge to go up and knock on the cabin door. Gry can smell _burnt rubber_ come from the cockpit at the end of the ship. He wanders to the door and knocks.

Kwei-Bezas huffs at him in greeting when the cockpit door opens, absentmindedly waving from where they sit in the pilot’s chair with their feet thrown up on a dashboard. _“I thought ya got tired of my jokes, Gry’Sui—"_

 _“I need to pauk you.”_ The Elite hisses.

Bezas freezes. They put their feet on the ground, sit upright, and look over their shoulder. _“—Uh, what?”_

 _“I need,”_ Gry swallows his pride as he stands by the door, not quite stepping through yet, but annoyed at having to repeat himself. _“You and I to—Pauk. Mate.”_

He can taste the sudden spike in Kwei-Bezas’ _n’dui-se_. He growls in want at the scent, accepting it if it means getting _lav'a-da_ out of his head. Bezas stands and faces him. They cross their arms. The mesh bodysuit reveals the Yautja still retains marks from the last time he seeded them.

 _“Uh-huh.”_ Bezas sounds unimpressed. _“I dunno who got your cock in a bind, but ya have hands. Use ‘em. Or—Find someone else to pauk. The Bezas Buffet is closed!”_

He stares as Bezas taps an input into their wrist computer. The cockpit door shuts and locks. Gry’Sui feels his erection throb behind his loin cloth. He cusses inside his head as he turns to bolts for his cabin. He groans and growls at his own physiology by the time he locks himself in the washroom, but not even the worst expletives can remove the potent whiff of _lav'a-da_ he catches in the air. His cock aches and he begins stripping himself of his armor and mesh _again_.

By the time he thrusts his cock into his hands, the Brawler is a panting mess in the corner of the washroom, with the shame of weakness for a _pyode amedha_ spurring his moans and gasps.

* * *

It is… _nice_ to have someone to talk to. Nice to have someone who cares. Nice to possess the knowledge the other Yautja knows how he cares in return.

Listening to her the first time, when the two were alone in the cabin, has only opened the door to more frequent conversations. For the past five day cycles, when he is not occupied by his duties and she by hers, he has met the other Adjutant in the _Kukulkan_ ’s medical bay. There, with the lights of the medical bay the only witness in the room, the two have sat and talked extensively. Not merely of Tarei-Jehdin, the nurse’s late brother, but of lighter topics, too. Things like the happier times of the nurse’s youth, or her tendencies to over-season anything she cooks, or her preference for bows over melee weapons because she dislikes ‘feeling’ a kill versus hearing it. 

It is not only Bist’ri who speaks. Guan finds the tables turned on him many times, with the nurse just as content to ask him about _his_ life as he is about hers. There is a noticeable, welcome thrill to engaging in a conversation where the other party listens and inquires for more, where he knows the other party _cares_ about the answers he gives. It makes the passing of the five day cycles feel like mere seconds, each moment more heart-racing than the last. Every second spent reinforces his existing feelings, but the knowledge they are shared, that they are _mutual_ even if impossible to pursue, keeps his thoughts in check and his mind focused.

 _“One of the planets Ju’dha took us to, Photon, I want to go back to eventually,”_ at present time, the nurse is in the middle of explaining an old memory. Guan’s orange eyes soften behind his mask as he watches Bist’ri nod slowly. _“I would need a ship, but that is not hard to accomplish. Finding Photon is the problem. It is a beautiful planet, but its flora and fauna are strange, and it isn't on the maps or star charts.”_

 _“Strange.”_ Guan clicks once, tilting his head to one side as he watches her.

She nods again. _“Everything is yellow—Bathed in yellow of soft pastel hues, vibrant, eye-searing shades, saffron, marigold, gold, amber, it is all there—It is all light. The planet doesn’t have a night cycle due to the stars surrounding it. But it isn’t… It’s warm, but not hot. I remember Tarei asking Ju’dha about it and Ju’dha said the flora absorb heat from the surroundings. It helps the planet maintain temperate weather. Tarei was fascinated by it all. I was upset I couldn’t hit the birds with my arrows. We were… No older than ten cycles by then.”_

The Adjutant sits cross-legged from Bist’ri, while the latter is plopped by the medical pods. He does not like to be too far from her, but Guan knows she likes having a degree of space. He keeps himself in a wider, empty space against the far wall, as it is less closed off in the event she wants to sit by him again.

Part of his mind remains on the conversation in the cabin five day cycles past. It is clear the nurse has things to say—painful, terrible things—but the fact she wants to share her secrets with _him_ fills him with a sense of honor like nothing else. Everything she says is taken to heart, guarded closely and away from prying eyes. He will not betray her trust.

 _“Have you found it since? Photon.”_ The man clicks curiously.

Bist’ri shakes her head. Her locs sway with the movement. _“I am Honorable Tjau’ke’s Adjutant. If I had more time to look, I would, but—”_

_“Responsibilities?”_

_“Sei-I, sei-I,”_ she crosses her arms. _“Some nights I wonder if I would have wanted to go back to hunting instead of becoming her Adjutant.”_

Guan stands briefly to shake out his legs before they fall asleep from sitting for so long. He sits after. _“Why did you become a nurse, Bist’ri?”_

Part of him regrets asking because, as he has done many times before, the words provoke unpleasant thought to flicker through the nurse. He can taste the barest trace of fear in the air before it dissipates. Guan holds his tongue, wanting to offer reassurance but recalling what she has told him before. The nurse wants to share these things, to let him carry some of her weight, just as she wants to take on some of his. His orange eyes remain hidden behind his bio-mask as they fill with concern and warmth mixing together and swirling more than his stomach churns at that moment.

 _“I didn’t have a choice. It was decided for me,”_ Bist’ri nods slowly. She sits upright. _“I wasn’t conscious at the time, but I heard later. The Elders wanted to… cull me. They believed it was a mercy after… after…”_ Her fists tense.

His chest tightens. He desperately wants to reassure her and tell her she owes him _nothing_ , but he knows she has heard it before, and he knows she has a better understanding of her limits than he does. Guan forces himself to stay quiet as he waits for the nurse to compose herself. It takes a long minute for Bist’ri to collect her thought.

She exhales shakily. _“After losing Tarei. And—Everything else. They didn’t believe I could recover.”_

 _“But you did,”_ Guan trills softly.

 _“Partially,”_ she corrects him. _“I—You’ve seen what happens when I—If someone holds me down. Pins me. I can’t—I’m not capable of handling it, Guan. I can’t Hunt. All I do is shut down or panic. I may be an Adjutant nurse now, but—Back then—I was much worse than… this. Than how I am now,”_ She gestures at herself. _“There’s a reason I wasn’t known around the clan for cycles. As a—Nurse, or—Otherwise. In the past—I couldn’t handle being in the same room as certain colors. The sight of beige and maroon would trigger flashbacks. I didn’t leave Ju'dha's living quarters for a long time.”_

Guan’s chest tightens. The nurse has yet to share with him just _what_ went on, only stating it occurred for roughly eight cycles, but he knows the implications. He sees them. He wants to find those responsible and skin them alive, but slowly—The Adjutant’s rage shows briefly in the tension across his body. He forces himself to breathe in great gulps of air, _slowly_ , until the anger dissipates. The nurse has already told him the Yautja involved have since passed. His anger does not help her.

He looks up, hoping the angle of his mask indicates his gaze is only for her. _“Your bhu’ja is stronger than most kv’var-de I know, Bist’ri. Nurse or kv’var-de—You are capable of conducting yourself in an honorable manner.”_

Bist’ri pauses. Her clicks become soft _. “I’m honored to hear that from you, Guan.”_

 _“I am honored to hear you are honored because of me,”_ Guan chirps with a note of humor. He stands and stretched his arms, then his legs. After, his arms drop back to his side and he pauses. _“Are you actually honored?”_

 _“I consider your words honoring, yes,”_ The nurse stands and leans against the nearest medical pod. Bist’ri pauses briefly before she clicks at him. _“I hope you haven’t forgotten—You’re the Adjutant of the Clan Leader. A lot of Yautja consider your words honorable. They trust your judgement.”_

 _“…I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”_ Guan utters and looks to the side. Memories from over one-eight-zero cycles prior to the present flicker through his head.

_“Your judgement isn’t bad—"_

_“My judgement is not always correct.”_

Bist’ri tilts her head to one side, curious. _“You aren’t perfect, Guan. None of us are. That’s okay.”_

 _“Can I—”_ For a moment his head goes many different places, in a dozen directions that make his face fill with heat behind his mask. The Adjutant exhales softly and calms his rising pulse before the rest of his body gets ideas. He slowly relaxes, centers himself, and looks at the other Adjutant. _“I want to tell you about someone—You don’t—You never met him. But he was… Someone important to me, once. To me and H’chak. Our mei-hswei. Can I—Do you mind? Bist’ri?”_

 _“M-di, never,”_ her voice sounds like it softens a moment. The nurse walks over to where he stands and abruptly plops down on the floor. She pats the floor near his sandals. Guan blinks a moment, perplexed, before he understands and takes a seat next to her.

Having her at his side feels right. He almost begins purring, but the Adjutant catches himself before his mind can wander again. He breathes in slowly. At the exact moment, the other Adjutant smells like a coast in the morning. In his head, he can picture it: soft waves kissing the shore, sand squishing beneath his skin, and the spray of sea foam in the background. It relaxes him. _She_ relaxes him. He needs the moment of comfort, the calm before a storm, because the memories of Chirp loom on him over one-seven-zero cycles later.

 _“I had two chivas. Multiple tests.”_ Guan fumbles with the choice of words, but he knows from Bist’ri’s quick nod she understands him. _“The first at two-zero cycles. Second at two-three cycles. It was the first—The first where things went wrong.”_

* * *

_“What are you doing?! Don’t shoot—Don’t shoot!” The Unblooded shrieks at his mei-hswei, still attempting to hold back Chirp while his other mei-hswei shakes and lifts the taun’dcha. The light of the cargo hold reflects off the plasma pistol in H’chak’s hands._

_In front of the three, the silver monster crackles with electricity. The Elder screams in pain as tendrils wrap around his body and grab his throat. The mass opens itself up like a maw._

_“You three—” The Elder roars. “Tell them—The Elders—Vekin—"_

_“It’s going to kill him! It’s going to—”_ _H’chak’s hands tremble. The aim is off. He won’t make the shot._

_The silver monster engulfs part of Ma-Or, strangling the Elder’s screams in the semi-transparent mass._

* * *

Guan’s orange eyes dim behind his mask. _“—Scutum-186f. A group of silver creatures ambushed H’chak, Chirp, and myself while the three of us were engaged in our hunt. I saw one creature die engulfing a kiande amedha. I saw another meet the Black Hunter when the Honorable and Late Elder Ma-Or’s ship opened fire with plasma cannons during our extraction. I believe one was left behind on the planet. The last—”_

He shuts his eyes. Certain memories are easier to forget, but now he needs to remember.

Something touches his hand. He pauses and looks at the nurse. Her grip is gentle, soft, and reassuring; it is everything he needs to withstand the past.

* * *

_The chaos erupts on multiple sides when the plasma pistol fires. Guan is one of them, yelling in horror as a spray of green blood erupts from Elder Ma-Or’s torso. The silver thing ensnaring the man detaches in time to throw itself to the side and send Ma-Or stumbling forward. Ma-Or only takes a few steps before he collapses, gurgling in his blood at the lethal shot._

_The taun’dcha clangs to the ground; H’chak falls to his knees, holds his head, and begins to scream._ _Chirp shoves his way free of Guan’s grip and runs to the Elder Yautja, rolling him on his back and chirping orders behind him, “The—There must be serum—Somewhere—Guan—H’chak—Can’t we do something?!”_

_The silver thing is fast, hopping like a hare and lunging for Elder Ma-Or’s body. The thing wants the Elder’s corpse. Guan doesn’t know what it is, but he imagines it like a kiande amedha. Kiande amedha takes the bodies, plants the spawn, then—He must get them out. He must protect them. Guan runs forward and grabs Chirp from behind. He tears the thrashing Unblooded from the dead Elder’s body and hauls him to the cargo hold door._

_“H’chak!” Guan howls. “H’chak! We need to go; we can trap it in the cargo hold!"_

* * *

_“It isn’t listed in the clan databanks. A… Vekin.”_ Guan grits his teeth. He remembers the day cycles spent pouring over articles on prey Gahn’tha-cte hunted over the span of the previous five-zero-zero-zero cycles. He remembers the time he wasted trying to piece together a puzzle that never made sense.

The other Adjutant squeezes his hand. It brings him out of the bitterness he feels for the past. Guan looks at Bist’ri and sighs into his mask.

He is quiet a long moment, lost in the calming _n’dui-se_ she gives off.

 _“I didn’t think I would ever know what it was. Not after the trial. Not after…”_ The man feels the nurse squeeze his hand again. He squeezes hers back. _“This trip—It brought it all back. Once again, in that accursed Milky Way system—Once again—I found a Vekin. It is what… Almost killed you, Bist’ri. On Terra.”_ A shudder ripples through him.

Guan hears the nurse exhale faintly.

He shakes his head. _“I almost saw it happen again, saw another honorable Yautja die at the hands of those creatures.”_

 _“I’m not dead,”_ Bist’ri repeats.

 _“You almost took the final rest. You don’t realize how lucky it is you lived, Bist’ri,”_ the Adjutant is deathly serious as he clicks the words. _“I overheated my taun’dcha and sivk’va-tai to kill it.”_

He takes her hand and opens it, then places his palm-up beneath hers. He is quiet as she runs her fingers along the scars left by his plasma pistol burning him. Bist’ri is just as quiet as the pads of her fingers and her thumb trace slow, methodical circles over the scars.

_“Guan—”_

_“If I decided to only take my sword on this trip—If I didn’t have my taun’dcha—If it or my plasmacaster malfunctioned or stalled—”_ Guan cuts his own words off. He knows the flicker of fear in his body is evident. He knows she will taste it, know of it, and acknowledge it. He doesn’t shy from letting the fear simmer between the two in his attempt to convey the fear he felt when he saw the Vekin attack her.

Guan feels her lift his palm up. Her hand slowly climbs his, to the point her fingers can slip through his own and slowly lace together. It reassures him enough to go on.

* * *

_The Unblooded sinks to the ground in front of the cargo hold door. Nearby, Chirp holds unto the two’s mei-hswei while H’chak continues to shake and tremble. Guan’s orange gaze falls to the floor. The cargo hold door is locked, its airlock active, but the silver beast and Ma-Or’s body remain inside._

_Pauk. Guan curses in his head as he leans against the door._

_“I killed him,” he hears his mei-hswei choke out the words. “I—I’ve broken—I broke the Code—I broke—”_

_“Hey, hey, you don’t—He could be alive in there, H’chak, let’s not—" Chirp’s optimism does nothing._

_Guan grits his teeth. He stares at the other two Unblooded from where he sits. “We need to—Tell the Elders. We have—We have our bio-mask feeds—”_

_“You do,” Chirp chirps, gesturing at his maskless face. “Tree sap took mine!”_

_“H’chak and I—We have our bio-mask feeds—We can—We can show them what happened. We can show them what happened. It wasn’t—It was an accident. You were trying to help. And—And—” The panic rises in his trills and chirrups as he scrambles to think. “They’ll understand—You’re Unblooded! You were just—You tried to help—They won’t—They’ll understand—They have to!”_

* * *

_“The Vekin on the ship—It attacked us. The Late, Honorable Elder Ma-Or attempted to fight it off. My mei-hswei found Elder Ma-Or’s taun’dcha and tried to shoot it. He missed,”_ Guan states the words without tone or inflection. _“We trapped it in the cargo hold, but it—It found a way to open and activate one of the ship’s escape pods.”_

The past is a heavy thing to carry alone.

He looks to the side. _“I… advised my mei-hswei to hold off on any actions until we showed the Elders our bio-mask feeds. That is what we did. The ship returned to the clanship, we presented our masks, and then…”_ Guan hisses at the air. _“They arraigned Chirp. They believed—They thought—He was responsible. That we were lying. Pauk any evidence we had! Pauk the masks, the thwei, even the ship—It didn’t matter, no one would listen to a bunch of Unblooded who just got back from a pauked up chiva! Nobody listened—”_

His eyes grow wet behind his mask. He lets go of Bist’ri’s hand and holds his head in his hands. His body shakes.

 _“—They found him guilty—They found him guilty in hours—Daga sentenced him to the final rest. We didn’t get to say goodbye—He didn’t get to say goodbye—No one—Not even his bearer, sirer, no one—He was taken away—H’chak and I talked our way into the room,"_ it is shame and guilt and grief twisted into one heinous sin. Guan howls in anger and frustration. _“—We got there at the execution—He was—Chirp was begging for his life on the stand—Sobbing—Pleading—He didn’t understand—He didn’t—And they—They butchered him, Bist’ri! Pauk all of them! The Elders! Daga! Every single one—"_

His hands tense into fists and he slams them into his thighs. A slow hiss crawls from his throat. He slams the back of his head against the wall.

 _“I could do nothing—Nothing_ ,” the man weeps. _“I told Chirp and H’chak—I told them—To trust the Elders—I did that!”_

 _“You couldn’t have known, Guan,”_ Bist’ri exhales sharply and cuts him off. _“If this is—If part of the clan tried to cover it up—How could you have prepared for it? How could you have known?”_

 _“I swore to protect both of them and I failed. I swore to protect H’chak from—From all of this cjit—And look where it got him—Look where it got me,”_ Guan cannot stand to look at the nurse. His guilt weighs on his consciousness, unraveling all the warmth the nurse brings, the peace he finds in her presence, and reviving the pain he blames himself for. _“When we return to Gahn’tha-cte—H’chak is going to be put on trial. He’ll be at Daga’s mercy—Just like Chirp was—I can’t do anything to protect him!”_

 _“I don’t need or want your protection.”_ The bitterness is a slap in the face. Guan’s eyes widen and his face drains of color behind his mask. He slowly lifts his head and spots the medical bay door closing behind the soft green figure of his _mei-hswei._

H’chak stares at where he sits next to the other Adjutant on the floor. The man does not wear his mask, allowing Guan to see ever ounce of hate in his orange eyes. H’chak hesitates only a second before he marches to the two. He has no qualms grabbing Guan by the collar of his mesh bodysuit and hauling him to his feet.

 _“M-di-H’chak—”_ the Adjutant nurse begins to rise to her feet.

 _“This discussion doesn’t involve you, Adjutant Bist’ri.”_ The Elite snaps at her. Bist’ri stills and steps back, at a loss of what to say.

Guan’s orange gaze dims. He shoves H’chak away and stands upright. He does not want to pull rank, but he cannot tolerate disrespectful behavior, not when it is directed at Bist’ri. He pulls the rotten remains of his composure from the back of his mind and clicks at H’chak softly. _“Don’t direct your hate for me at her. She’s done nothing wrong, kv’var-de.”_

H’chak’s hiss seeps through his mask. _“Disloyalty with a paired Yautja is ‘nothing wrong?’ The pauk is wrong with you, Adjutant? You have a mate—You took a mate! For life! You swore yourself to her—”_

 _“I haven’t committed acts of disloyalty. With Adjutant Bist’ri or anyone else—"_ Guan’s hands tense into fists. Anger begins to overshadow his guilt, mixed in with specks of fear at the thought of Ikthya-De. He has not seen his life mate in days, refusing to acknowledge the woman unless necessary.

His _mei-hswei_ growls in response. _“Forgive me for not giving a cjit about—”_

 _“You think we’re what?!”_ The words give both Elites pause.

H’chak looks over just in time for the nurse’s fist to connect with his throat. He stumbles back, choking a moment before roaring in anger. Bistri’s roar is just as loud. She is furious. Furious Yautja are _s’yuit-de,_ fools, and Guan sees just how foolish one can be when he sees her lunge for the Elite. She intends to challenge him over the accusation, and rightfully so, but Guan has seen Bist’ri fight—H’chak is _far_ superior in close quarters combat. Everything will go wrong. He must protect her. He won’t let two people he cares for maul each other.

He doesn’t think before he throws himself between the two, shoving Bist’ri back and turning in time to face H’chak. The latter has already brought his arms up, each equipped with a _dah’kte_ , to block the attempted strike. H’chak stops at the sight of Guan keeping Bist’ri behind him. Guan’s orange eyes narrow at the pause; he lurches forward and shoves the Elite by the shoulder, hard enough to force H’chak to stumble backward from his challenge and fall over.

 _“You’re a dishonorable man,”_ the Elite snarls at him.

 _“I’m a lot of things,”_ Guan snaps. _“If you’re so eager to see me suffer—Accept it, H’chak! Jehdin-jehdin! Just like before!”_

He calms his racing hearts when H’chak pushes himself up. The man seethes with sheer, raw _hate_ for a long moment. Then, to Guan’s surprise, H’chak bows his head. _“I refuse.”_

The Adjutant is so taken aback he stands there, frozen. It isn’t until Bist’ri clicks his name that he remembers where he is and what he is doing. Guan looks back at Bist’ri to make sure she’s alright before he faces forward, stunned into silence.

 _“Even if the two of you are dishonorable Yautja—Even if I hate you more than dishonor itself—”_ H’chak curses a moment, every expletive—and some new ones—thrown into the open. _“I swore on my honor—I would try to forgive you. To prove myself worthy of Adjutant Bist’ri’s forgiveness. And I, unlike you, am still trying to uphold my Honor.”_

It cuts deeper than the Adjutant cares to admit.

 _“M-di-H’chak—You don’t—"_ Bist’ri begins, but Guan clicks softly at her. The Adjutant nurse falls quiet.

_“I thought about what I want from you. What’s worth forgiving all the cjit you did to me. To Ikthya-De.”_

Guan’s growls at the implication, his patience momentarily faltering at the implications, _“To Ikthya-De? What—What I have done to—"_

 _“Shut up.”_ H’chak does not intend to hear him out. The Elite breathes out loudly. He looks to the side. _“You are the Adjutant of Clan Gahn’tha-cte. You have political influence I could never achieve. And what I need—Is something political, Adjutant Guan. I have a mate. Her name is Sundew. And she is—She means everything to me now,”_ the Yautja’s voice becomes soft and uncertain. _“But she’s not a Yautja. She’s a… She’s an... An Im-Gen. The clan will not recognize her as my mate. They may call our relationship dishonorable; relations with unworthy prey.”_

He remembers H’chak shouting at him about a mate weeks back, before the Echinos was bombed. He knew an Im-Gen had been found onboard the man's ship. Guan’s chest tightens. _“You want me to convince the clan to recognize her as your mate. To recognize her as one of Gahn’tha-cte’s own.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak looks to the side. _“No matter what happens to me—Ensure she is recognized and treated as a member of Gahn’tha-cte. Ensure she is safe. That is the only thing worth my forgiveness.”_

Uncomfortable silence fills the medical bay. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan breathes in the scent of salt, sand, and sea, from his side. He stares at his _mei-hswei,_ as much a scarred and pained man as himself, if not more. He hears the desperation in the man’s voice. Guan does not doubt H’chak’s devotion to the mate the Adjutant has yet to meet.

 _Someone worth making you rely on who you hate most._ He inhales again, his mind briefly lulled into the mental image of the coast, of Bist’ri.

He understands the desperation.

 _“It will be done,”_ Guan nods. _“I promise.”_


	53. selfish (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to ao3 user friggy who has put up with me writing a million pining scenes. Here u go. 
> 
> tw for:  
> -talk of stillbirth  
> -talk of infertility  
> -talk of extortion  
> -conversation referencing or implying past rape and abuse  
> -talk of children being used as political pawns  
> -cheating
> 
> This chapter was very difficult to write. But I'm very happy with how it turned out. This takes place 1 day before the group arrives at Gahn'tha-cte. Arc 5 aka the Gahn'tha-cte arc will begin next chapter.

The night cycle is a heavy one for all inhabitants of the divine snake, _Kukulkan_. The snake glides and soars effortlessly through the cosmos, but the sentiment is not shared across the ship. For several, the night cycle is a foreboding time, and the last they have before the Gahn’tha-cte clanship is reached come the next day cycle. There is no more time to slack off or pretend reality is not set to crash upon the backs of the _ic’jit_ Vayuh’ta and Elite M-di-H’chak onboard.

For some, the weight of the night cycle spurs bouts of insomnia. Some of the ship’s occupants do not rest, merely sit in their pods or sprawl out over floor-beds in the wait for ‘morning.’ One eats in the kitchen unit, chewing slowly on a block of hard tack. Another showers in attempts to wash away shame at arousal. Eventually, most of the ship’s parties return to their cabins, and the _Kukulkan_ is a quiet place once more.

In the cockpit of the ship, the _Kukulkan_ runs on autopilot and flies itself. The head of the ship has a perfect view of the galaxies passing by. The star systems are beautiful, but the thought of how each may contain thousands of stars spurs something in the Adjutant nurse as she looks up from where she sits. Behind her bio-mask, her green eyes soften. There is a deep peace hidden in the stars, a sign of her species infallible accomplishments to sail the stars as if it were nothing but the sea. When she watches a comet fly by or notes a chunk of asteroids further out in space, her four hearts quicken, and she breathes in with a trill of delight.

The nurse’s anxiety has her locked in a stupor. Her worries and fears about what is to come in Clan Gahn’tha-cte, about facing the Elders, about Ikthya-De and dishonor and _acts of disloyalty_ M-di-H’chak is convinced she partakes in—All of them linger in her head. Her mind remains active and awake as she pushes her thoughts away and watches the stars.

She doesn’t like not having control of her future.

She stays in the cockpit even after the others in the ship have given in to the call of sleep and retired to the cabins. Exhaustion is the enemy, but sleep is equally cruel in many ways. The nightmares she lives with are often exaggerated in her dreams, forcing her subconscious to duel with herself and the vie to wake up. Sometimes they are of her brother, of Tarei-Jehdin, and of the light going out in his eyes when she sends his soul to the Black Hunter _again, again, again_. Other times—They are worse than the sin of dishonor: a retelling of the eight cycles of horror, of subjugation, of laughter, of the feelings of claws gripping her flesh, of weights on her chest, and of the second sickest crime a Yautja can commit, second only to _murder_.

On the clanship, Honorable Tjau’ke often gives her a liquid to swallow when she fears what comes in her sleep. Being knocked out for hours is preferable over the night terrors, but there are no drugs to take on the _Kukulkan_. She must tough it out through willpower alone.

A familiar scent creeps through the air. Bist’ri jumps to her feet when she hears the cockpit door open. She spins around just in time to peer at one Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, the latter standing in the doorway.

 _“Oh, Guan,”_ she exhales sharply. The nurse turns her back to him. _“I thought you were someone else.”_

* * *

He does not expect to find anyone when he initially pulls himself from the cabin’s sleeping pod, restless, and opts to venture to the cockpit. Originally, the Adjutant hoped to enjoy time to himself. He knows the sight of the stars passing by relaxes him. Yet when he opens the cockpit door and catches the aroma of _salt, sand, sea_ in the air, his body relaxes on its own. His orange eyes soften behind his mask as he looks on at the Adjutant nurse standing in the cockpit.

 _“Oh, Guan.”_ She sounds surprised. The night must wear on her, because he knows Bist’ri is not easy to sneak up on. Bist’ri turns away from him, facing the front of the cockpit. _“I thought you were someone else.”_

 _“Bist’ri,”_ the man clicks politely as he steps through the door. He scans the cockpit; no one else is present, nor are there any signs of someone besides Bist’ri having been around lately. The nurse’s words puzzle him. Guan tilts his head to one side. _“Who else would I be…?”_

 _“M-di-H’chak? Or—The ic’jit?”_ The suggestions _baffle_ him. Guan stares at Bist’ri’s back while the latter shrugs. _“You three smell identical. And—The ic’jit looks like you—”_

 _“She does.”_ The thought perplexes the man. Guan crosses his arms and leans against the nearest wall, not wishing to intrude on the nurse’s need for space. _“I hadn’t—I haven’t been around her much. I didn’t think about her n’dui-se. But there’s no—I don’t believe she’s related to me. She is one of Ka’Torag-Na’s, and considerably older. My bearer died when I was… two-three? Two-five cycles.”_

 _Setg’in._ A huntress with a powerful legacy he has never been able to live up to. Even now—Guan knows the older Yautja across the clan expect much from him. Daga’s expectations are heinous and taxing. The Adjutant is not the legendary hunter he knows his bearer wanted.

 _“She looks and smells like you. You’re indifferent to her. Most of the medical division would agree—Blood kin are indifferent or repulsed by one of their own n’dui-se. It is a genetic trait, linked to preventing inbreeding,”_ Bist’ri sounds certain in her words. Her confidence stirs something in him. But as much as he yearns to stay by her side, he does not push himself up and cross the short gap between the two. Guan nods instead, hoping the nurse continues, but she has nothing else to add.

He looks to the side. _“If I had blood kin in Ka’Torag-Na—It would have come to light long before this. How would one of my own become part of their clan? Their clanship prefers the distant star systems, far from Gahn’tha-cte, far from Yautja Prime.”_

 _“Daga said he gave one of his own pups to them.”_ Bist’ri clicks gently. _“During that time—Wasn’t he with Setg’in, Guan? It would make her your—”_

_“Half-mei-jahdi. Half my blood.”_

_“Sei-i.”_ The nurse nods once. _“I think—It’s too coincidental.”_

The thought gives him a headache. _“…Is… Do you think that’s why Ka’Torag-Na wants her delivered to them? Alive? If she is Daga’s daughter—”_

_“You know Akrei-non-Daga more than I do. If he still recognizes her as his pup—"_

_“I wish I didn’t know him that well,”_ Guan grimaces behind his mask, mandibles clicking in irritation at the thought of the man. _“He’s—Not a good man, Bist’ri.”_

 _“I know that.”_ The other Adjutant nurse tilts her head to one side as she continues to look out the cockpit window.

 _“I can’t say if he does or doesn’t recognize her as his pup. Probably not. He—He spoke of handing his pup to Ka’Torag-Na in the sense—He saw his pup as a boy.”_ Guan clicks in irritation once more. _“We know Vayuh’ta—This ic’jit—We know she is not—But—He may not be aware. If he is not aware, how could he have any connection to who she is right now?”_

 _“Maybe he thinks his pup is still in Ka’Torag-Na? Do—"_ Bist’ri looks back at him. She pauses a moment, beginning to click something but falling short. _“Do you think he’s being extorted by the Lurking Clan?”_

 _“A corrupt man being corrupt. Sei-I, I could see that. But I don’t know if—Akrei-non-Daga has been leader of Gahn’tha-cte for many cycles, and Adjutant before that. Even with his ego—”_ It all hurts his head to think about. Guan walks forward, stopping by the pilot’s seat and grunting. _“Part of me thinks—Believes—He wouldn’t do this for his pup. I think—He puts his own preservation above all else. He wouldn’t risk his position over a pup, not even his own daughter.”_

 _“I’ve heard Kwei-Bezas say a lot of ooman terms lately.”_ Bist’ri’s voice becomes lighter. Her trills reflect faint notes of mirth as she remarks, _“I think—This one—They would say it’s a ‘rabbit hole.’ I don’t know why a rabbit would have a hole over a burrow or den, but I can hear them saying it now.”_

_“Rabbit hole.”_

_“Rabbit hole,”_ Bist’ri repeats. Both Yautja click with humor, the faint laughter slowly dying away as focus returns to the topic at hand. The nurse clicks to get his attention. _“—Do you—Do you know who your sirer is, Guan? I had another thought about your blood kin, but I don’t know who sired you.”_

 _“Setg’in never told me.”_ The man shakes his head, locs swaying slightly. _“I know my sirer was or is a sword user, though. When I became Blooded—I received a gift from my sirer. A very old sword—One passed from my sirer’s lineage. It’s in my residence on the clanship.”_

The nurse pauses. _“Is—Can it be used? In a Hunt?”_

 _“M-di. It is too old, and the blade has gone dull. I would have to sharpen the blade, replace the guard and hilt…”_ Guan huffs at the thought. He falls silent a moment, a thought coming to mind at the mention of the old blade. _“It has a name—Waxaklahun Ubah Kan,”_ intoning the syllables into his chirrups is difficult. He has not spoken the name in cycles. _“I don’t know what the name translates to, but I know it comes from Terra. When I looked it up using the clan databank, it pulled up a region of land called the Yucatán Pennisula. If this was not a timely matter—I considered detouring to look for evidence of the name’s significance.”_

He has not shared the thought with others. It is one he considers too personal, and lacking relevance to the matters of the clan’s overall prosperity. His hairless brows furrow behind his mask. Perhaps, after the mess that is Gahn’tha-cte’s current events passes, he can devote more time and energy to his search of understanding the sword.

 _“There’s something I think you should know—”_ Bist’ri’s clicks take on a very different tone as she drops her arms to her side and exhales. It draws Guan’s attention immediately. His eyes narrow and he peers at her, concern flitting through his chest. The Adjutant nurse turns to face him. _“You and H’chak—I think—I think you and H’chak are twins.”_

* * *

She hears him hold his breath when she speaks. Bist’ri’s four hearts thump nervously in her chest. It was never her right to say it, but her thoughts have slowly began putting different pieces of information together. The pieces paint a picture he has the right to know. The Adjutant nurse does not say anything without confidence behind the words, without believing it to be true herself.

And, for a long time after, she does not say anything at all, silent as the man near her is while her statement sinks in.

_“…How?”_

_“You both have Jupiter eyes.”_ Bist’ri tenses as she answers. _“The Pride of Cetau hangs off your heads. You are the same age, Guan. Two-one-five cycles. And—”_

It isn’t her right to say it. The information is a betrayal of trust, a violation of privacy, not hers to reveal—But at the same time, hiding it from the Adjutant seems equally wrong given the information involves _him_. His blood kin. Bist’ri winces behind her mask. She is already a dishonorable woman; she cannot bring more shame upon herself than what already exists in the voice of Tarei inside her head.

 _“Tjau’ke cannot birth live pups. It is—An effect caused by the same genetic mutation which gives her the coloration of her scales,”_ Bist’ri’s hands ball into fists, the ends of her claws pushing lightly into her scale-covered flesh. _“I do not know much of Setg’in—But I know about Tjau’ke. And Tjau’ke has never spoken ill of the woman. I think—No, I know She and your bearer were close. Mei-jahdi. Sisters, by clan or by thwei is irrelevant.”_

The other Adjutant watches her, posture as stiff and rigid as she feels at that second.

 _“She told me once,”_ Bist’ri clicks, quieter this time. _“Setg’in gave her the greatest gift of all; the gift of mercy.”_

 _“…The gift of H’chak.”_ Guan throws his head back and sighs loudly. His hands tense at his side. _“If that—If it—If that’s true—Bist’ri—Then—”_

 _“Elder Lar’ja is your sirer.”_ Bist’ri nods stiffly. _“It makes sense—She was Setg’in’s last mate before the huntress died.”_

 _“Does H’chak know?”_ The Adjutant straightens upright. _“Does he know anything about this?”_

_“—I haven’t spoken to him. Nor do I want to, after the way he conducted himself in the medical bay.”_

* * *

_The medical bay…_ Guan feels heat bloom in his stomach. He inhales deeply to calm himself. _“I think—That’s for the best. Right now,”_ his heart weighs heavy in his chest, dissipating any of the warmth the nurse invokes in him. _“—He is… He has gone through a lot, Bist’ri. I’ve done terrible things to him. I put him on this path.”_

 _“I don’t hate him, Guan. But he frustrates me,”_ the Adjutant nurse shakes her head. _“I don’t know—When—Why—He got an idea in his head—Acts of disloyalty—Defending Ikthya-De—It made me—”_ She clicks several expletives under her breath.

Her anger smells like a storming coast.

 _“—I will treat her as a patient—But I will not let her hurt you again.”_ Bist’ri grits her teeth. _“I don’t care if that means—If I have to—To fight her one day—I might be scared—But I’m—I’m angry, Guan. Angry at what she’s done to you, what she’s done to others. How she’s gotten away with no repercussions because of Leader Daga.”_

 _“Don’t tempt Cetanu because of me, Bist’ri.”_ The man’s orange eyes narrow behind his mask. He takes a step forward but stops when he sees her body tense. Guan clicks in a low volume, _“She’s a dangerous woman—”_

 _“Ki’sei,”_ the nurse cuts him off. She shakes her head. _“She is Ikthya-De-Th’syra—But you are Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. You are important to the future of Gahn’tha-cte—And—To me.”_ Her chirps trail off. She faces forward, quiet once again.

He pauses, reflecting on her resolve. His gaze flits to the cockpit window.

Outside, the galaxies look celestial, like one of the Payas has blessed the cosmos with a veil of shimmering stars. Though the stars look like blotches of white through his bio-mask’s full spectrum filter, Guan switches the optical filters, mesmerized at how the stars appear to glow and take on different hues.

Then his gaze veers left, to where Bist’ri stands watching the stars several _noks_ to his side. The light of passing star systems reflects in her mask. Some of the light dances over her form, mingling with the faint white specks scattered across her hide. It is easy for his eyes to become lost on her, sweeping up and down her form, admiring how simple things like the mesh thermal suit hugs her muscles, how her blue locs become tinted with green at the ends, how her scales remind him of moving water: flowing with lethality waiting just beneath the surface. She looks…

 _Beautiful._ His four hearts skip a beat in unison. Heat builds inside his chest, rising to his face. When he breathes in, he can taste the scent of _salt, sand, sea._ A shore on a sunny day, with a rich blue sky and gentle waves calling to him.

The tension is back. The thick, unspeakable tension. The kind full of things he doesn’t identify yet resonates with. His pulse quickens as he stands, lost in the feelings and the thought of her.

 _“You shouldn’t—Say things like that.”_ The other Adjutant clicks quietly.

Guan freezes in realization. He did not mean to say it aloud, but the slip of the tongue is out there. His face fills with heat. He stands still as stone a long minute, thoughts desperately scrambling for an explanation. He stares at Bist’ri. Her scent reaches out to him and envelopes his senses, reminding him how desperately drawn to the woman he is. He is quiet for a time before he clicks at her, _“I stand by my word.”_

He feels her gaze on him. Picking. Prodding. Looking for something he can’t identify.

Guan tenses when she walks up to him. She doesn’t taste of fear when she looks up into his mask. For a long while, neither say anything—The two stand there, a _nok_ apart, until Guan lifts his hands and cups the other Yautja’s masked face. He hears her soft exhale. He leans down to her forehead and bumps his own against it. The fire in his bones lights up as he utters softly, _“—If I could court you—I would try. Bist’ri.”_

 _“Guan…”_ Her hands shake as she pulls him closer. Her arms wrap around his chest and she exhales in a shaky voice. _“I hope—You wouldn’t bring me s'pke.”_

 _“It’s a cure for space lag.”_ He chirps with a note of humor. A soft, content rumble escapes his throat when he hears the nurse’s mandibles click in faint laughter.

The humor dies down. Bist’ri sighs against him. Her grip tightens, and all it does is make the man want to lean into her touch. Guan stills when the other Adjutant releases him and draw back. _“Tomorrow will be… bad. Guan. When we return to Gahn’tha-cte—"_

His chest tightens. _“What about tonight? Is it bad?”_

 _“I don’t know,”_ The words are clicked softly. _“Is it bad for you?”_

He breathes in the scent of _salt, sand, sea._ He knows the Yautja wants an honest answer. His four hearts begin thumping wildly in his chest. He wants to reach for her, but he knows she needs the degree of space—It is all that stands between the two of them and disloyalty. Guan’s body burns at the thought, full of a deep ache for _her_. It is bitterly ironic how his _mei-hswei_ accused the two of the very thing the two struggle to not commit.

Part of him wants to scream in frustration. He is tired of being toyed with and manipulated by his life partner even when the latter is absent. He is exhausted running around and trying to fix things or _protect_ when he is just as desperate for someone to protect him. He doesn’t want to be stuck as Adjutant Guan to everyone; he wants someone who knows him for him, for _Guan_ , for the pained man inside with all his flaws.

 _“Every second—”_ He grits his teeth. His body shudders. _“—I’m away from you—Is bad—Bist’ri.”_

He doesn’t know who makes the first move but his back slams against the wall of the cockpit. He hisses between his teeth and looks down at the nurse, begging her to go on as her hands climb up and down his chest. She exhales against him and moves a hand to his nape, pulling him the one inch down to where their foreheads bump against the other. Guan can scarcely breathe from how overwhelming her _n’dui-se_ is; he slowly, tentatively, desperately, lifts his hands to her hips and feels them.

 _“Not here—”_ The two clicks are enough to make him pant and shake. He nuzzles her and lets her take his hand—the two’s fingers weave together—before the two walk— _run_ —to her cabin. No sooner than they are inside are the two on each other, both as much a trembling mess as the other.

Guan does not know what to expect in the Yautja’s mating dance. It has been _too long_ , and maybe Bist’ri senses that, because she presses him gently against the wall of her cabin and takes a moment to breathe him in. Hearing her gulp the air, seeking out _his_ scent above the others, it makes him groan softly and reach for her. His hands are equally met in her gentle touches. He rubs his hands up and down the side of her torso while she clutches at his chest, at his sculpted muscles, at the contour of his scales underneath the mesh bodysuit.

His groin aches when the hands trail down. He shudders at the feeling of the nurse rubbing circles over his pelvis, a few inches shy of where he’s begun to unsheathe. She’s as nervous as he is, trembling with every touch. He clicks softly. _“—Bist’ri—”_

 _“We can’t,”_ she draws her hand back and the man pants. _“—We can’t—Come back from this—Guan—”_

 _“I know,”_ he trills at her. His body is on fire, every nerve electrified and responsive as he watches the nurse. _“I—I don’t—I don’t care—All I want—”_

Her hands return to him and she pulls his head down against hers. Her grip is gentle, but it digs into his skin and makes him moan. The noise prompts a soft exhale. Bist’ri pulls him from the wall and her arms encircle him, hands falling to the small of his back where his armor doesn’t cover. Guan moans at the feeling of her fingers reaching for his ass, slowly rubbing and kneading more of the flesh. Even through his kilt—He feels the warmth of her hands. He presses himself closer to her.

 _“Why do you wear so much armor?”_ The nurse’s question is so abrupt and _frustrated_ Guan wants to stop and laugh. His throat rumbles gently instead before he leans in and breathes—

_Salt. Sand. Sea._

Every gulp of air is greedy. He needs it. He cannot take in enough; even with her right in front of him, he loses himself in his hunger. Her _n’dui-se_ permeates the room as the wall hits his back again. The clink of metal from his mask bumping into hers when the two’s foreheads touch drives him wild. He has not wanted in so long, not in the way he wants her now. He breathes in again; the scent of the shore heavy, full of _her_.

 _“Bist’ri…”_ He clicks the name, tasting it on his tongue again. The ravenous hunger sings through his voice. When her hands touch his chest, he groans against her. She has gentle movements and soft, soft fingers; her skin feels alien in smoothness as she drifts them over his muscles, feeling him out. He releases his breath when she stops, and exhales when she pauses.

She is just as nervous as he is. The two Adjutants stare at one another. Though her hands tremble and his shake, neither back away from the other, not this time.

 _“Tell me what you want from me.”_ He cups her face.

 _“You—Just you,”_ it is a confession that sends the man’s four hearts pounding loudly in his head, racing to the point of being lightheaded. His mind is lost on her, staring in awe and want and adoration when the nurse steps back. He swallows as Bist’ri removes her bio-mask. She drops it to the ground. He can see the longing in her eyes, every inch of the deep-seeded hunger that fuels the two to this moment. She looks beautiful, vulnerable, and raw, like a perfect picture embracing the fragile allure and destructive potential of Yautja.

Then she steps forward, and her hands land on him. The slow movements come faster as she sets about methodically unhooking and prying free every piece of veritanium armor from his body. Guan shuts his eyes and breathes. He smells her, only her, _her, her, her._ Each piece of armor removed feels like his spirit writhes and wrestles free of another unspoken chain, to do as it pleases, to revel in her scent. He groans when her hands reach for his hips, when she pulls his hip guards and the armored kilt off, when she presses her body flush against his and breathes _him_ in.

She feels warm, soft, wonderful. She doesn’t don armor; every curve of her muscles, of the toned, sculpted flesh presses into his. Guan’s groan becomes a strangled cry when he feels her hands climb up the sides of his torso. He grits his teeth and inhales. He needs more, none of it is enough, nothing can satiate the hunger but her. When she pauses, Guan looks down at her. Her green eyes have infinite depth to them. He finds the look inside is full of adoration and need. It takes him aback, stifles his hunger, and leaves him silent in a deep, aching warmth.

 _“Can I see your eyes?”_ She trills softly. _“I want to know if—If they’re as beautiful as the rest of you.”_

The Adjutant feels heat bloom across his face. He swallows and nods. His hands shake as he removes his mask. The world becomes a range of infra-red without his bio-mask. In front of him, the bright red-orange signature of Bist’ri exhales.

 _“I was wrong,”_ the woman clicks. _“They’re even better.”_

 _“You can’t see them—”_ His comment is cut off by the other Yautja moving closer, forehead rubbing against his while she trills softly in humor. Having her so close fills his head with her. Only her. His knees wobble weakly, the man lost in the aroma of _salt sand sea_ , but she steps between his legs and looks at him, forcing him to stand upright. His hands tremble at his side. He swallows when Bist’ri’s hands gingerly run up and down his arms, occasionally stopping to linger over his muscles. When her hands return to his torso and drift to his hips, it is all he can do not to throw his head back and moan. He feels heat spike in his groin. His hips grind instinctively at her touch, a carnal need to mate seeping through.

Bist’ri’s shudder pleases him.

Guan’s gaze falls on her thermal signature. He eyes the warmest places of her body. Part of him longs to touch, to feel, to claim, but his uncertainty lingers. He shifts his head and buries it in the crook of her neck, inhaling with more vigor, rocking his body against hers as he struggles to rein himself in.

Bist’ri’s hands tighten and her clawtips dig into his pectoral muscles through his mesh. _“Guan—Can I—”_

He swallows and draws back. When he speaks, his clicks are a whisper, _“What do you need from me?”_

 _“I want—I want to touch you—And this—This is in the way,”_ Her grip on him shifts from flesh to the mesh bodysuit. The thin garments on their bodies is all that separates the two, that keeps them from embracing. The realization of how little there is makes him moan lowly. He begins to shake again in his nerves. His hands seek out hers and he entangles them together for a long, desperate moment. She squeezes his hands; he squeezes hers in return.

He hisses loudly when her hands run over his hips. She touches the sides first, slow and gentle, before her hands reach behind him and knead his ass. Guan moans through clenched teeth. He feels flustered. His mandibles draw together tightly, and he groans when Bist’ri slowly runs her fingers around the side of his hips to his front. His groin aches and throbs badly. He can feel part of himself unsheathed behind the cloth, no doubt prodding her abdomen. Though Bist’ri’s hands rub circles over the thin loincloth, she does not rip it off. Guan feels her eyes on him.

 _“Are you alright?”_ She asks, hesitant. Even when the two are like this, tucked away from the world, ignorant or sinfully obvious of the lines they cross together, she still worries for him.

The Adjutant’s orange eyes soften. His inner jaw hangs open. He clicks back. _“I—It’s been—A while. A long time. I don’t—I don’t want to disappoint you.”_

 _“Guan.”_ He’s left breathless by how _right_ it feels hearing her say his name. _“I don’t think you could disappoint me.”_

 _“I—”_ His hands shake when he reaches for her. He cups her face, fingers caressing her mandibles, hissing softly while she sighs. The man clicks at her, _“I want you—I want to do this with you.”_

He nuzzles her head and holds his breath when her hands drop to his waist. First to come off is the loincloth. He doesn’t try to hide himself when the fabric falls away. She lets go of the cloth and lifts her hands back to his neck, where the collar of his bodysuit feels like a hot weight. Guan breathes in relief when she finally begins to help him out of it, her hands firm but always soft in easing the material off his body. It peels off like a snakeskin, all the way down until he steps out of the fishnet-like lining and stands in front of her. His face burns with heat at the realization he has nothing on him anymore. Not armor, not weapons, not a loincloth or kilt or mesh suit—Nothing but himself, his flesh, his skin.

He feels self-conscious when she steps back, when her head tilts, when her eyes dissect him. Guan feels his body ache, himself hunger, his hands quiver and his knees wobble. When she steps back and looks up, when her mandibles tickle the edge of his own in a slow, careful caress, he loses himself in her scent again. He moans softly into the air of the cabin. The woman’s hands slowly reach around his waist and encircle him. Bist’ri presses her head into his neck and breathes.

 _“—You’re beautiful. Handsome. Strong. I—”_ She inhales his scent. _“—I never thought I would—Want to do this with someone—Not after—After everything. But I_ …” He feels her body trembling. His arms wrap around her, securing her to him as much as she does him to her. Guan begins to purr softly. The noise rumbles in his throat, traveling to his chest. He feels Bist’ri draw back just enough to look up at him. _“I like you a lot. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. More than you know. And I—I want you. I know that makes me selfish—But I—”_

 _“Just for tonight—”_ He breathes out. _“Be selfish, Bist’ri—Be selfish with me—"_

His breath hitches when a hand falls to his erect cock. She feels him slowly. It is soothing, adoring, and hungry in how her hand tenderly runs fingers up and down it. He tightens his grip on her and digs hands into the woman’s mesh suit when she grabs the tip and begins rubbing him with the pad of her thumb.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ The Adjutant shudders. His mandibles flare and he throws his head back, moaning and crying out as the warmth and heat and want overwhelms him. He squirms and grinds his hips into her hand. His pants grow louder as he voices every second of pleasure for her. He feels pressure build up inside him: it is so much better, thicker, stronger than anything he could do to relieve himself. The first orgasm of the night is his by her hand; the Adjutant doubles over in her grasp and emits a strangled cry of pleasure. It becomes a soft whimper when her hand continues to rub him, coaxing him to remain unsheathed.

He is still in the process of catching his breath when the woman draws away. He looks up and watches her thermal signature undress. His eyes fill with want; the small pleasure of a moment ago is forgotten as his cock slowly rises. He throbs wildly for her as she undresses.

Her bare chest presses against him a moment later. The two stand nude with nothing but their wants and lust to guide them.

The bed takes a moment to protrude from the floor, rising up and welcoming him when he is gently pushed unto it. He scoots back and sits facing her. He can smell her arousal, entrenching him as much as he does to her. When she climbs on the bed next to him, when the outline of her thermal signature stops at his side and takes his hand, the woman shudders and clicks, _“—I trust you—Guan. With this. With me—Please don’t—Don’t break that trust.”_

It takes a second for him to process the words. He clicks softly. _“We don’t—We don’t have to do this. Bist’ri.”_

 _“—I want to,”_ She reaches for his hand. Instinctively, both of their finger lace, as if drawn together like the pull of magnets. She leans over to him, her forehead rubbing against his; it feels deeply intimate to feel her smooth scales press against his. He hears her soft inhale. She remains nervous about _this_ , about the two together. His mind scrambles to think of something to say or do to reassure her.

 _“Do you,”_ Guan inhales more air, more of _her_. _“Do you want me to be—Underneath?”_ He feels embarrassed not having confidence in what words to use, but to his relief she appears to understand.

Bist’ri pauses. Guan squeezes her hand; she squeezes his back. The nurse clicks quietly, _“Is that okay? Guan? I know—Most sirers—They always talk about—Being in control—”_

 _“I want you to be comfortable.”_ The Adjutant chirps. _And happy. And safe. And…_ His thoughts distract him briefly, lost in the ways he adores her, in the ways he wants to provide for her. Guan flushes and his face fills with heat when he feels Bist’ri shift an inch from his face. He feels her eyes stare down at him. Even though his thermal sight cannot see it, he can feel her gaze searching his, peeking into the depths.

 _“Thank you—For understanding—For being here_.” She whispers. Her head moves away; Guan feels her climb on top of him. He looks up at the bright red heat signature. He inhales deeply and relaxes when he tastes no fear. There is only the call to the shore, to Bist’ri, to _salt sand sea._

Guan inhales through clenched teeth when he feels her shift over him. Her slit feels hot, impossibly so, as she slowly rubs it against the side of his cock. The man whimpers when she stops. He arches his back in delight when her hands move to his cock. She sits on his thighs as she slowly familiarizes it with herself, tracing everything from the veins on his shaft to the outline of the bumpy scales running down the sides of his penis.

She stands on her knees, one on each side of his hips, but she isn’t straddling him. He watches her thermal signature nervously hold herself open. She breathes in deeply. He breathes in in response, but there’s no fear—Only a surprising shyness enveloping him _and_ her. Bist’ri lowers her hips to his and positions the head of his cock against her slit.

 _“I want you,”_ she pleads before she begins dropping over him.

Guan’s inner jaw hangs open; he whines and pants and _squirms_ as he feels himself enter her. He hears her pants and moans as she takes the head of his cock. His hand squeezes herself reassuringly as he slowly penetrates her, one inch after another. Bist’ri doubles over on him and breathes heavily as the rest of him fills her. He whimpers at how tightly she feels around him, at how _right_ it feels to see her on him, at how much she trusts him to let him touch her body. He hears her breath hitch. Bist’ri and him lay on the bed, one on top of the another, while the two breathe and adjust to the intimate connection.

It is difficult not to move. Guan’s instincts scream at him to flip the two’s positions and rut her like a bull, but he refrains. He moans weakly for her as she clenches around him. His cock throbs madly in want, but he doesn’t move.

When she leans down and rubs her forehead against his, he can’t resist clicking her name, _“Bist’ri…”_

The Yautja looks at him. Her breathing is shallow, _“Guan?”_

 _“You feel,”_ the man clutches her hands desperately. _“Pauk! You feel—Incredible—Warm—Ah, ah—Bist’ri—"_ his back arches off the bed when the woman’s inner muscles squeeze him. The motion elicits a soft cry and a shiver from Bist’ri. Guan falls back unto the bed and looks up at her. His gaze softens infinitely. Even the outline of her thermal signature is enough to leave his four hearts thumping wildly in his chest. He can barely get out, _“You’re—You’re so beautiful.”_

There’s a note of satisfaction in his soul when he sees blood pool in her face. She leans down and rubs her forehead against him. He purrs gently for a time, relaxing her around his cock and making her sigh fondly.

 _“Thank you for trusting me,”_ he clicks gently, orange eyes full of affection.

Her hands squeeze his tightly before she begins to move. Guan feels her leave him, dragging him through warm, velvety pleasure, before her hips drop and she encases him again. Bist’ri pants loudly. Guan groans and shakes as she starts to repeat the motion. She fills herself with him before pulling away until just the head of his cock remains. Guan’s back arches again in the rolling hips. He begins to thrust up into her, gentle but _needy_ ; his hands squeeze her desperately as she begins to ride him.

Though it begins as soft, faint shudders and weak noises, the two’s restraint only lasts so long. Bist’ri begins to shake and slam her pelvis over his, sucking him in with a great cry accompanying it. Guan pants and thrusts up into her, his gaze locked on her body as she writhes and gyrates her hips unto his. The warmth spreads from his cock to the rest of his body as he thrusts harder.

His back arches when the head of his cock bumps into a something inside of her. He hears her soft shrill-like cry. She leans over him and bounces over his cock while he throws himself into her and curses.

 _“—Tight—Tight—Bist’ri—Ah, ah,”_ the man feels her squeeze him. He moans against her skin. _“Pauk—Pauk—You’re—”_

His toes curl in need. He feels her tense on top of him, lost in his body. The two’s skin smacks against each other. He feels the bumpy scales lining the side of his cock scrape against something inside the nurse as the latter tenses and shakes. She clenches around him like a vise, strangling him in heat as he continues attempting to buck into her. She whimpers as he does; her toes curl where she sits on top of him.

The two Yautja bump and rub foreheads against the other. There is no time for talking—They begin to copulate _furiously_ , lost in the other’s body. Guan calls her name and Bist’ri clicks his as they hold each other and Bist’ri continues to ride him. Guan’s hands squeeze her thighs and he smacks his cock into her, the pressure swelling up like a balloon waiting to pop. His back arches at one point and he cries out in desperation to release, prompting the nurse to do the same.

The two reach the cliff together, long since descended into the throes of passion and disloyalty. Dishonor ensnares them like a net and neither care as they fall into one another and share a long, painfully euphoric climax. Bist’ri squeezes him to the point he cries out and whimpers; his hips rock into her body and he drags his cock through her slit as blood engorges his shaft. The man feels himself ejaculate writhing beneath her. Bist’ri clutches him and he holds her as he pants and humps the evidence deep inside. He moans and shakes when it doesn’t stop, when he is dragged through pleasure _again_ as he thrusts into the woman and climaxes a second time.

He hears her whimper when he tries to pull out. Guan attempts to rock himself free, but it makes the woman shake against him. Guan exhales while he fills her with more and more of himself. Bist’ri’s trembles soon devolve into pants as she fails to lift herself off him.

 _“Guan,”_ she pants weakly on top of him. _“Guan—Ah—Ah—I can’t—I can’t get—You out—My muscles—And your—Your—"_

 _“I’m—I’m sorry,”_ he grits his teeth, face flush with embarrassment, confusion seeping through. _“I can’t—I don’t know what—”_

The two clutch each other tightly. His arms loop around her torso, keeping her to his chest. Bist’ri buries her head in the crook of his neck. She whimpers and shakes periodically. The minutes drag out, each feeling longer than the previous one. 

_“It’s—It’s okay,”_ Bist'ri clicks softly, clenching her eyes shut. _“—Some—Some bodies—They—It happens—It’s natural— Ah—Ah, I—I—Guan—Guan—I need—More—Please,"_ she squeezes around his cock. Bist’ri begins to pant and rock her hips against his, the two briefly mobile as lust builds back up. Even when the two are free to part, Bist'ri rides him again. Guan moans and holds her tighter as she takes him again. He only lasts a few minutes before another climax tears through his body. The swollen portion of his shaft, at the base, presses against her slit before it pops inside.

 _“Pauk—Pauk—”_ Guan repeats. He rocks his hips in tune with hers. _“I—I’m so sorry—I—”_

 _“It’s—It’s okay—Guan—Guan,"_ Bist’ri cries out and arches her back against him. He feels a surge of energy shoot through his body, the lust blazing and throbbing as he thrusts up into her. He groans when she smacks her hips over him, fueling another round of frantic, messy sex between the two. Neither is quiet as the bed shakes and shudders from the two's movements, desperation welling up to connect as much is physically possible. Neither want to stop or part, and neither do, not until the rolls of hips and deep thrusts takes both over the edge.

The next orgasm makes him see stars as the two mate again in overdue need. His legs quiver and he writhes through his climax. Bist'ri collapses on him and shakes through hers.

The two catch their breath together. Finally, Guan feels himself grow soft. He slowly slides out of the woman on top of him. A splurge of ejaculate dribbles out. Bist’ri moans in relief. She doesn’t roll off him; she trembles over his nude body and exhales slowly.

Guan clenches his eyes shut. _“I’m—I’m sorry—I—I don't know what—What just happened."  
_

He hears her click softly. _“It’s—Rare—But—Some bodies—They do that during mating. Tjau'ke called it a... physiological response. Your body reacts to certain stimuli. It helped our forerunners ensure—Mating would be successful. The bodies attempt to lock together— It's—It’s come up a few times over the cycles. But Tjau’ke is... usually the one who explains what’s occurring to the Yautja involved."  
_

_“Pauk.”_ The Adjutant grits his teeth, furious at himself for not being aware.

 _“—Guan. Don't blame yourself for not knowing. It isn't common knowledge."_ She caresses his skin, drawing shapes with her clawtips over his muscles. _"In hindsight, it's incredible both our bodies retain this trait. The chances of it are very low."_

 _"Are you alright?"_ He exhales softly, too worried to think about anything else. _“Did I—Did I hurt you? Bist’ri—"_

 _“M-di.”_ She relaxes against him. _“I—I may be sore. Tomorrow. But that is expected. I haven’t…”_ She holds unto him and sighs. _“I haven’t—With anyone—Not since—The cycles after my chiva—And that—I don't like to think about that. I didn't—I didn't have a choice then."  
_

The words make his chest tighten. He purrs quietly for her, willing any and all the comfort he can provide to surround her and keep her safe. She rubs her head against him, the rubbery texture of her locs tickling his neck.

 _“—I like you a lot.”_ The nurse confesses softly. _“I—I didn’t think things would… It would be like this. I didn’t—I didn’t plan for it to happen. You just… You happened. I don’t know.”_ She clicks in frustration. He purrs a little louder for her, trying to encourage her to go on. She inhales softly against him. _“I like you."  
_

His orange eyes soften. His hands begin to rub her back, seeking to offer comfort through that along with the rumble in his chest and throat. He stops purring long enough to mumble, _“I like you more."  
_

The nurse’s mandibles click together in amusement. She relaxes over him, with neither wanting to move or end the moment even when the mess remains. Guan shuts his eyes and breathes in the scent of _salt, sand, sea_. It, like the rest of her, is perfect in his eyes. 


	54. i love you too (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (smut confetti)  
> Marking this as the official start to the Gahn'tha-cte arc because it kind of is  
> apparently most of the cast of this story are horny shits  
> But was anyone really surprised?? noo
> 
> TW:  
> -there's anal. skip the part with maelstrom and ivon if you aren't into that, you won't miss much  
> you can c+f:  
> "He told me it is very important to address."  
> ^to jump ahead past the smut in that section  
> -guan reflects on ikthya's abuse in the first section  
> -cheating / infidelity  
> note: The Yautja in this chapter are all speaking in their clan's primary tongue (Maelstrom using her former clan's dialect). Normally I put that in italics but I am tired and have work tomorrow so I shall edit that in in the morning.

He can’t remember ever waking up in the arms of someone who cares about him. Not since—Since the day cycles of him initially swearing himself to Ikthya-De, since the days she attempted to impregnate herself with him, prior to learning of his infertility. Even then: the woman used him. She did not care about anything but bearing pups. He doesn’t remember being given permission to spend the duration of the night with other bearers before Ikthya-De. Not until now.

It is strange to come to with the realization of another body pressed against his own. His eyes flutter open slowly, dropping down in time to see the outline of the Adjutant nurse. Bist’ri’s back presses against his chest; she sleeps on her side against his form. Her _n’dui-se_ continues to fill his mind, but he smells an equal amount of his own musk mixed into the air. It makes his four hearts skip beats inside his chest. His arm lays outstretched over Bist’ri’s bare hip, lazily falling over her waist. The two must have moved during the night cycle; he doesn’t remember falling asleep spooning her.

His locs hang askew over the bed, over himself, over Bist’ri. Hers are equally strewn around, some tangled with others. Guan leans in and presses his forehead against the other Yautja’s nape. He can smell so many wonderful things, mostly _her_ , mostly _him_ , mostly the two together, mingling in the most intimate physical joining: _wonderful._ Heat crawls up his face. He struggles not to begin clicking in joy, not wanting to awaken, much less frighten, the nurse.

But he feels joy. He feels _so much_ of it that it threatens to well up inside him and burst. The man wants nothing more than to lay with the nurse like that forever. The amount of trust she places in him to do this, the amount of euphoria the two achieve in the throes of each other’s bodies, it is all beautiful.

When the man draws back, he hears a soft exhale. Guan watches the other Yautja’s thermal signature turn over on the bed to face him. Immediately, his eyes go to the green ones he cannot make out with his natural sight.

 _“Morning,”_ the man clicks gently, enamored to the farthest reach of the universe by the woman at his side.

He feels her shift and a second later, her forehead rubs against the crest of his. Guan begins to purr on instinct. He feels the woman take his hand; he squeezes it before she can squeeze him. Bist’ri sighs and leans into him. _“—We will reach Gahn’tha-cte today.”_

 _“Sei-i. Are you worried?”_ He lets go of her hand to slowly untangle her locs.

_“Guan—They will find out about this.”_

_“This?”_ He lets go of her hair and rests his head against the bed. _“You mean—us?”_

His chest tightens when Bist’ri exhales again. The woman does not turn away, but she slumps where she lays. _“You are paired, Guan. We’ve committed acts of disloyalty. The Elders and Daga will not overlook this.”_

The topic is not one Guan fancies. He prefers not to think about how he must explain his actions to the Elders and Daga. The loss of the Echinos will be taken poorly. The man inches closer and rubs his forehead against Bist’ri’s once more. _“—Disloyalty is not punishable by the final rest.”_

 _“But you are the Clan Leader’s Adjutant—Guan—”_ Bist’ri sighs and cups his lower mandibles. Her claws are duller than most Yautjas; she can easily caress his mandibles, his tusks, _him_ … Each touch feels just as electrifying as the last, warm and gentle and _Bist’ri_. He likes Bist’ri. It fills him with a searing, scorching fire to remember she likes him back. His hand drifts to her waist, once more draping over.

If she let him, he knows he would happily spend days pleasuring her. Even now, he begins to feel his cock unsheathe. His body continues aching for her.

Bist’ri lets go of him. She sits upright and turns her face away. _“Even if you are not at risk of the final rest—Guan—It sullies your honor. They’ll strip you of your title and rank—”_

 _“Let them.”_ Guan trills softly. _“I would rather have you.”_

There is a moment of silence laced with thickening tension.

Then she is on him, moving like a flowing river, graceful spite of the mess the two left the previous night, and her hips straddle his. Guan swallows and lays on his back. He feels his erection press into the back of her thighs. Bist’ri exhales softly and leans down to rub his forehead with her own. _“Guan—I—I want you—I know I shouldn’t—But I want you right now.”_

 _“You can have me.”_ His mandibles click.

Then her hand grabs his cock. He sees her thermal signature struggle to line him up. Crusty globs greet the head of his cock as he kisses her entrance. Bist’ri spreads herself wide and drops. It is immediate; Guan’s body explodes with warmth and he hisses softly. The Adjutant nurse pants atop him. Guan’s hands fall to her hips, asking a silent question but receiving a loud response, _“—I will.”_

She begins to ride his cock; Bist'ri drags him through pleasure in increasing desperation. The thrusts become messy and weak as the two connect and copulate. Guan ruts into her with a long whine of need. Heat rises; the two begin crying out and rubbing their foreheads against the other while the tension loads like a spring.

 _“Bist’ri—Bist’ri—”_ The Adjutant repeats her name, calling it endlessly as the tension becomes too much. His thighs start to quiver from the raucous mating.

The Adjutant Nurse is a mess against him again. She doubles over and slaps their pelvises together in a display of want, need, _lust._ She feels perfect, right, _everything_ ; Guan moans and cries aloud, speaking weak words and rolling his hips into hers. His hands tighten on her waist and his orgasm suddenly arrives like a tidal wave crashing upon shore.

He orgasms violently, spurting globs of heat through his thrusts. Immediately, the base of his cock begins to swell. The Adjutant writhes pushing the thicker stub of flesh inside the Nurse; he _pops_ it inside just as Bist’ri’s grip tightens and she buries herself in his warmth. Her cry is long and full of relief at her orgasm. She clenches around him, tight and desperate to keep him there. The two whimper; neither are able to move as their bodies react to the stimuli of each other’s proximity. Guan breathes heavily while he watches her. 

She rests her head against his. The man begins to purr gently, only for her.

 _“Guan,”_ Bist’ri begins as Guan rubs her back. She relaxes and sighs against him. _“When this is—Afterward—When we’re done—We need to wash the scent off.”_

The Adjutant closes his eyes. He stops in his purring, _“Showering together sounds… nice.”_

Bist’ri clicks faintly. _“—So now you want me to shower with you?”_

 _“I didn’t say that,”_ Guan trills, amused. _“—But sei-i. If you are comfortable with it—I can wash your back.”_

 _“Right,”_ she speaks with a note of humor. _“'Wash' my back.”_

 _“—Among other things,”_ the Adjutant states matter-of-factly, hands lowering to the woman’s hips. _“If you want.”_

 _“You don’t worry about the Elders? About Daga?”_ Bist’ri’s hands caress his face. He opens his eyes and watches her thermal signature, fascinated by the way it stands out against the darker hues of the cabin. When she leans forward and brushes her mandibles against his own, the man shudders and feels himself grow hard again.

 _“Pauk, no, I'll figure it out,”_ the Adjutant groans, panting heavily. The two bodies have yet to unlock and separate but already Guan feels the sharp plunge of pleasure shoot up his body when Bist’ri rocks her hips against him. Guan’s face fills with heat; his pants become desperate and his cock throbs as he bucks his hips up. _“Ah—Bist’ri—”_

 _“I want—”_ The Adjutant nurse moans and pants, gripping him so tightly Guan wants to bellow in delayed bliss. _“—I want to try—Being underneath you.”_

The man’s eyes widen. He moans at the delicious feeling of Bist’ri gripping his hips tightly and pulling him over. The two roll on the bed with him on top. Guan balks at the sight of her thermal signature beneath him; he feels incredibly aroused just knowing she trusts him enough to present herself in this way. Bist’ri pants and groans as Guan shifts how the two lay. He gently—so, so, gently, tender and cautious not to press or push her too much—coaxes her legs to unwrap from his hips. He nudges her legs open, giving him the chance to sink in a half-inch; the two moan together, with one shaking while the other shudders.

Their hands meet. Guan clutches the nurse’s tightly, hissing on occasion when she squeezes their interlaced fingers or grips his cock tighter. When the two can move again, when their bodies relent in giving them mobility, Guan breathes in and clicks. _“Payas bless us both—You feel amazing, Bist’ri—”_

Guan sets a steady pace; the new angle gives him all the control he needs to change the angle of his thrusts or to tenderly push her legs up. When he gets a feel for which angles and the amount of force necessary to leave Bist’ri a loud, squeezing mess around him, Guan becomes more vigorous. He cherishes each second the two’s hips connect, reveling in the slap of skin on skin, the squelch and squish of natural lubricant, and the loud smacks in each gyration. Bist’ri begins bucking her hips up to meet his; Guan growls loudly at deeper thrusts.

She feels incredible, better than anything he ever had with Ikthya-De. Her want of _him_ , of his body, of his self, it arouses him to the point his cock throbs painfully through his thrusts. He pushes inside with an intensity to claim one would a mate, the oath he swore to his actual life mate be damned. There is no one he wants more in this moment; the Adjutant grunts and pants as he meets Bist’ri at the hip.

Her hands release his at some point. Bist’ri falls back on the bed, a sweat-riddled mess heaving and gasping for more. The bed _trembles_ from the two’s messy lovemaking. Guan whimpers at the sound of Bist’ri whispering his name, her mouth ajar in ecstasy. Guan grabs her face and caresses her cheeks. Her hands land on his mandibles and she pulls his forehead down to hers; the two’s hips pound into one another until it becomes too much for either to stay silent.

The heat in Guan’s abdomen boils over and he shudders in release, hips writhing to thrust and thrust and thrust through the peak of his orgasm. He feels Bist’ri tense before she suddenly jerks and grabs him, dull claws digging hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood. She releases a long, strangled cry, prolonged by every thrust. Guan feels himself climax inside her. His body locks with her own again; his shaft aches with satisfaction as he ejaculates for the first of what will be several minutes. Bist’ri shivers beneath him.

Guan keeps himself propped up over her by his forearms, unwilling to trigger her by falling _on_ her, no matter his exhaustion. His orange eyes fill with warmth, every fiber of his being taken by the woman below him. He nuzzles her head and clicks in a voice only she hears, _“—I’ve grown weak for you, Bist’ri. So weak—So, so weak… and I don’t regret it at all.”_

He feels a glow of pride when his natural thermal gaze picks up on the heat filling the nurse’s face. She blushes, every fluster evident when she replies, _“You’re a kind man—Guan—”_

The Adjutant pauses. He lowers his bare chest to hers and purrs directly over her, letting the reverberations hit her chest. Bist’ri sighs in delight.

 _“But—What I regret—”_ The words cease his purring. Guan is quiet, waiting for her to go on. Bist’ri trills quietly. _“—Tarnishing your honor—Not telling you more—"_

His eyes dim. He knows the woman holds secrets. _“Bist’ri…”_

 _“When we get to Gahn’tha-cte—There are things you will learn about me I wish no one knew. Dishonorable things, Guan,”_ One of her hands cradles the side of his face, the pad of her thumb massaging one mandible. _“I want you to know these things—Before we get there—”_

 _“Is that not a topic for afterward? Or—Before? This?”_ Guan tilts his head to one side.

 _“It would have been—Except—We keep,”_ Bist’ri shakes her head. Her chirrups hint at humor. _“We keep pauking with no time between.”_

 _“Ah.”_ Guan accepts it as fact. He nods, _“You’re difficult to not long for. To… pine after. Bist’ri.”_

When he breathes, he imagines a siren on a coast. _Salt, sand, sea._

_“We can’t mate all the time in Gahn’tha-cte, Guan,”_ The woman’s words pull him from the increasingly raunchy thought. Bist’ri puts her hands on his shoulders. _“We need to get up—wash—I need to talk with you after. When we aren’t,”_ one of her hands gestures to the two’s hips. Guan chortles with humor; Bist’ri joins in, finding more and more lighthearted amusement. Guan leans down and nuzzles her neck.

 _“Ki’sei,”_ The Adjutant intones. He breathes in a gulp of her scent, admiring how his once more intertwines with it. The smell is intoxicating, almost enough to trigger another erection. Guan exhales loudly. _“—Perhaps—Showering together is not the wisest idea, Bist’ri.”_

 _“Not today.”_ She agrees.

_“Another time?”_

_“Another time.”_ Bist’ri clicks. She relaxes when the man rumbles softly in response.

* * *

By the time H’chak joins her in the kitchen unit, Sundew has consumed no less than ten hard tack slabs. She is mid-way through the eleventh one when he walks in from the _kehrite_ and stops, mask hiding his face but gaze distinctly on her. The Vekin resumes nibbling on her eleventh hard tack while her mate strides to the bar stool she sits upon and looks over her shoulder.

 _“You’ve eaten a lot of those. Sun-Dew.”_ He clicks softly, lowering his head to her neck and inhaling deeply through his mask.

“I need to.” Sundew speaks matter-of-factly. Her white hair is a disheveled mess around her head, in dire need of brushing. She pauses and glances at her current hard tack, only a third remaining. “—I am not meant to be alive. Keeping my critical mass protected and functioning is… I am very hungry, H’chak.”

 _“When we arrive at the clanship—Sun-Dew. I want you to go to the medical bay. Ask for Guan-Tjau’ke. I want her to assess you.”_ H’chak sits next to his mate. _"I'm worried about your health."_

“Guan…Tjau…ke…?” Sundew tilts her head to one side.

 _“My bearer,”_ H’chak faces forward. He crosses his arms. _“She can be trusted.”_

“Is your clan awful? You do not trust the others?” The Vekin straightens upright and lifts her hard tack to her mouth. She eats with vigor, desperate to quench a nigh-insatiable hunger within herself. When H’chak hesitates, Sundew furrows her brows and stares. “H’chak. Please talk to me. I do not understand—”

 _“They are traditional,”_ the man clicks quietly, occasionally. _“Before you—When I thought you met u’sl-ke—”_

“I do not know that word.”

The Yautja clicks. _“Oomans refer to it as dhi’ki-de. A passing from this agaj’ya to the next. Certain species reference it as an after-life; the life after your physical body ceases to function.”_

“Expiration. Ah. I understand now.” Sundew chews on hard tack.

 _“…When I thought you met the final rest,”_ H’chak continues. _“M-di—Before then. We spoke of it once in a heated moment. My clan forbids Yautja from pursuing relations with prey species. I do not see you this way, not anymore, but—But you are… an Im-Gen—”_

“Vekin. I am a Vekin. Hivekind.” Sundew corrects.

 _“As of right now, Vekin are not—They are not common knowledge across Gahn’tha-cte. It is speculation they devolved into inferior Im-Gen. But that is not—It can’t be true. The entity named Alma—She was a Vekin,”_ H’chak growls softly, voice laced with malice. _“And I—I have seen a Vekin before, after attempting my first chiva.”_

“I am a Vekin, H’chak. I am right here.” Sundew’s shoulders slump. Her clear eyes would dim if they could. She lowers her hard tack and looks at him. “How could I be me if I am not here?”

 _“—You are a Vekin, yes,”_ the Yautja clicks in defeat. _“But that is—That is the problem. I think—I believe my clan—Individuals higher in rank and older than me—They have masked the existence of Vekin, or—Someone has. I don’t have an answer for that yet. Which is why,”_ the man’s mandibles clack together with unease. _“—You must call yourself an Im-Gen. Sun-Dew. If asked—If you call yourself a Vekin—I…”_

“You worry about me.”

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak drops his arms to his sides. His hands ball into fists. _“I would not ask you to do this if I didn’t worry for your safety.”_

“Because you love me,” Sundew’s lips quirk up at the edges, a mimicry of a human smile. The woman leans over and wraps her arms around H’chak’s right arm. Her voice is unusually chipper as she says, “I love you too!”

* * *

The Yautja freezes in place, four hearts sparked into a panicking stupor as his brain attempts to process the words. His eyes are wide behind his mask and his mandibles are flared, but not in anger. The shock of hearing four ooman words makes him lightheaded and dizzy all at once. He feels a plume of jubilance well up inside his chest, climbing higher and higher until he cannot think of anything but the overwhelming warmth in his body and glee in his mind. His hands tense and relax. His mate lowers her head to his arm and the man begins to purr on instinct, chest vibrating with intense bliss.

 _“If today did not bring us to my clan… We would be here until I had to carry you out.”_ H’chak lets the implications fall to his mate’s imagination. He is pleased when he sees the gray flush on her silvery cheeks. The man returns to purring, though he lowers his head and rubs his mask against his mate’s stark white hair.

“We can do that another time.” Sundew says, clutching his arm tighter.

It isn’t long before the short woman works her way to sitting in his lap, curled up against him while he precariously attempts to balance sitting on a bar stool. H’chak does not grumble or complain; he wraps his arms around his beloved flower and relaxes when her response is to lean up and kiss his neck.

He prays _Gahn’tha-cte_ does not kill her on sight. The man intends to greet Cetanu with his clan’s _thwei_ if they lay a hand on her.

* * *

Clothes are good to have. Yet for the electrician sharing a cabin, it seems their unofficial-official strong, muscular huntress girlfriend is happy when they are without anything. Before any of this, Ivon would have thought lounging naked was… _silly._

On the contrary, it is now their preferred way to sleep. Naked, happy, and pressed against the warm body of their muscular huntress. They enjoy the feeling of her scales pressed into their flesh, of her strong body holding them securely against her, of the knowledge she will keep them safe from anything their anxiety conjures. Ivon smiles where they lay flopped on a floor bed; they press their backside against the huntress and relax.

Maelstrom is surprisingly peaceful in her sleep. She is far from the snarky, powerful woman they know her as when awake. Maelstrom does not snore; she breathes quietly, breath fanning their nape as the huntress lacks a mask. The Yautja’s nude body occasionally shifts or rubs against Ivon’s backside. The electrician struggles not to wiggle their hips in response; they remain still and calm—and _happy_ —as they listen to the sounds of the ship.

 _I wish we could get our own ship. Fly around space forever._ Ivon smiles at the thought. They sigh happily and roll over to rest their head in the crook of Maelstrom’s neck. The beautiful huntress—god, they’re beyond taken with her—has a deep, dusky gray pelt tinted in abyssal blues, yet parts of the huntress’ hide fade into darker grays and obsidian black splotches. It is hard to notice unless one looks _closely._ Ivon’s brown eyes soften as they press their lips to the Yautja’s neck. _I must be the luckiest person in the universe…_

They don’t know the exact moment their brain flicked a switch and decided the beefy huntress was hot, but they are glad their brain made the decision for them. In little time, she has already invaded every part of their present life. _Every_ part. Their moments awake are spent in her company, often in the Yautja training room or in the cabin Maelstrom shares with them. Or in the cargo hold, where they can trigger locks for the doors before she fucks them silly.

Ivon’s face flushes red at the thought; they cannot remember the last time they had so much sex. Though they had a five-year-long relationship in their twenties, it ended miserably, and even before it did, the sex was awful. There have been other times in their life, including a handful of nightstands and a six-month phase of group meet-ups, where they’ve pursued their own wanton pleasures, but nothing like this. It is grossly flattering to be wanted by someone who expresses it so often. It lifts their confidence and encourages them to express their affections in return.

Absentmindedly, Ivon presses their lips to the Yautja’s neck. They smile and shut their eyes, only to pause at the sound of faint clicks. Ivon opens their eyes and looks up to find Maelstrom’s brilliant orange gaze on them. She begins to purr, her throat rumbling in a way that makes them feel tense and needy, but also content. Ivon attempts to move back but Maelstrom huffs and leans down to rub her forehead against their mop of blond hair.

“Morning—Is this morning?” Ivon pauses, perplexed by their own question. “I think this is morning. Good morning.”

Maelstrom’s mandibles click together in amusement. She breathes in great gulps of air. The purring resumes after. Ivon feels their face light up. What is originally a soft flush becomes cherry red in their cheeks as they feel Maelstrom’s arm shift and her hand begin to trace the curve of their body. Ivon shivers when Maelstrom’s hand stops at their flat hips. The Yautja’s touch is gentle as she rubs one finger in a circular shape over their hip. The huntress chirps at them, what Ivon interprets as a _good morning_.

The electrician smiles. “I’ll never get tired of how melodic you sound. Like—A songbird. Um. You have songbirds, right? Alien songbirds?” They feel embarrassed when the Yautja chortles with humor, followed by a click they recognize as a _yes_.

Maelstrom’s hand moves behind them, dipping over their side to one tender ass cheek. She squeezes it with the pads of her fingers and thumb.

Ivon squirms against her. “Ah—Ah, that—That feels nice. If you wanted to do it again—”

She does. The electrician hiccups, a flustered mess by such small touches. When Maelstrom sits up and looks down at them, Ivon’s face heats up and they feel their groin throb. They nervously ignore the instinct to squeeze their thighs shut, knowing it stems from embarrassment, not fear. They trust her with all of them, every inch of their body. She won’t hurt them. When Maelstrom rolls them unto their back and slowly moves their arms to their sides, Ivon holds their breath.

The huntress trills softly, delighted by their response. She trails a clawtip up and down the length of Ivon’s legs. The huntress clicks greedily at the sight of their erection rising. Ivon blushes and looks to the side, but Maelstrom stops until they return their gaze to her. She stares them down with an intensity which makes them _shiver_.

 _Lucky me._ Ivon breathes. _Luckiest person alive._

When the huntress begins to curl a hand around their cock, Ivon repeats the thought of _lucky me, lucky me, lucky me._ They moan desperately and shake with weakness as the Yautja’s scaly hand massages their peaked shaft. Pre beads on the head of their penis as Ivon pants in pleasure. The feeling coils in their abdomen, tightening up but never _quite_ getting where they need it to go. Their hips attempt to rock against the Yautja’s hand, but a set of clicks later and Ivon clutches the bed in attempt not to move against Maelstrom’s wishes.

Their body feels like fire under her touch. Ivon’s noises grow louder in gasps and groans. “—Ah—Oh, fuck—Maelstrom—”

The arousal makes their cock throb harder. They whimper when their beautiful huntress releases them, only to roll them unto their stomach. At first, Ivon is unsure of what her plan is. Then—The alien caresses their ass. Maelstrom massages the flesh with the pads of her fingers and thumbs. She trills at Ivon.

“Err…” Ivon looks over their shoulder at her. “I don’t know what that means?”

Maelstrom brings a finger to her mandibles. Her tongue, long bumpy, flicks out to wet a clawtip. She returns it to their ass, using her other hand to spread their cheeks while the first dips to their sphincter.

 _Thank god I showered last night._ Is all Ivon can think, eyes clenched shut while the heat in their body spikes. They attempt to shove their rear into the Yautja’s hand when they feel the clawtip circle and press against but not _into_ the orifice. Ivon moans loudly to convey their thoughts on what Maelstrom proposes. It has been a long time since they received in this manner, but Ivon finds the memories exciting. Their cock weeps pre and pulses as they feel Maelstrom use both hands to feel their ass. She chitters, pleased, when they begin panting under her touch.

Everything she does feels unbelievably erotic. Ivon pushes their ass at her when she draws back. Maelstrom’s mandibles click together in amusement. She rises with another set of clicks, striding into the washroom of the ship. Ivon hears two of the weird spouts in the drain area turn on. It only lasts a second before shutting off. Maelstrom emerges with a glob of strange, glowing pink paste in her left hand, and a sphere of dark blue slime in her right. She dumps both on the bed near their head. The woman clicks at them, gesturing from the substances to their rear. Ivon nods, shuddering when Maelstrom clicks excitedly.

The dark blue is apparently for the claws. Maelstrom is careful demonstrating how the slime can be built up over a finger, coating the claw and allowing one to shape the substance into more _flexible_ shapes. Ivon’s cock aches wickedly as they watch. They know what she intends to do and their body buzzes with nervous excitement and a deep, penetrating lust.

It comes as no surprise the pink paste is something of a lubricant. It appears to have certain cell-altering qualities, as Ivon feels their skin becomes hypersensitive the second it hits them. Maelstrom chirps at them and covers one of her slime-riddled fingers with the pink paste. She traces their sphincter and looks at them for confirmation.

“Please—Maelstrom,” Ivon breathes. “I want to—” Their body tenses as the woman presses her finger against their asshole. When she begins pushing inside, slowly spreading and stretching their ring of muscle, Ivon hugs the bed and whimpers. The pink paste has introduced sensitivity to even areas of intestine they felt nothing in before. It is like a tight, blazing pocket of nerves, one they moan weakly at as Maelstrom’s finger continues filling them. “God—Yes—Maelstrom—"

The Yautja trills at them. She suddenly begins withdrawing her finger; Ivon squirms and clenches around her finger to no avail. The finger slides out and Ivon is left trembling on the bed, ass raised and shaking in the air, begging to be filled. When the Yautja begins applying more blue slime to a second finger, Ivon resorts to pleas.

“Fuck me—Please, _please_ ,” the electrician feels heat erupt across their face. They don’t care about dignity; they need Maelstrom inside them, _now_. Ivon begins whining and shaking on the bed. “Please! Maelstrom! I need you—I need—Right now—In me—”

The huntress clicks at them, happy to assist. The woman grabs their ass with one hand while the other rises and two thick, slime and paste riddled fingers probe their sphincter. The ring of muscle is not just tight—It is horribly sensitive, spurred to lengths that almost cause Ivon to orgasm when Maelstrom pushes her fingers inside. Ivon’s back arches and they cry out in needy bliss. There is no mercy in the high of their pleasure; just as an orgasm springs inside them, Maelstrom begins to thrust the fingers into their ass again.

They see flashes of white and stars in their vision as they begin to wail in euphoria. Ivon grinds their hips against their huntress’ hands; they weep in building release as they take the woman’s fingers. Maelstrom begins to pant and growl, her own arousal becoming thick in the air as her movements become more and more relentless. Her hand continues to thrust into them while her other hand dips to her legs and finds her slit. Ivon can hear her furiously finger herself as she fingers them; they quiver with expecting orgasm and cry out when her fingers rub against their prostate.

The Yautja picks up quickly, frantically pounding her hand into their ass while her other hand pumps into her own entrance. Ivon writhes and spasms under her touch; they do nothing but shriek and beg in a cacophony of desperation. The release is so close, the feelings so _good_ , Ivon almost reaches down to touch themself when they feel Maelstrom lock up at their side. The Yautja throws her head back and roars in climax. Her hand, her _goddamn glorious fingers_ stop briefly before the woman turns her full attention back to them. Ivon whimpers.

Maelstrom withdraws her hand long enough to rolls them on their back. She hisses with pleasure at their flushed, sweaty figure. Ivon hiccups and instinctively brings their knees to their chest. They weakly hold their legs in the air and lift their ass up, exposing both their needy rectum and dripping cock. Maelstrom runs a finger down the side of their penis; Ivon curses loudly and throws their head back. It prompts the Yautja to withdraw all touch from them. Maelstrom stares at them as they stare back, their own lust still a burning flame inside their body.

“Maelstrom.” Ivon whispers, eyes wide and teeth clenched.

The Yautja tilts her head at them. She clicks, and all Ivon hears is _beg for it._

“Fuck me! Please! Please—Fuck me, I submit—” Ivon begins to plead, voice growing louder when the Yautja doesn’t respond. They begin to cry it loudly, shouting at the top of their lungs in desperation, “Fuck me! I submit! Claim me! Take me! Ruin me—” a harsh click from the Yautja causes them to fall quiet.

Maelstrom leans down and rubs her forehead against their sweaty one. Her eyes lock with theirs. Ivon holds their breath.

“…Please fuck me,” they return to begging a moment later. “I want—need—You—Please—” They ramble their pleas. Maelstrom moves to their chest. Her clean hand traces one nipple, then the other. She trills in satisfaction when Ivon moans loudly. She clicks her mandibles with glee when the human belts out expletives at her tongue dragging down a nipple. Ivon watches the alien linger there a moment, fixated on licking and squeezing their flat, milkless teats.

Then Maelstrom fondles their ass cheeks again. Ivon’s mind returns to the thrill of a coming high. They moan when Maelstrom growls and kneads their ass more tightly. The woman’s slime-rattled fingers return to their sphincter. The ring of muscle feels swollen and overstimulated when Maelstrom penetrates them. The woman’s hand jams inside with a roughness that scrapes their altered, hypersensitive insides and leaves them writhing in euphoria on the bed. Ivon arches their back and lets out a long, strangled cry of need when Maelstrom reaches their prostate and attacks it in methodical thrusts and tender massaging.

They cannot keep quiet. The gates flood and let loose as their beautiful huntress thrusts into that _sweet sinful spot_ endlessly. Ivon’s body locks up and they heave and gasp as pleasure builds. Maelstrom growls at them to climax; they cannot think to thank her, only to belt out their cacophony of sweet nothings when her fingers hit them _just_ right and sends them over their edge.

They see white as pleasure dominates them. They feel their cock ejaculate unto their abdomen as they wail and thrash uncontrollably. Ivon’s orgasm fucks them as hard as Maelstrom did, the human left shaking and twitching in the bed. They attempt to roll their hips and hump remaining ejaculate out of their body. Their entire body feels like it is on cloud nine. They want nothing more than to repeat the process over, and over, and over again. They collapse in a fit of exhaustion and submission while the huntress pulls them into her arms and begins to purr gently. It feels almost like a sign of pride, of approval, of Maelstrom’s delight at how the whole thing went.

Ivon smiles weakly at her. “Lu—Lucky me. Heh…”

The knock at the door ruins the moment. Ivon is too tired to panic, but Maelstrom growls deeply and slowly, carefully sets them in the bed. She grabs a loincloth to cover her groin, makes a quick dash to the washroom to clean her hands, and then unlocks the cabin door. When it slides open, Ivon hears a roar from the hall and string of curses. Maelstrom huffs and looks at a silver figure in the doorway.

“—I do not know why H’chak stormed off but—” Sundew sounds surprised. “—Is Ivon available? H’chak requested I speak with the two of you about what to expect when we arrive at … He told me it is very important to address.”

Maelstrom chirps at her and nods. The woman looks over her shoulder at Ivon; they mumble weakly and give a thumbs up before attempting to dress. They get the leathery, brief-like shorts on and give up on the rest. Ivon hits the wall indentation for the bed's automated cleaning cycle. They flop on their bed after and stare as Sundew steps into the cabin, nods at Maelstrom, and then faces them.

“Hi.” Ivon waves, tired. They swear they hear Maelstrom click in satisfaction.

“Are you alright? You look—Red. A fever, perhaps?” Sundew blinks.

Ivon’s face heats up. Maelstrom clicks from the side.

“Oh—Oh, I apologize, I do not mean to pry into your personal affairs, Ivon, Vayuh’ta.” Sundew looks from one to the other, her gray cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Should I return at a later time?”

“Truthfully—Um. I don’t know if we—If we will have a later time.” Ivon’s brown eyes dim. They knew this subject was coming, but it still pains them to acknowledge. When Maelstrom returns to the bed and scoops them up in her arms, Ivon begins to balk and sputter. The woman purrs at them, gradually relaxing them into a calm, quiet state.

“I understand.” Sundew nods, remaining where she stands at the door.

Maelstrom chirps at her.

She bites her lip. “I… Am not happy to say this, but. H’chak believes you will not be able to see each other when we arrive. As a Bad Blood—" Sundew pauses at Maelstrom’s growl. “—He thinks you will be taken into custody and detained in a holding cell immediately until it is time for the Lurking Clan to receive you. He wants—Ivon, actually,” Sundew looks at them. “He wants you to understand under no circumstances are you to attempt to free her. He says his clan will kill you if you fail to comply with their orders.”

Ivon curses softly. Maelstrom tightens her grip on them; they grumble less softly but grumble all the same, leaning into her touch and struggling not to fall asleep.

“What about Jo? Jo and I? What’s going to happen to us?” The electrician grunts.

“He thinks the clan will keep you alive for his trial. But after—He does not know. It may depend on how the leaders of his clan judge him. I do not know what will happen to me, either. But it is important to stay calm.”

“Hard to do when someone I care about is getting shipped off to god knows where,” Ivon grits their teeth, exhaustion wavering in place of a brief spike of anger. They calm only when Maelstrom purrs louder and rubs her forehead against their messy blonde hair.

“He is… trying to think of a way to circumvent that. But unless his trial goes well—H’chak does not have the authority to help you, Vayuh’ta.” Sundew says.

 _Vayuh’ta._ Maelstrom. Ivon wants to practice saying her name in her tongue later.

Maelstrom clicks quickly and with a strange tone to the sounds.

Sundew tilts her head to one side. “Are you sure?”

“What is she saying?” Ivon asks.

Maelstrom clicks again. Sundew hesitates before stating, “She would—Rather you be safe and her dead than you in danger and her alive. She is happy to meet the Black Hunter, even with her name tarnished, if it meant—"

“I’m not!” Ivon squirms in their girlfriend’s arms. Maelstrom chirps at them. They huff at her in return but give up and cross their arms. “I’m not okay with that. I want her alive. I want,” they look up at Maelstrom. _“You_ alive. With me.”

The huntress’ face becomes a washed-out gray. It is hard to see even up close but Ivon has admired her body long enough to know it when they see it.

“Nothing less.” The electrician mutters.

“H’chak will do his best. For now—The safest thing is to abide by the clan’s rules and laws.” Sundew nods once, voice calm and neutral. Her smile is clearly fake. “We have overcome impossible odds before.”

“Not all of us,” Ivon interjects. “Louanne didn’t.”

“Neither did Monet. But they are with me now, safe, and I will protect them. Just as H’chak and I will do everything we can to protect you two and Jo.” Sundew mimics the act of inhaling deeply. She nods at Maelstrom and Ivon before turning back to the door. “If you excuse me, I want to ask H’chak why he ran away.”

Maelstrom trills softly.

Sundew frowns. “That is an excellent point. I will call it… a _tactical retreat_. Not running away. Thank you, Vayuh’ta.”

She leaves. Ivon grimaces and slumps in Maelstrom’s arms. Their brown eyes dim as they look at the rise and fall of the huntress’ chest. _I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to see you like that again. Fuck._


	55. her own mate (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:  
> The last section of the previous chapter was moved to this chapter as of 7/29/2020 because I felt it would pace this chapter better.  
> TW:  
> -discussion of past rape  
> -discussion of trafficking  
> -discussion of forced pregnancy / birth  
> \- past suicide  
> -discussion of trafficking, including child trafficking  
> \- murder  
> -talk about miscarriages and infertility in the second section with ikthya-de and bist’ri  
> -mention of child death  
> -at the very end of this chapter there’s a mention of gore involving eyes  
> -hair pulling  
> -unrealistic anal / pegging sex  
> -rough sex  
> -spanking  
> -definitely some sub / dom undertones going on  
> for people who want to skip the rougher anal pegging sex, it begins at:  
> “Ju’dha leans forward and clicks”  
> Ends at:  
> “Ju’dha trills in satisfaction.”  
> You can ctrl+f the above line (not including apostrophes) to skip it!
> 
> I didn't intend to have smut in this chapter but sometimes things go a certain way and characters become friends with benefits. I feel like it fits the two. Even if I burst into giggles while I wrote parts of the smut. Lots of giggles. Especially with the dialogue. It's hard to be serious sometimes when trying to write sex in a semi-serious story.

The soft knock at her residential quarters leaves the woman perplexed. Lar’ja’s hairless brows rise as she sets her paints down next to the Queen skull inlaid with a beautiful _Bloodstone_. She leaves both in her bedchamber as she rises to her feet, adjusts her robes, and walks out and across her residence to the door. She knows from the musk who is here to see her, but her bewilderment remains behind her mask when the door slides open to reveal the eight-foot-three figure of the head of the medical division.

Tjau’ke does not have a mask. Her blue-gray eyes are dim and sullen.

 _“Honorable Elder Lar’ja.”_ The woman greets her formally.

 _“…Tjau’ke.”_ Lar’ja tilts her head to one side. _“This is a… Surprise.”_

 _“Because I have not spoken to you in week cycles? Or because no one visits you besides myself?”_ The distraught tone of the clicks does not match Lar’ja’s expectations of the nurse.

Behind her mask, Lar’ja’s bright white eyes narrow and stare down the nurse. Her one arm tenses and her one hand balls into a fist at the possibility someone has hurt the woman. She knows Tjau’ke has reasons to detest her, but it does not change the fact Lar’ja would kill in her name. Such is a fact of Lar’ja’s life now; she accepts who she is and what she feels for the woman in front of her. But she cannot _read minds_. Elder Lar’ja clicks at the nurse once to speak, saying nothing more with awareness to the fact Tjau’ke must choose to share her response willingly.

 _“Ju’dha told me about Bist’ri,”_ The nurse growls at her. It is misdirected anger, a rage aimed only at her because Lar’ja knows Tjau’ke trusts her to understand. _“They told me what you found on that ship. What you brought back in corpses—”_

 _“Pauk,”_ Lar’ja curses audibly, not caring who hears it. Part of her hopes word gets to Ju’dha-Jehdin just how much Lar’ja disproves of the former’s actions. Sharing such horrifying knowledge is dangerous for more than one party. The Elder grits their teeth and inhales the scent of _peace,_ of Tjau’ke, until _her_ rage simmers and dissipates in favor of more rational thoughts. The Elder looks to the side. _“…I presume they told you of the late Honorable Sa’ud’s note?”_

_“They did.”_

Lar’ja’s gaze dims. She turns away from Tjau’ke. _“—Then there is nothing to say. You have your answers.”_

_“Sa’ud lied to me about her findings in the physical examination. She said nothing about Bist'ri having pups!"_

_“Lying is a necessary tarnish on Honor.”_ The Elder answers.

Her old friend’s lovely eyes flicker to the side. Her growl is real and pained. _“Who sired them? Someone had to. Someone had to be there to... To... Who sired them, Lar'ja?”_

 _“Which one?”_ Lar’ja clicks.

 _“Pauk!”_ Tjau’ke’s fists tense so much Lar’ja briefly questions if the woman might take a swing at one of the walls. The head of the medical division has more resolve than to let it happen, but the thought flits through the Elder’s head anyways. Tjau’ke snaps her head back at Lar’ja. She hisses. _“Are they dead? Are the ic’jit involved dead, Lar’ja? Answer me!”_

 _“If they were all ic’jit, it would be easier to accept,”_ The Elder closes her eyes. _“To answer your question—Yes and no. Sa’ud could not identify the sirer of the second pup. The other two—”_ Lar’ja unclasps her bio-mask and takes it off. She powers it down and does the same to her wrist computer, the latter hanging off a belt around her waist. She waits for Tjau’ke to turn off her own wrist computer before Lar’ja finally clicks. _“Akrei-non-Daga’s sirer.”_

_“…Sa’ud’s mate? Her own mate?”_

_“Sei-i. Given the clan has not had another chiva incident like Bist'ri's, it is safe to conclude the man was the individual responsible for selling her, Tarei, and Huso to ic'jit."_

_“Oh, Sa’ud… Her own mate...”_ Tjau’ke’s voice falls to a whisper. She exhales at the end. Her teeth remain clenched. _“Tell me she didn’t know, Lar’ja—”_

 _“Ju’dha and I discussed it cycles ago. Neither of us believe Sa’ud knew. But she… carried the guilt of what her mate did, all the way to the Black Hunter. To lay with and mate with someone for over eight cycles—Only to find out your mate is involved in trafficking other Yautja?”_ Lar’ja pauses. “I would have done the same in her position, Tjau’ke. The guilt would eat me alive. All the what if’s—What if I had noticed something? What if I paid more attention? I do not blame Sa’ud for her decisions. I pray she hunts with the Black Hunter now, at peace with how what she accomplished during her time in Gahn'tha-cte.”

The two fall silent, neither looking at the other as the tension sets in. Lar’ja tries not to overthink it. Her posture remains rigid and tense, full of authority, yet the longer she breathes in _Tjau’ke_ the more she finds herself drawn to her.

 _“…Tjau’ke. Why did you come here?”_ Lar’ja asks.

The nurse stares at the ground. _“Is it strange for me to see my old friend, Lar’ja?”_

 _“After what happened weeks ago? Yes.”_ The Elder responds. _“...Do I need to worry about you?”_

 _“M-di.”_ Tjau’ke answers. _“I was… I came to apologize, Honorable Elder Lar’ja. You were right. That note—The truth—I regret reading it. I regret lashing out at you, Lar’ja. I do not have excuses. I’m sorry. Tell me what I can do to earn your forgiveness._

 _“All is forgiven. You are my friend, Tjau'ke. I will not hold you in debt.”_ Lar’ja clicks back firmly. She seeks out Tjau’ke’s gaze. _“I hope it is clear—I would not hide something from you without reason.”_

The nurse is quiet.

Lar’ja tilts her head to one side. _“I trust you more than anyone else in this clan. Tjau’ke. I did not tell you these things out of respect for Bist’ri’s privacy and your mental wellbeing. Now you know what cannot be forgotten. The world is not a good place. The universe is full of dishonor. What can any of us do but try and protect each other? Try and live by a Code to seek admission into the Hunting Grounds when our time here is up?”_

 _“Akrei—Akrei-non-Daga’s sirer. What happened to him?”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly. Her fists ball up. _“I remember he disappeared cycles after you brought Bist’ri back.”_

_“I paid him a visit.”_

The head of the medical division stares. Lar’ja stares back, unafraid and without remorse.

 _“Did you kill him, Lar’ja?”_ Tjau’ke asks. _“Did you break the Code?”_

 _“Many times.”_ She affirms, openly acknowledging her own ruthlessness. Lar'ja bends down to pick up her wrist computer. She reattaches her bio-mask and powers it on, hissing softly at the sensors digging through her flesh. The woman clicks at her old friend after, _“Does it upset you, Tjau’ke?”_

 _“No. I was simply thinking,”_ Tjau’ke turns away and faces the door. Her clicks are murderous. _“—How I would have liked to have been there—To help you out.”_

When Lar'ja returns her wrist computer to its clasp on her belt and turns it on, a notification pops up. Her white eyes widen and she snaps her head up at Tjau'ke. _"H'dlak has informed me the Kukulkan is in the queue for the docking bay airlock."_

It soothes her considerably to see her old friend's face light up. _"That means... My pup—My pup is home, Lar'ja!"_

 _"—And Daga calls for ka'rik'na to address the crew members,"_ Lar'ja shakes her head. _"Lack of subordinance... Surprising, yet not unexpected given the history of certain individuals on that ship. You should...go greet your son; I have several things to tend to before the proceedings."  
_

She takes great care not to say _our son_. The thought appeals immensely, but the two are not at that point, not yet.

 _"Sei-i, I will,"_ Tjau'ke nods once. She presses an indentation on the inside of the door. It slides open into the wall. The head nurse looks over her shoulder before she goes, _"I will see you at the ka'rik'na."_

* * *

As the inhabitants of the _Kukulkan_ wait to disembark, the Adjutant nurse of Gahn’tha-cte finds herself sought out by a wretched but grieving woman. The sky blue Yautja looks up from where she has spent the past hour reviewing patient notes in the privacy of the medical bay.

She has a responsibility to report truthfully on the medical-related matters across the trip, including topics such as the drugs used to subdue the _ic’jit_ back on the Echinos, the traumatic miscarriage Ikthya-De experienced, and even the little things like the levels of nourishment sustained across the trip or the cases of space lag some crew members suffered with early on. Every last detail must be logged into her wrist computer in preparation to offload the data to the head of the medical division upon return.

 _Even if I lose the title of Adjutant. I am still a nurse._ Her green eyes narrow behind her bio-mask. _I have… responsibilities. Obligations. To Tjau’ke. To the medical division. To my patients._

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri,_ ” Ikthya-De clicks in greeting. Bist’ri glances up, perplexed as to why the woman—who has demonstrated great disdain for her in the past, and who has directly harmed someone she cares for even into acts of disloyalty—enters the medical bay. She doesn’t have a chance to ask before Ikthya-De clears her throat. The latter holds the container of her deceased pup in her arms, clutching the container tightly as she strides to Bist’ri’s side. “ _…Can I—I need a moment of your time. Can I have a moment?”_

Bist’ri doesn’t enjoy Ikthya-De’s presence. She _despises_ it, both in pity and in sheer, burning hate for what the woman has done to Guan behind closed doors. But right now, until she hands her off to Tjau’ke or another nurse, Ikthya-De is her patient. Bist’ri will not turn away her patient.

She knows how to remain civil. _“Ikthya-De. Is this about your pup?”_

 _“Sei-i s' m-di.”_ Umbra Skull does not meet her gaze as the former puts the container on a protruding metal table. Ikthya-De looks away.

The Adjutant nurse pauses. _“Have you decided against using the moratorium services? I can ask honorable Tjau’ke about—”_

 _“I want to use the moratorium services. But I,”_ the huntress struggles to trill the right noises. She growls in frustration. _“I want to wait—To bury them. Until the mating season passes this cycle. I want to have an appropriate amount of time for the mourning period.”_

Bist’ri nods. _“Ikthya-De—You are not alone in your grief. Many bearers who lose their pups at this time—Or during the latter week cycles of the mating season—They come together to mourn over the pups. You might find comfort in grieving with others.”_

She sees the woman’s hands tense into fists. Bist’ri’s mandibles droop behind her mask. She detests the woman so, _so_ much, but she will not offer anything but support when it comes to trying to help Ikthya-De mourn the loss of her pup.

 _“How do I keep them safe until then? Where do I store them? It will be a sixth cycle until—The mating season ends, Adjutant.”_ Ikthya-De stares at the container holding her deceased pup. The woman’s fists shake.

“The moratorium services have their own storage chambers—”

 _“I do not want my pup surrounded by—By Yautja I do not know!”_ Ikthya-De shakes her head. Her clicks are strenuous and weary.

 _“The moratorium services are full of reliable clan members—But if you worry about them_ ,” Bist’ri hesitates, turning over an idea in her head.

She wants Tjau’ke to examine the fetus; part of Bist’ri remains concerned over whether an unknown vector is responsible for triggering the miscarriage. To have an abortifacient present throughout the mating season poses disaster. There are too many pairs struggling to conceive as is. Bist’ri remembers reading a report issued from varying medical divisions across eight-zero-plus clans; she distinctly recalls the harrowing decrease in the number of successful births with Yautja bearers. It has yet to reach the point of triggering _ka’rik’na_ between the Council of Ancients, but it remains enough of a problem for her not to consider.

 _Most bearers are carrying one pup in these times. Many will miscarry before the first trimester is over._ The thoughts physically ache to think about.

 _“—Ikthya-De,”_ Bist’ri pauses. _“Do you want to use the medical division’s storage? We have a room dedicated to preserving samples—I know your pup isn’t a sample, but I could arrange for a space to be cleared for them if it eases your worries. You would be free to come and see them provided a nurse is around to unlock the room.”_

The offer startles Ikthya-De. Bist’ri watches the woman freeze. It feels bizarre. _She_ knows how dastardly and devious Ikthya-De is. She knows how the woman pulls strings and plays tricks to get her way. She remembers barging into the residence to see Ikthya-De assaulting Guan. The feel of her _dah’kte_ when she sliced through the woman’s mandibles makes Bist’ri shudder internally.

 _But now… Like this… You seem like a completely different Yautja. Like you’ve turned a new leaf._ Her green eyes dim behind her mask. It is difficult to feel anything at the abusive huntress besides anger; she reserves her judgements for another day cycle.

 _“Is that asking too much of you? Of—Honorable Tjau’ke?”_ Ikthya-de clicks quietly.

 _“M-di. You are a bearer who lost her pup. Honorable Tjau’ke would offer the same thing.”_ Bist’ri trills firmly.

 _“Then I…”_ Ikthya-De picks up the container with her deceased pup’s remains. She cradles it to her chest and holds it a long, painful moment before the woman turns to Bist’ri. Ikthya-De extends the ccontainer to the nurse. _“I entrust you with them. Keep them safe, Adjutant Bist’ri. Until the time comes for their body to meet the Black Hunter and rejoin their spirit.”_

 _“Sei-I, I will.”_ Bist’ri takes the container. She glances down at the lid of the container before looking back up at Ikthya-De. The latter looks as if she wishes to say something, dawdling in such a manner a Suckling might around their first crush. It is too awkward to be endearing, and Bist’ri knows she does not find anything endearing about Ikthya-De to begin with. Her green eyes focus on the other Yautja’s darker patches of obsidian-hued scales across Ikthya-De’s head and neck.

The huntress exhales. _“About the… Echinos. The Shadow. What you did for me. You saved my life, Adjutant Bist’ri.”_

 _“I cannot say in certainty I did,”_ Bist’ri clicks in response. She looks away, the last of her civility beginning to wear on her. _“But if that’s how you see it—Don’t think of it as anything but what I would do for all my patients. What anyone in the medical division would do for one of their patients.”_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ Ikthya-De acknowledges. There is no _thank you_ , or _sorry,_ or anything of the sort. Only—Ikthya-De bowing her head and leaving to return to the cockpit where most of the crew waits to disembark.

Bist’ri cannot stand the huntress—But for the sake of civility, for the sake of trying to cling to any last, frayed ends of her sullied Honor, she hopes the wretched, grieving woman finds peace.

* * *

When the door is first unlocked and Ju’dha permits entry, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja has expectations for how the two’s brief meeting will go. She anticipates discussing necessary punishments for the individuals found responsible for acting against orders, and perhaps breaching strategy on how to handle the perturbing topic of Tarei-Jehdin’s remains should the latter come up. Lar’ja has already given thought to the matters; she has found her time goes to either her pup, her gift for Tjau’ke, or to Ju’dha’s daughter and how to ensure the past _stays_ in the past.

But Ju’dha is not at the door. The Yautja unlocks it remotely and sends a message to Lar’ja, _‘Do not let anyone else in.’_

The Elder pauses; she is intrigued by the words. Lar’ja’s one hand rises and she presses an indentation along the door’s front. It opens; she steps past the threshold and hears it close and lock behind her. Lar’ja’s white eyes narrow behind her bio-mask. She does not see Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin in the common hall of the latter’s living quarters, but she does see the _mess_ left behind in the Elder’s absence. Lar’ja unclasps her bio-mask from her face and the world transforms from a range of chromatic hues to thermal imagery as she adjusts to her species’ natural thermal vision.

That is when she smells it: thick, pungent, partially revolting in the twisted, mashed odors of two Yautja’s mating musks. The _n’dui-se_ contains two she knows, one being Ju’dha-Jehdin’s swampy, algae-like odor with its faint appeal. The other is one Lar’ja detests; she feels her blood freeze over before she growls deeply.

 _“Ju’dha!”_ Lar’ja roars the name and marches forward. She has no issues tracking the damned, interwoven scents down to the washroom.

As an Elder, Ju’dha’s bathroom is exquisite and catered to the Yautja’s watery tastes, featuring a massive, gaping tub in the center with small fountains pouring into it from the sides. The floor is a sturdy tiling of a substance composed of veritanium mixed with other metals, cast into elaborate patterns, and then set like smooth snake scales or flowing water over the floor. From past visits with her friend, Lar’ja knows the metals possess an iridescent finish reminiscent of Mother-Of-Pearl shells.

 _A shame I cannot see it now. A distraction from this affair._ Lar’ja grimaces. Her one hand clutches her bio-mask tightly while her white eyes focus on the thermal signature of the Elder lounging in the tub. Though she knows Ju’dha’s pelt is a murky green blue with seafoam splotches, the Elder is nothing more than a range of warm hues in Lar’ja’s eyes.

 _“Ah… Elder Lar’ja. I am grateful you chose to come here before the ka’rik’na proceedings today.”_ Ju’dha’s thermal signature rests on the edge of the tub. They rest their long skull on their arms. Even for a heat signature, the posture alone indicates leisure—But it is not leisure Lar’ja smells in the Elder’s residence.

 _“You requested my presence.”_ Lar’ja corrects the other Yautja on their choice of words. Ju’dha’s mandibles click together in faint laughter.

The other Yautja looks up at her, then lays their head down again. _“—You did not have to come here, Elder Lar’ja. You chose to fulfill my request. If I were not occupied by more important matters—I might inquire if you care about me.”_

_“I am not propositioning you.”_

Ju’dha trills in laughter again. They sound like moving water: every click, trill, _note_ is fluid, enunciated, and connects with the previous. _“We are on the same wavelength, Elder Lar’ja… I am not taken by you, nor you by me, though I understand you are taken by another…?”_

Lar’ja does not intend to tolerate _teasing_ from a Yautja in the tub, but other matters take priority. She does not fall for Ju’dha’s siren song, refusing to divulge or answer any questions about a _personal_ matter. Soon, the other Elder tires of looking for cracks in Lar’ja’s emotional dam. Lar’ja feels a ping of triumph when the other Elder drops the subject. Ju’dha pushes themself upright. The intertwined musks invade Lar’ja’s olfactory receptors and she puts her bio-mask back on. The mask’s sensors dig through her flesh mercilessly but Lar’ja shows no sign of pain.

When the full spectrum optical filters turn on, Lar’ja stills. The _n’dui-se_ is fainter, but it is not musk which takes the Elder aback. Her white eyes are wide and stunned behind her mask. Her mandibles hang open in bewilderment as a million questions jump into her head. She voices none of them as her eyes trace every scratch, bite mark, and laceration left across Ju’dha’s nude form. The other Elder tilts their head to one side when she doesn’t speak.

After several minutes of aggravating silence, Lar’ja finally hisses at them, _“Why would you mate with someone like Daga?”_

 _“My pup’s remains have been exhumed. Leader Daga will not quit looking into the… circumstances surrounding my pup’s final rest. I anticipate the subject coming to the surface during Bist’ri’s trial. I want Leader Daga to be more generous toward her in these proceedings. Bist’ri cannot Hunt. I must do what I can to keep her from becoming an Arbitrator.”_ Ju’dha does not sound ashamed by their actions. If anything, there is an unwavering resolve in the chirrups.

 _Resolute but… reckless. Brash. Easy to backfire, Ju’dha_. _These are the actions of a desperate bearer._ Lar’ja grimaces at the thought of it all, _“You risk carrying his pups. Have you spoken with Tjau’ke yet?”_

 _“Ah, so she’s ‘Tjau’ke’ now? No title, Elder Lar’ja?”_ Ju’dha’s mandibles click together again while Lar’ja sighs.

There is no denying _her_ intense attraction to the head of the medical division. In fact, if not for the respect extended to the older rites and traditions of courtship, Lar’ja imagines she and Tjau’ke would already have mated. It is a subject spurring heat in her groin. Lar’ja calms her breathing and chases away thoughts of Night Sky’s beautiful, breath-taking figure crawling toward her on a bed or joining her in a pod.

 _Patience._ Lar’ja reminds herself. The two have only just made up after weeks of avoiding one another. She cannot risk playing her cards too quickly, not when she yearns to draw Tjau’ke closer and woo her favor. Tjau’ke deserves only the best, and Lar’ja intends to give it to her—Many, many, _many_ times, but only when the two get there naturally.

 _“I sent Honorable Tjau’ke a message. She visited me when Daga left last night cycle. She… reacted better than you, Elder Lar’ja,”_ the Elder in the tub splashes water in Lar’ja’s direction. Ju’dha tilts their head to one side. _“According to Tjau’ke, the chances of one my age carrying pups from a single night of mating is low. Which—I asked you here for a reason, Elder Lar’ja. It has to do with these over-lapping circumstances.”_

Lar’ja glances over in time to witness Ju’dha sit upright and stand. Water falls off the Yautja in a spectacular way, dripping down old yet firm muscles of the Yautja’s chest, navel, hips, and legs. Ju’dha does not shy from walking up to Lar’ja. The latter stills as her white eyes remain locked on the droplets of water perched perfectly across Ju’dha’s alien smooth scales. Then—The scent of mixed _n’dui-se_ returns, of the slightly appealing pond algae mingled with Akrei-non-Daga’s disgusting stench. Lar’ja growls in irritation.

The other Elder trills softly, a hand rising to run down their chest all the way to their pelvis. It stops there. The awareness of Ju’dha’s unspoken request shoots a painful spike of heat through Lar’ja’s groin. She exhales sharply and her one hand tenses into a fist at her side.

 _“You want me to rid you of his scent,”_ Lar’ja groans. _“You underestimated the potency of Leader Daga’s n’dui-se. S'yuit-de, Elder Ju’dha. What is necessary to overpower it—"_

 _“I’m aware of what I ask for, Elder Lar’ja. I would not be standing in a tub nude if I was oblivious to the implications.”_ The other Yautja clicks rapidly in amused cackles.

 _“I…”_ Lar’ja pauses to think. Her body aches with a sudden, violent need.

It has been a long time since she had a chance with someone. Since _Setg’in_ died. She has forced herself to remain alone throughout dozens of mating seasons passing through the cycles. Her hand can only do so much for her; the woman longs for the warm velvet grasp found between certain legs. Now she has a chance to take it.

_“I won’t fault you for saying no, Elder Lar’ja. This is not something I can ask of just anyone. You are one of the few worthy of my trust, but if it is something you—”_

_“How quickly does this need to be accomplished? Before the ka’rik’na?”_ She cuts the other Elder off in her chirps. At Ju’dha’s nod, Lar’ja lets her actions give her response, using her one hand to effortlessly undo her kilt and armor, then her mesh. She stops at the codpiece covering her groin. Nearby, Ju’dha’s n’dui-se thickens. The other Yautja inhales deeply at the sight of Lar’ja unclasping her codpiece and the attached wrappings.

 _Payas,_ everything feels incredible as she relaxes in the warm, humid air. She walks up to Ju’dha and presses her bare chest against the Yautja. It is difficult not to lose control and rut them into the next cycle, but Lar’ja finds it in her to restrain herself. This, after all, is simply _practice_ for when she and Tjau’ke enjoy their first time together. _I need the practice. It’s been… a long time. A long time..._

She would be a liar to say she does not feel _some_ attraction toward the blue green Yautja nearby.

Lar’ja clenches her eyes shut. She calms her breathing, soothes her aching, throbbing nerves, and hisses softly when she feels Ju’dha wrap arms around her toned waist. A hand grabs her ass and Lar’ja begins to unsheathe. She growls and curses at how irritatingly long it takes. Ju’dha pauses and begins to knead the woman’s ass. 

_“I’ll… assist you,”_ Lar’ja clicks, straining against the feeling of claws gripping her rear and squeezing the flesh. _"For the sake of... The sake of keeping your gossip down."  
_

 _"As good an excuse as any, Elder Lar'ja. You can relax... Don't lie about wanting this. Tell me honestly. If not in words then... actions."_ Ju’dha digs claws into the scales of her posterior. Lar’ja hisses and lurches forward to find a place along the former’s collarbone to bite. Hearing the hiss of pain brings a degree of satisfaction, but nothing prepares Lar’ja for when she is unceremoniously tossed into the tub. She hits the water and stands up immediately, growling and seething while water falls off her.

Her long, vantablack locs dance as she snaps her head forward in time for Ju’dha to come sauntering forward. Ju’dha’s hand immediately latches unto her shaft, holding her in place while Ju’dha’s other hand rises to the void-like locs and gives a sharp tug. Lar’ja curses at the Elder's discovery. Ju’dha clicks with curious satisfaction.

 _“The diversity across a Yautja’s hair is… It astounds me,”_ They pull her locs again. The pain is egregious and saturated in raw pleasure, forcing a needy moan out ofthe Elder. Lar’ja attempts to grab Ju’dha by the hips and take control of the coupling, but Ju’dha squeezes her cock _hard_ and Lar’ja doubles over at Ju’dha’s side. _“Some of us do not have sensation. Some of us braid instead of coil. Others—They are so sensitive, it only takes a small touch…”_

As Ju’dha begins to pull her locs and rub her length in tandem, Lar’ja moans in building pleasure. Ju’dha’s body, likewise, reeks of growing arousal as they increase the intensity of their actions. The heat builds until it overwhelms Lar'ja's body; her pelvis shudders with a deep climax, throbbing to the ache in Lar’ja’s skull from the hair-pulling.

Ju’dha leans forward and clicks at her, _“This can go... many ways, Elder Lar'ja. If you want... You could... Turn around... bend over. See where it leads.”_

By Cetanu, the tone of Ju'dha's clicks is enough to make Lar'ja shudder in want. Lar’ja swallows her pride and does as instructed. Ju’dha clicks at her to hold herself up using her hand as the sole support against the metal floor. Lar’ja feels her erection rise. Ju’dha begins to grind their pelvis against Lar’ja’s rear; the latter inhales slowly and clenches her teeth.

 _“I am... interested to know where this leads.”_ Lar’ja clicks. _"Go on."_

 _"If you insist,"_ Ju’dha’s hand rises and smacks their right ass cheek, _hard_. The Yautja throws her head back and howls in pain. The spanking stings even through her scaly skin. It is a wonderful burn. She wants more.

 _“Payas—More,”_ Lar’ja pants before the next slap. It _hurts_ , enough to make Lar’ja cuss several expletives. She’ll have bruises come the next day cycle, all courtesy of Ju’dha-Jehdin.

Part of her understands why the Elder does this. They want to rile her up, to provoke the lust-filled huntress to the surface once more, to make it convincing to others it isn’t an act to cover something up. Lar’ja respects the resolve, but the rest of her thoughts go out the window when Ju’dha aggressively begins to hump her from behind. Lar’ja struggles to catch her breath; she feels her cock growing harder, swollen and plump. Lar’ja hisses and throws her head back when Ju’dha’s hands reach around and grab at her shaft. She is treated to another set of rough, desperate pumping motions, before she climaxes into Ju’dha’s hands with a drawn-out cry.

The latter washes their hands clean. Lar’ja begins to look over her shoulder, to turn around, when Ju’dha’s hand grabs her by the nape and pushes her head down. _“—Not yet.”_

 _“Hurry up. I will not be late because of—You—Ah—”_ Lar’ja’s eyes widen in pleasure, mandibles flaring behind her mask as she feels a wet claw push against her ass. Her groin throbs wildly as Ju’dha teases her with every movement, sometimes pushing in a half-inch but often just rubbing around and up against her sphincter. The woman’s knees wobble.

Ju’dha exhales with satisfaction. _“Tell me… Lar’ja… Do you remember the moments we killed time together? Gave it the final rest? On the most tedious of trips, the most aggravating spans of galaxies to travel… When we couldn’t find a mate, with no one else around, when we were only Blooded and not even Elite—"_

The memories make heat explode into Lar’ja’s face. She falls quiet, more aroused than before at the memories of how Ju’dha and her used to relieve one another. Her silence is rewarded by a _hard_ tug on her locs. Lar’ja grits her teeth. _“Sei-i! Sei-I, Ju’dha—”_

 _“Before you have your way with me,”_ the other Yautja presses against her backside, arms reaching around and climbing up Lar'ja's torso and grabbing at her pectoral muscles. Ju’dha feels _divine_ , like the touch of a Paya in mortal flesh. The other Elder clicks softly, _“If you wish... we could... Repeat those old times.”_

 _“Pauk,”_ Lar’ja moans and rubs her ass against the nude Elder’s pelvis. _“Pauk—”_

 _“Expletives aren’t answers, Elder Lar’ja_.” Ju’dha leaves a sharp, painful stinging in the next swat of their hand. _“What do you want to me to do?”_

 _“Everything,”_ it is spoken so softly Lar’ja isn’t sure if she remembers to speak it at first. She flinches and her cock begins _throbbing_ and dribbling pre-cum when Ju’dha growls and rakes claws down Lar’ja’s back. She is led by her locs and dragged out of the tub and into Ju’dha’s bedchamber. The latter shoves her forward to a bed and bends her over the edge. They spread her legs and massage her bare thighs and calves. Every movement electrifies Lar'ja's nerves.

But then it stops, and Lar’ja is left a panting mess looking over her shoulder in bewilderment.

 _“Stay here. Don’t touch yourself.”_ Is all Ju’dha warns before they stroll out of the room.

Lar’ja’s face burns in desperately sought submission and release. It is one of the things she prays no one else ever discovers; she can only take so much gossip about herself, and none of it can involve being underneath any other Elders in the clan.

By Cetanu, her cock _aches_ to fill something, to be filled, touched, sucked, _something_. Lar’ja begins rubbing her hips against the bed’s edge. The tip of her cock brushes it repeatedly; Lar’ja sighs in want and rocks her hips harder. She does not even hear Ju’dha return to the bedchamber until the latter walks up to the bedside and waves a sphere of pink paste in front of Lar’ja.

 _“You’ll want this,”_ Ju’dha clicks with humor, speaking as if the two are having an everyday conversation and not about to copulate. _“Spread your legs more.”_

 _“Elder Ju’dha—”_ For a moment Lar’ja’s formalities return, and she hisses at Ju’dha with aggravation. _“I haven’t forgotten how to receive from you. Do not treat me like this is my first time."  
_

 _“—You should remember our first time together. Remember the rules we came up with,”_ Ju’dha’s spare hand finds Lar’ja’s locs and _tugs._ The latter hisses, head pulled back. Ju’dha leans over the Yautja and growls. _“Don’t interrupt me.”_

Their teeth sink into Lar’ja’s neck, tusks piercing at strange angles while the latter gasps in pain and attempts to buck her hips. Ju’dha snarls and draws back, only to lick the spot oozing green blood. Lar’ja resumes panting and heaving for air, physically shaking under the arousal. Her shaft weeps at the lack of contact.

Cold metal brushes her quivering thighs. Lar’ja struggles to catch her breath as Ju’dha waits for her to calm. Without looking, Lar’ja knows Ju’dha wears something which will stretch her very soon. The thought excites her. Even if she hasn’t received in many cycles—Setg’in occasionally sought her submission, but it was rare—Lar’ja yearns for something to _fill_ her. She has a deep, unsettling ache in her abdomen and groin. Her dignity is nothing in the face of Ju’dha. She begins to hiss impatiently when Ju’dha dawdles at the bedside.

The latter shakes their head, amused. _“This may sting—I have to get it all inside or you’ll be in more pain than pleasure.”_

Ju’dha has a surprisingly gentle touch when they return to her and begin applying the pink paste to her posterior, a claw dipping to rub along her sphincter. The cell-altering properties of the paste seep into her body and soon the undignified Elder is a mess of whines and pleas bent over Ju’dha’s bed. Lar’ja moans weakly when Ju’dha finally pushes a digit inside her. She cannot stop shivering with anticipation and bliss as more of the godly pink paste is rubbed inside her.

Lar’ja cries out when Ju’dha thrusts the finger against her, clawtips only just skimming the hyper-sensitive walls inside. There is no way to keep herself propped up; her arm gives out and she collapses on the bed with Ju’dha bending over her and continuing without respite. Pressure grows in Lar’ja’s abdomen and she begins to gasp aloud, _“—Pauk—Pauk—Ju’dha—”_

The finger retracts before she can conquer the cliff of pleasure. Ju’dha growls, draws their hand back, and brings it down on her ass. _“Don’t. Interrupt. Me.”_

 _“I—”_ Lar’ja’s face burns in sweet, sick embarrassment at forgetting the first rule. She knows the two’s old safe word, she knows the other Elder will stop in a second if she chooses to end this, but she doesn’t want it to stop. She wants this. She wants to submit. Lar’ja’s face continues to burn, mandibles flaring weakly and clicks soft and ashamed as she offers, _“Forgive me—”_

Something cold and metal rubs against her ass. Ju’dha-Jehdin growls. _“You broke our first rule twice. That warrants punishment.”_

 _Payas._ Lar’ja shakes on the bed. Her voice is faint. _“Please—Please—”_ Lar’ja arches her back and howls when Ju’dha pulls on her locs. A second later, a hand seizes the back of Lar’ja’s skull. Ju’dha shoves her face into the bed.

 _“I’m going to punish you,”_ Ju’dha clicks kindly.

 _“I want it, Ju’dha—”_ Lar’ja might die if she doesn’t have something in her in the next sixty second cycles. Her body is on fire with heat, lust, and the need to find relief.

 _“Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin! Use my title,”_ Ju’dha shoves the end of the strap-on into her sphincter. It is cold, wide, and impossibly thick, made of veritanium alloy with fake veins and nobs running along the sides of the great length. Just having the head of the fake cock push into the ring of muscle makes Lar’ja writhe with moans. Ju'dha growls again. _“Use it. My title, Lar’ja. Now."_

_“Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin—”_

_“Tell me what I’m going to do to you, Lar’ja,”_ the other Elder hisses, not pushing deeper despite the altered nerves of Lar’ja’s inside _begging_ for contact and friction. When Lar’ja’s face burns and she blanks on words, Ju’dha growls. _“Tell. Me.”_

 _“You’re going to—Going to—”_ Lar’ja struggles to think. The girth of the strap-on is _so_ much, stretching her with an intense burn she knows she will feel in the _ka’rik’na_ later. The Elder groans when Ju’dha pulls on her hair sharply. _“Stretch me—”_

Another pull.

_"Fill me—"_

Pull.

_"Pauk me!"_

_“Ki’sei…”_ Ju’dha agrees and tugs on Lar’ja’s locs. _“Do you want to receive, Lar’ja?”_

 _“Please—”_

Lar’ja’s eyes widen and her mandibles flare as the other Elder _slams_ their hips forward and the strap-on fills her several inches. She is not aware she lets out a weak cry until Ju’dha runs hands up and down her torso to soothe her. Lar’ja shakes under the touch. The stretch is ungodly wonderful; she feels partially filled, a scratch at the _itch_ she possesses, but it isn’t enough. The Elder begins to moan and pant, whining pitifully for Ju’dha to move, to continue, to _give._

As if reading her thoughts—Ju’dha pushes forward and Lar’ja’s back arches as the rest of the dildo spreads, fills, _penetrates._

 _Cold—_ All Lar’ja can think about is the sharp contrast in temperature from the cold metal in her hot flesh. Her mandibles and inner jaw hang ajar in bliss as she takes the full length of the strap-on, feeling it rub places she hasn’t thought of in cycles. There is some discomfort, but she knows from experience it will fade.

Ju’dha begins with a surprisingly slow pace. The bed doesn’t move much while Ju’dha’s hands squeeze her hips. The Elder holds her in place while the two’s hips meet in soft slaps of scale-covered skin. Pleased groans and grunts escape the two individuals. Ju’dha slowly works up the speed from gentle thrusts to sharp stabs; the groans devolve into heaps of incoherent syllables as Lar’ja melts under the Elder’s touch. The other Elder grunts or trills in satisfaction at her reactions. Her cock is a painful ache now, too sensitive to be touched yet begging for it all the same.

The cliff comes into sight; Lar’ja’s mind swarms with mounting pressure. Ju’dha thrusts into the woman, then thrusts again, hitting the right spot to shoot a wave of pleasure through her mind. Lar’ja trembles and grabs a fistful of bed sheet. Her toes curl and her legs quiver as the other Elder barks an order at her— _“Come!”_

Ju’dha’s strap-on slaps against her rectum, stretches her to a point it is _so_ good, _so_ deep, but just as she reaches a tipping point, on the edge of the razor-thin precipice of euphoria—Ju’dha stops. Lar’ja’s eyes bulge and she squirms on the bed. When that gets her nowhere, the Elder transitions back to angry clicks and sharp growls for Ju’dha to _stop being a pauking tease._

Ju’dha clicks mandibles together in amusement. They keep the strap-on inside of her ass while they pull her backward with them several inches. Lar’ja doesn’t know why until Ju’dha’s hands snake around her flat hips. The other Yautja trails claws to the woman’s pelvis, calmly feeling out the length and latching unto the tip. Ju’dha doesn’t hesitate to begin grinding the pad of their thumbs and fingers against the damp tip. Lar’ja’s face fills with heat and though she struggles not to scream in overstimulated pleasure, the last of her dignity dissipates and she begins howling as her orgasm takes her. She climaxes on the bed, on herself, on Ju’dha, and then her strength wanes and she collapses against the bed. Warmth rocks her spent form in waves. Her body continues to throb and tingle.

 _“Look at you. Do you have any energy left for me?”_ Ju’dha clicks with amusement, the dominative persona already melting away.

Lar’ja moans weakly in response.

 _“Ah… Then I get to continue stinking of Leader Daga.”_ Ju’dha shakes their head and pulls out. The sudden absence makes Lar’ja’s sphincter gape in want. Ju’dha tilts their head to one side. _“Unless you want more…?”_

 _Pauk._ Lar’ja pants. _“The—Ka’rik’na—_ ”

_“I am not pauking you in front of the other Elders. We have reputations to maintain, Elder Lar’ja.”_

_“You know what I meant.”_ Lar’ja’s face heats up. She remains on the bed, partially pinned by Ju’dha’s body weight. Her eyes clench shut. _“I can—I will take care of you. In a moment.”_

 _“I look forward to it.”_ Ju’dha sounds relaxed as they climb off her ass. Lar’ja hears them undo the harness of the strap-on; it falls to the floor. She has the energy to sit up by the time Ju’dha finishes wiping the dildo down with a towel and cleaning fluid. Ju’dha sets the toy aside and moves to the bed. They click at the woman, then at the bed. 

Eventually, Lar’ja exhales. She calms her racing pulse and relaxes her body. She feels oddly refreshed, like something inside of her has been freed. The Elder looks at the bed and growls, _“Pauk—We need to clean—I need to clean—”_

 _“Ah, yes… I figured as much. Hold on.”_ Ju’dha’s figure is a sight to behold, fluid limbs begging to be held, pinned, _controlled._

Lar’ja observes Ju’dha rise from the bed, rip off the sheets, and toss them aside, likely for later cleaning. Ju’dha strolls to the wall, prompts two ‘doors’ to slide open, and fishes a wrist computer from the side. One command input later; an automated process runs a red laser over the entirety of the bed. Sheets are put on through slim, sleek metal contraptions that emerge and then disappear into the floor when done.

 _“Clean.”_ Ju’dha trills in satisfaction. They meet Lar’ja halfway when the later strides to them.

Lar’ja promptly grabs the Yautja’s ass. Ju’dha shudders into her touch. Lar’ja walks them backward, with her, to the clean bed. She shoves Ju’dha unto it, wasting no time climbing on after.

While Lar’ja displays masochism when receiving, her role as a giver is not the same. When she crawls over to Ju’dha and parts the latter’s legs, her touch is soft and slow. Ju’dha clicks in delight as Lar’ja begins to feel and map out the contours of the former’s body. Lar’ja sees why Akrei-non-Daga holds a deep lust for the Yautja; Ju’dha’s skin feels alien yet welcoming in the smoothness of it. Their pelt invites Lar’ja’s body to move in and feel. Lar’ja begins to rub and knead every inch of Ju’dha’s flesh, increasingly desperate to get more of the scales.

 _“Payas blessed you, Ju’dha,”_ Lar’ja rumbles softly _. “You feel like running water.”_

 _“Leader Daga thought the same. His rutting did not end for hours. I trust you can finish sooner than that? We have a ka’rik’na to attend to, Elder Lar’ja,”_ Ju’dha tilts their head to one side, blue green locs swaying from the motion. They reach to their pelvis and spread their swollen slit _wide_ for Lar’ja to see.

Lar’ja _sees_. She exhales sharply as blood pumps into her groin.

 _“I will… see what I can do,”_ Lar’ja’s eyes take the sight in as she pushes Ju’dha’s legs up.

What she wants is more than the other Yautja to sit around. She wants the other Yautja to submit without the mating dance, to embrace vulnerability and trust her with copulation. Ju’dha catches on quickly to the deep stare Lar’ja gives them. The latter lets go of their slit—dripping with lubricant, ready for her—and hefts their legs up, holding their knees to their chest and lifting their hips for her to hunger after.

She takes the plunge and loses herself in the sound of Ju’dha’s strangled cries at the insertion. The latter is given a moment’s relief before Lar’ja begins to rock into them. Ju’dha’s face flushes a deep, riveting teal; they pant relentlessly and moan loudly as the other Elder gives. Lar’ja’s mind swarms with pleasure; the velvety warmth is too much not to indulge in. She thrusts deeply and fills Ju’dha to the brim, finding herself pushing against the latter’s cervix inside. Ju’dha begins to squeak and gasp as Lar’ja thrusts into the spot and grazes the Yautja’s cervix.

 _“Harder,”_ Ju’dha howls.

Lar’ja complies, crushing the two’s pelvises together in a union of lust and need. She begins to moan and growl in building pleasure. Her eyes see not the blue and green figure of Ju’dha beneath her rolling hips, but instead, her mind imagines the receiver as a Yautja with a darker pelt, one covered in stars. She imagines the sounds the head of the medical division would make under her penetration, how the two might revel in each other’s bodies. She imagines Tjau’ke crying out her name, and that’s it—It’s too much, Tjau’ke is too much, even when absent she fills Lar’ja’s head—The Elder orgasms roaring the name of the nurse into the bedchamber.

She buries herself in the Elder beneath her, thrusts becoming weaker and desperate to coax the same climax out of the other Elder. Ju’dha clutches her and suddenly clamps down on her body; the other Elder moans and shudders as they join her in orgasm.

The musk in the air is strange: the algae of a pond diluted with _nothing_. She has been told many times her _n’dui-se_ is unusual in dissipating that of others. She never thought it could have a use.

 _“We’ll be late to the ka'rik'na.”_ Ju’dha clicks.

Lar’ja falls quiet, then clicks softly, _“...Do not blame me for how you want to handle things.”_

 _“You misunderstand, Elder Lar’ja,”_ Ju’dha rubs their head against her. It makes Lar’ja’s face flush with heat. She doesn’t mean to, but she begins to purr softly. Ju’dha’s laughter indicates the Yautja will hear of it for a long time to come. Lar’ja begrudgingly accepts the fact and watches Ju’dha trill with seriousness, _“Truly,_ _it will work for us. Let Akrei-non-Daga think I consider another’s hand. He can rot in jealousy, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja. Jealous men can be manipulated—”_

 _“You’re playing with dah’kte.”_ Lar’ja grunts. _“Jealousy is dangerous.”_

 _“I know, Elder Lar’ja,”_ Ju’dha doesn’t hesitate to push against Lar’ja’s chest. The latter takes the hint and pops out, then climbs off the Yautja. Lar’ja sits on the edge of the bed and watches Ju’dha sit up and begin untangled long, dark green locs. _“I believe he underestimates me.”_

 _“A mistake.”_ Lar’ja’s white eyes dim.

 _“Sei-I, sei-i. A mistake he makes time and time again… But I have yet to take advantage of it,”_ Ju’dha sighs and lowers their arms to their side.

It is a foolish idea, _s’yuit-de._ Lar’ja stares at the other Elder. She cannot fathom the desperation Ju’dha must feel to consider approaching Daga with such intent. It concerns her enough to trill, _“Ju’dha… I know you do not want to hear this—But I would call that nigh dishonorable. Exploiting the emotions of another in this regard—Surely there must be another way to handle the situation.”_

 _“Since when are any of us honorable, Lar’ja?”_ Ju’dha looks at her, green eyes pained. _“Since when have any of us truly walked the path of Honor?”_

Lar’ja shuts her eyes. _“We do what we must to protect the ones we love. But we must—We must try to lead honorable lives. We must try, Ju’dha—”_

 _“I have tried.”_ Ju’dha clicks. _“I have done everything in my power to keep my pup safe. But this path of Honor does not lead to her safety, M-di-Guan-Lar’ja. This path leads to her demise. If I do not go off it—I will lose her.”_

 _“Seducing the man is not the right way to accomplish this. Daga is a powerful man.”_ The huntress feels irate at having to reiterate the fact. She feels irritated Ju’dha acts so recklessly on their own. _“If he suspects you use him—If you falter—You may not live the night, Ju’dha. A jealous Yautja will dig for answers. He will interrogate you ruthlessly. If you are patient—If you wait until Guan surpasses him—"_

 _“We cannot wait for your pup to become leader, Lar’ja. Akrei-non-Daga has too many cycles left before he is an Ancient. Guan will wait another two-zero-zero cycles before Daga retires and he commands Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Ju’dha is apathetic in their response.

No, not apathetic—Simply tired. Exhausted. Drained. A true embodiment of what goes on in their head; Ju’dha-Jehdin is not always the calm sea of an Elder.

Lar’ja is ashamed to acknowledge she does not remember when Ju’dha first began to crumple under the weight of losing pups to _ic’jit._ She does not know her old ally as well as she once thought. But she cares for the other Elder to an extent; the two share much history and possess similar tarnish upon each other’s honor. While Lar’ja does not see much in Ju’dha as a mate, she sees them as a capable individual. She might go so far to call them a friend, enough of a friend for her to be spurred from her grief when Ju’dha first came to her residence begging for help hunting down the _ic’jit_ who kidnapped their offspring.

_“Ju’dha-Jehdin—If I offer another solution, will you swear on your life you will not act like a s’yuit-de with Akrei-non-Daga?”_

_“I will handle him, Lar’ja—”_

_“That is not what I am asking!”_ Lar’ja cuts them off and bares her fangs. The woman growls at the other Elder. _“If I offer another solution—Will you swear on your life not to be a pauking s’yuit-de? You are more capable than this! You are not a naïve new Blooded!”_

 _“What solution could keep him from branding Bist’ri an Arbitrator? You know how H’dlak, Tyioe, and Migo will vote, Lar’ja!”_ Ju’dha hisses back.

Both Elders falls quiet. Lar’ja looks at her hand, at where the short, sharp black talons protrude from the end of each of her fingers. She remembers when she finally sent Akrei-non-Daga’s sirer to the Black Hunter. She recalls the death rattle as the man met the final rest. She could not see his eyes; they had already been gouged out day cycles prior. Back then—She did it without hesitation, ending a life the second Ju’dha decided he suffered enough.

Honor is not always found on the path she walks.

But Ju’dha does not have the same tarnish. Ju’dha did not kill Akrei-non-Daga’s sirer. Ju’dha’s honor is not absent in its entirety. Not like hers.

M-di-Guan-Lar’ja makes up her mind with a deep, long exhale.

_“Ju’dha, if Daga brands her Arbitrator—I will challenge him for his leadership.”_

_“The others will vote to rebuke your challenge. It comes at too costly a time for Gahn’tha-cte,”_ Ju’dha retorts. _“What then, Lar’ja?”_

The Dark Night is No More growls. _“Then he meets the Black Hunter.”_


	56. proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -talk of miscarriage, pregnancy, child loss / death, abortion  
> -talk of cheating / infidelity 
> 
> finally get to the trials next chapter :D

_It’s been hundreds of cycles since the nameless one saw the Shadow face-to-face. Yet as her yellow eyes look across the medical bay, she finds herself speechless: there in the flesh, in the same dark, dark armor of Ka’Torag-Na, stands the Shadow of those who lurk in the darkness. The nameless child is now a nameless woman, yet she feels as tiny as she was when she became the nameless poison. Even now, part of the woman feels compelled to convey respect. It is her weak link: she remains rooted to her clan of origin hundreds of cycles after being adopted into Akrei-non-Daga’s lineage._

_“Shadow.” The nameless woman clicks softly where she sits upright on the medical bay table. The metal is cool to the touch. The container full of dead cells and the incubating parasitoid feels weightless in her arms._

_“Nameless child.” The Shadow regards her with no emotion. They were never one for many words. “I am here to deliver a message from the matriarch of Ka’Torag-na.”_

_Her matriarch. Her aunt by thwei—if she was not a nameless child without living thwei._

_“Tell the poison of Ka’Torag-Na’s fallen her new orders, Shadow.” The nameless woman bows her head._

_She stills as the armored Yautja strides forward and steps at the side of her table. But not even a nameless woman can anticipate the Shadow grabbing her by the throat and lifting her off the metal table protruding from the floor. The Shadow tilts their head to one side as the nameless woman chokes and gasps for air._

_“…M-di-Guan-Lar’ja is no longer your target,” The Shadow clicks softly as they strangle her. “The matriarch calls for the poisoning of Ju’dha-Jehdin—”_

_Behind the two, the door of the medical bay unlocks and opens. The Shadow pauses, a genuine moment of surprise at the sight of the pale blue nurse seething in the doorway. The nurse’s one dah’kte extends and she sprints for the Shadow, “Put my patient down!”_

_She may be a nameless woman, but the Adjutant nurse is a foolish one._

* * *

The first one off the _Kukulkan_ is not a member of its crew. The first one off the ship is the _ic’jit,_ Vayuh’ta, Bad Blood of the Ka’Torag-Na Clan. She is escorted off the ship in heavy restraints with no less than six Elites flanking her sides. The transportation of the prisoner draws many stares, Tjau’ke included, not because of the prisoner status, nor the goading taunts or insults Vayuh’ta possesses in her quips, but due to the jaw-dropping similarities to Akrei-non-Daga’s Adjutant.

She is not a perfect image of Guan, but it is terribly _close._ Even Tjau’ke utters a prayer under breath to the gods as the guards lead Vayuh’ta out of the docking bay, no doubt heading directly for the containment cells. She hopes the newfound suspicion is wrong, that the _ic’jit_ is not the pup Akrei-non-Daga handed over to Ka’Torag-Na hundreds of cycles past. She prays the gods do not curse Gahn’tha-cte with such misfortune, that they do not twist the knife Akrei-on-Daga stabbed them with long ago.

Setg’in never forgave the man for giving the two’s pup to Ka’Torag-Na in tribute. For the sake of her late _mei-jahdi_ , Tjau’ke intends to carry the resentment she knows Setg’in would still feel.

There is not much time to brood, pray, or fret: the actual crew of the assignment, in addition to M-di-H’chak, two oomans, and an Im-Gen, are led off the _Kukulkan_ in groups—Accompanied by guards, ranging from pairs of Elites to trios, all with their own heavy armor and weaponry.

Adjutant Guan is the first, emerging flanked by two Elites. He looks to be in good spirits when he jumps from the cockpit and lands on the ground, his two guards joining him a moment later. He nods respectfully at Tjau’ke, then walks past to where Clan Leader Daga stands with no less than twelve Yautja tending to him.

 _“—Adjutant Guan.”_ Daga greets his Adjutant with a curt chirp.

Guan bows his head. _“Clan Leader Daga. I have brought back M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit, as per orders.”_

 _“We will discuss the success of your assignment when the rest of your crew and the… unexpected additions,”_ Daga pauses to growl. It takes Tjau’ke aback to hear the news, but she remains silent in hopes of hearing more. _“Are escorted off this worm and to the council hall.”_

 _Worm. Worm? S’yuit-de! My pup does not fly a worm!_ Tjau’ke feels ire rise in her chest. The head of the medical division is _furious,_ but she holds her own, refusing to give in to such a short fuse when much remains at stake. She does not correct Daga on the _Kukulkan_ ’s true nature _now_ , but she makes a note to do so if the man insists on addressing the divine ship wrong in the future.

“Forgive me, Leader Daga, but I do not understand the circumstances surrounding our disembark from the ship,” it is a topic Tjau’ke is grateful Guan brings up. Guan stands tall and firm despite Akrei-non-Daga’s harsh yellow gaze.

 _“We are in possession of an ic’jit, my Adjutant. S’yuit-de.”_ The clan leader scolds him loudly. One of the Elite guards clicks something under breath. Daga doesn’t appear to notice, instead continuing with an irritated string of clicks, _“This ic’jit murdered a powerful huntress. A huntress the likes could go on par with your bearer.”_

The mention of _Setg’in_ grabs both Guan’s and Tjau’ke’s full attention. Tjau’ke’s eyes widen. She cannot see Guan’s expression, as the man dons his bio-mask, but she recognizes his tense posture. Guan is silent a long moment, almost daring the clan leader to go on. Daga does not, merely clicks at him to go. With a stiff nod, the Adjutant walks off. Tjau’ke regrets not being able to speak with him before _ka’rik’na_ , but she knows the Adjutant has several responsibilities to attend to, just like each of the Elders before the council comes together.

 _Truly your pup, Lar’ja._ The thought leaves her with a soft warmth.

To say she holds affection for the Elder is laughable. Not because it is wrong—so, so far from it—but because the head of the medical division has brewed such feelings for cycles long before now. Guan-Tjau’ke is a woman who speaks when she wants to speak. There are very few exceptions, the main one being Akrei-non-Daga’s presence. Yet when it comes to M-di-Guan-Lar’ja, the Dark Night is No More, Tjau’ke finds there is no point to _speaking_. She has already spoken enough with the woman, down to the number of times she has attempted to send gifts or tokens of affection in the past. It is up to Lar’ja now to determine whether there is anything more to the duo, or if things will remain as they are until one or both drifts apart.

The fact Lar’ja expresses interest in making a courting gift for someone gives Tjau’ke hope. Perhaps the Elder is not as hopeless as she seems, capable of taking the embers between the two and turning it into something more tangible. She hopes she is not wrong; rejection will hurt.

The rest of the crew come quickly after Guan. First is one of the engineers, Kwei-Bezas, with washed out yellow skin partially hidden behind their thermal mesh suit. Next is the Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de; his amber scales are as bright and eye-catching as his loud laughter when he greets the two guards by name. He rarely comes to the medical bay; Tjau’ke quickly deduces he must be a capable fighter to not require _too_ much of her division’s help. That, or he does not train as regularly as he should.

The two oomans are brought out at the same time, a strange pair starkly contrasting one another. One is a lady with brown skin and hanging black locs, dressed in colorful clothes from her home planet. Her brown eyes are observant, and she does not flinch when the guards growl at her to walk faster.

 _Brave,_ Tjau’ke thinks. She clicks in surprise when the ooman woman stops mid-stride and growls back at a guard. The head of the medical division squints beyond her bio-mask. _Or… foolish?_

The other ooman is sunk back and silent in their steps. They’re tall for an ooman, approximately six-foot-two, with pasty white skin and unkempt blond hair far thinner than any hair Tjau’ke’s seen before. The second ooman wears a thermal suit over a make-shift pair of leathery shorts and a cod piece.

 _Nervous, jumpy… Worried? Are you worried?_ The head of the medical division makes note of the fact.

She recalls one of her Adjutant’s reports, where Bist’ri mentioned the ooman with a pale pelt suffering a head wound and concussion. Tjau’ke clicks at the envoy of guards when they march the oomans past her, _“Those two—With me. I want them taken to the medical bay.”_

Several _noks_ further up the docking bay, Tjau’ke feels the cold eyes of Akrei-non-Daga land on her form. She clicks calmly at him, _“Clan Leader Daga—my reports indicate the oomans experienced injuries prior to landing in custody of Adjutant Guan. While my Adjutant has seen to them throughout her trip, as head of the medical division, it is my responsibility to oversee the care of those under me. Her patients are my patients.”_

The Elites flanking the two oomans tense. Daga lifts a hand to them and gestures at Tjau’ke. _“They would need to be handed over for translator chip implantation regardless. See to it the chips are implanted within the day. M-di-H’chak’s trial cannot be conducted without all witnesses.”_

While Daga trills and chirrups, a Yautja emerges from the _Kukulkan_ ’s open cockpit.

“ _Clan Leader Daga,”_ The Adjutant calls as she strides over. Adjutant Yeyinde is a tall huntress, seven-foot-eight or so in stature, with brilliant gold coloration underneath bright white veritanium alloys. Her eyes remain hidden behind a sharp, angled mask with slanting visors deeply inset in the design. _“The Elite onboard asked I pass a request to you.”_

 _“What is it?”_ Daga growls, impatient. He carries a potent _n’dui-se_ , but until now it only seemed to flicker weakly in the air. The stench is revolting to Tjau’ke, like sulfur gas.

Even if the man didn’t reek, the head nurse imagines Elder Tyioe's Adjutant doesn’t care about the Clan Leader _now_. Tjau’ke remembers meeting Yeyinde two day cycles prior to go over results of the latter’s positive test. Yeyinde has a pup or pups on the way; most bearers do not care about mating once pregnant.

 _“M-di-H’chak requests the presence of Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ Hearing the name of her pup makes Tjau’ke snap her head at the golden huntress. Yeyinde stands upright, firm and steady. _“He has sworn on his honor not to leave the ship unless Tjau’ke is present.”_

 _S’yuit-e, H’chak._ Tjau’ke thinks, but with a degree of jest. Her mandibles stretch into a sloppy, tusky ‘smile’ behind her mask.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ The clan leader trills at her. _“Tell your pup not to push his luck. Go.”_

 _“Sei-I, Leader Daga,”_ the nurse doesn’t pass up the opportunity. She follows Yeyinde as the latter walks briskly to the _Kukulkan._

It’s been a long time since she boarded the divine serpent. Tjau’ke easily jumps up and lands in the open cockpit. Yeyinde follows, flanking her as she pushes a hand against the cockpit door and prompts it open. Her blue-gray eyes widen behind her mask. She stops in her steps and stares down the corridor dividing walls of cabins. Dozens of _noks_ down, clicking softly to the silver ooman-like figure to his right, is a man whose colors do not match hers in the slightest.

Not her eyes, not her pelt, not the twist of her locs or color of the hair. She knows why—the two’s _thwei_ is not identical, not a match, not linked in that manner—and she doesn’t care. Tjau’ke exhales softly into her mask as she stares at the son she thought she lost almost two full cycles past the present day. She stares at her pup, standing only at seven-feet versus her eight-foot-three. She stares at his head, oh, his poor, poor head, where the rich vantablack locs have been removed, gouged out, or altered. There are too many scars hinting at what _her_ pup has lived through.

She wants to weep. She sees her son, her pup, the light of her life, freeze and snap his head up in realization. He dons a mask, but there is no denying the shock on his face: she can imagine it on his features, every detail seared into her mind the day she thought she lost him.

 _“…Pa-e.”_ She hears her pup utter. It is a beloved term, soft-spoken and carrying a translation which cannot be defined in most languages. It is the role not of a physical bearer, but of the one who brings up a pup and raises them through the cycles of Suckling and Unblooded. It is the one who nourishes, protects, and watches over a pup through the clumsy and harsh stages of Yautja adolescence in Gahn’tha-cte.

It is the word only one Yautja possesses the right to use, and that Yautja stands at the other end of the corridor, a figure of silver at his side.

Tjau’ke rushes forward and throws her arms around him. She hears him growl and hiss, but her pup begrudgingly quiets after a moment and lets her stroke his head. Tjau’ke clicks her mandibles together with laughter, setting her pup— _her pup!!!!!!!—_ down and putting both hands on his shoulders. She peers at his mask, then at his remaining locs, then at the rest of him, looking for new scars, assessing damage, and contemplating whether to him up again.

 _“Pa-e—”_ H’chak begins, but he comes up empty with words. His clicks break into choked, pained noises. Tjau’ke holds him again, clicking soft notes and trilling a calm lullaby. Her pup slowly calms and soon returns to squirming and trying to get out of her grasp. This time, she lets him go, and she nods at him, relaxing when he nods back.

 _“I’m told you requested I come here. You could have gotten off the Kukulkan, H’chak—”_ Tjau’ke muses aloud, head tilting to one side. She crosses her arms and leans down to H’chak’s eye level. He looks away, indicated by the angle of his mask, but T’jau’ke knows his stubbornness has a limit. She clicks at him to hurry up, to _explain_ , and eventually—H’chak growls under his breath, slumps his shoulders and looks behind him where the silver ooman-like figure has stood quietly.

 _The Im-Gen._ Tjau’ke observes.

Behind her, Yeyinde clicks briskly, _“Honorable Tjau’ke! Leader Daga requests the others and myself assist in escorting his progeny and the remaining crew members off this ship. I will be back to escort you off when I am done.”_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ Tjau’ke chirps in response, never looking away from her pup.

He seems nervous.

No—He _is_ nervous. She can see it in his posture, his tense fists, and the way he repeatedly looks back at the Im-Gen only to look forward at Tjau’ke over and over again, like the man is afraid one might try to bite the other.

When Yeyinde’s footsteps fade, and the scents of the exiting engineer and remaining huntress fade with it, Tjau’ke’s icy blue-gray eyes narrow. She trills softly at her pup. _“It won’t take them long. What is it, H’chak?”_

 _“This is,”_ her pup hesitates. Tjau’ke’s stills as the Im-Gen at her pups side lifts a hand and takes it in one of H’chak’s own. H’chak inhales deeply and faces forward. _“—This is Sun-Dew.”_

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ Tjau’ke clicks, suspicion creeping upon her. She unlatches her bio-mask and takes it off. Immediately, she picks up on the strange scent in the air. Before, it had been faint, overshadowed by the other’s on the ship, drowned out by filtration system of her mask, but without either those factors inhibiting it—Tjau’ke’s olfactory receptors pick up and identify the odor. She snaps her head at H’chak and he growls at her. _“You will need to explain very, very quickly, H’chak.”_

 _“She’s my mate,”_ H’chak sounds like a newly Blooded from how quickly he chirps at her. _“I need you to help her, pa-e.”_

 _“…You went out on an assignment as Arbitrator, and you bring back a mate?”_ Tjau’ke isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry of laughter. Or both, or neither, because the circumstances are to the point that she can’t bring herself to care about the rules of clan decency. She can’t anticipate anything happening. She decides to not give a reaction. Her gaze drifts to the shorter silver figure, a faint magenta outline against her thermal vision.

Tjau’ke puts her mask back on. Color floods through the optical system’s filters. She takes in the sight of an ooman-like figure with lustrous silver skin, hair whiter than bone, all wearing a Yautja thermal mesh suit with appropriate wrappings underneath to conceal the torso and groin.

“Greetings, _Guan-Tjau’ke.”_ The Im-Gen surprises her in using her name. Tjau’ke watches, fascinated, as the Im-Gen tilts her head to one side. “I am Sundew.”

 _“Sei-I, you are, and I am Guan-Tjau’ke.”_ The nurse is polite in extending a hand, grabbing the smaller extraterrestrial’s shoulder, and shaking Sundew with friendly vigor. H’chak balks and sputters whereas Sundew remains quiet until Tjau’ke is done.

“H’chak, why do you never greet me that way?” The Im-Gen looks up at her pup, puzzled. She has a face that might have taken Tjau’ke aback in older cycles, but the head nurse has seen too many things to be perturbed or enamored by the face of a trophy.

 _“It’s,”_ H’chak pauses. _“It’s how Yautja in Gahn’tha-cte greet others they are close to.”_

“I am close to you.” Sundew’s strange silver lips perk up at the ends. “I enjoy being close to you. Like this—" she loops his arm with hers and clings to him, mimicking an exhale of delight after. Her strange, thin white hair splays messily around her head and shoulders from how the Im-Gen holds unto him.

 _“Your mate,”_ Tjau’ke repeats the sentiment. _“Well—She won’t be viable for producing pups this season—Or the next, H’chak. Our species is not compatible.”_

 _“She’s not my mate for the mating season,”_ H’chak leans down and nuzzles Sundew’s head. He purrs softly, the kind of sound meant to calm—Or express affection. _“She is my life partner.”_

* * *

His bearer falls silent at the words, tense and frozen. H’chak feels dread crawl up his throat. He focuses on the lovely scent emitted by his mate. Sundew looks good in mesh, but he needs to find her other clothes to wear. He knows he has many ornate robes in his residence, and he knows Tjau’ke would have extras from when he was still shooting up in height during his late adolescence. The idea of seeing Sundew waltzing around in his old clothes, in _his_ attire, fills him with a steady, squirming warmth.

His orange eyes glance down at her, admiring how effortlessly her body melds against his. She acts true to her namesake; Sundew holds his arm like a _drosera_ glued to prey. She looks up and smiles calmly at him, making his four hearts skip beats in tandem. H’chak almost forgets where he is at that moment, lost in the warmth. He feels it spread through his body: from the tips of his toes, to his fingers, to his head…

 _“I love you,”_ He reminds her gently, finding the ooman phrase liberating to use. H’chak’s free hand lifts and he runs it through the Vekin’s strange, strange hair, so distinctly unlike his own. It feels wonderful. _She_ feels wonderful, cool to the touch and full of affection for him.

The Vekin’s face fills with gray. She lets go of his arm to wrap arms around his chest. The woman exhales softly, her words full of delight as she voices, _“I love you more.”_

 _“M-di, you think so,”_ H’chak trills with amusement. His mandibles click together in amusement when the Vekin frowns and looks up at him. He leans down and purrs against her head. _“We won’t agree on this, Sun-Dew.”_

“Because I am right.” She leans into his touch, standing on tip toes to nuzzle him back.

H’chak resists clicking in laughter at her. He sighs instead, soft and subtle, just like how the Vekin nearby first wormed her way into his life. She is stubborn. Stubborn with him.

H’chak flinches at the feeling of cool silver hands cupping his face and mask. His orange eyes widen he watches his mate peer up with clear eyes. She tugs at the edges of his mask, brightening only when he complies in unclasping it and having the sensors detract from his flesh. Sundew pulls it off and the world becomes a range of heat signatures. His mandibles twitch at the ensuing silence. Then—His mate moves a hand to his nape, and she pulls him down to her eye level. His face fills with heat when he feels her strange, soft lips press against one mandible.

“I _am_ right,” Sundew tells him. Her hands cradle his face. She kisses him again, before releasing the Yautja. H’chak shudders where he stands. He reminds himself his _pa-e_ is nearby, but mere _noks_ away, and he has yet to ask his _pa-e_ for the assistance he needs from her. There are Elites beyond the ship. He needs to leave a good impression if he has any hope of convincing his clan she is an Im-Gen.

 _Keeping Guan from bumping into her was cjit._ H’chak’s hairless brows furrow. He calms, inhales deeply, and purrs once more for his mate before he straightens upright. He fixes his mask back to his face. _If she’s… If Sundew is really the same species as that white Yautja lookalike… Alma… She’s a Vekin. The same species as the thing that engulfed Ma-Or._

The memory of the late Elder Ma-Or, and of _Chirp_ by extension, fills him with guilt and dread. H’chak looks back at Tjau’ke. He swallows. _“Pa-e.”_

Tjau’ke tilts her head to one side. Her long, twisting locs hang in their spiral off her shoulder. _“What do you need from me? You are my pup. If this—If this is who you’ve taken as a life mate, H’chak, I’ll welcome her like I would any other—"_

He relaxes at her clicks. His bearer has always been a woman with deep empathy, the kind many Yautja view as a weakness. Tjau’ke has never treated it like a weakness.

 _“—But,”_ the chirp makes him freeze. H’chak tenses when Tjau’ke leans down to his eye level, peering at him intently judging by the angle of her mask. _“I must ask, H’chak, did you court her properly? I did not raise my pup to be inconsiderate—”_

 _“I—I did,”_ H’chak feels his face heat up. He looks away, embarrassed at his own memories of giving Sundew the hat, opening up to her, _pauking_ her on the _kehrite_ floor… Perhaps he did not do everything in order, but he did it. A gift, a dance, display of emotional intimacy reserved for close platonic friends or—in this case—a life partner.

 _“Were they worthy of her?”_ Tjau’ke taps the crest of his mask, snapping him from his thoughts. _“You do not give just anything to someone you hold affection for—”_

 _“It was—Everything was worthy of her,”_ H’chak growls the words. Now the conversation has gone from strenuous to ridiculous, all in the span of mere minutes. _He_ thinks everything he gave his mate is worthy of her. Or, at the least, she liked it.

He hopes she liked it. He intends to give her more tokens of affection, but for now—What he’s given her in the past must suffice.

It occurs to him he hasn’t heard anything from Sundew in a time. H’chak glances down; his orange eyes dim at the sight of her dozing against his arm, once more clutching tightly like a _drosera_ might its prey. His chest tightens. _“—Honorable Tjau’ke—Please help her. Please help my mate.”_

 _“I need to know what’s going on first.”_ Tjau’ke clicks quickly, returning to her kind but stern nurse persona.

 _“She almost met u’sl-kwe. She didn’t, but—But she almost did,”_ his eyes dim again. He grits his teeth, cursing himself endlessly in his head for not being strong enough to keep her safe from the entity called Alma. H’chak clenches his eyes shut. _“—I’m worried about her. We thought she was recovering, but—She’s still hungry—She wants to sleep more than before—"_

_“You want me to assess her.”_

_“Sei-i.”_ H’chak growls softly. _“You are the only Yautja I can trust in Gahn’tha-cte.”_

* * *

Her four hearts _ache_ to hear the latter sentence. She clicks gently, “ _You can trust in Guan, H’chak—”_

The hiss her pup emits when he snaps his head up at her is venomous. _“Why would I ever trust that man, pa-e?”_

The nurse pauses. It surprises her to hear so much hate left in her pup. Part of her had hoped her pup and the Adjutant could make up over the voyage to the clanship. She regrets prodding the topic, yet part of her feels affixed to it. Tjau’ke clicks at her pup to recapture his attention; _“He has grown and changed over the cycles—”_

 _“M-di! He has not!”_ H’chak’s snarl wakes up his mate, stirring her from her stupor. Sundew lifts her head and blinks slowly while H’chak sighs and falls quiet. He purrs gently at his mate, or maybe for them both. For a moment, Tjau’ke thinks H’chak is about to go on. But nothing comes.

Tjau’ke looks back at the silver humanoid. _“Sun-Dew.”_

“That is me,” she nods at Tjau’ke.

_“Do you want to be assessed, Sun-Dew?”_

The silver figure pauses. She nods after a moment, the turn of her head indicating she looks from H’chak to the nurse. “I believe I would… benefit from it. I am not fully recovered. My critical mass remains… It remains low. I am always hungry.”

 _“—I’ll take you to the Gahn’tha-cte medical bay,”_ Tjau’ke decides. _“We’ll find you something to eat and then I’ll give you a full examination—”_

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke!”_ Yeyinde calls from the cockpit, having just returned. Tjau’ke looks over her shoulder and down the long corridor to where the golden Yautja stands upright. _“Leader Daga requests you, M-di-H’chak, and the Im-Gen remove yourself from the ship. The Kukulkan will undergo decontamination shortly.”_

 _“My ship is clean,”_ H’chak begins, but he shuts up when Yeyinde snaps her head to face him. The Elite growls under his breath, audible where Tjau’ke stands nearby.

 _“We are coming,”_ Tjau’ke chirps back. Yeyinde nods, satisfied with her answer. Tjau’ke and the two others walk the length of the corridor. When the trio reach the cockpit, Yeyinde climbs out and jumps from the open window and into the docking bay. Tjau’ke prepares to leap, but she stops when H’chak clicks at her. The woman pauses at the sight of H’chak holding Sundew in both arms. The latter curls up against him, arms looped around his neck. Tjau’ke squints. _“Sei-I, H’chak?”_

 _“One other thing—”_ H’chak exhales sharply.

Yeyinde calls for the three from the docking bay.

 _“Make it quick, we are pushing Daga’s patience.”_ Tjau’ke muses. _“He does not like Yautja who are late.”_

 _“Your Adjutant—Bist’ri?”_ H’chak lifts his head. He straightens upright. Yeyinde calls for the three again. H’chak sighs. _“—She is having an affair with Adjutant Guan, pa-e.”_

Tjau’ke stifles a laugh. She holds her composure but it is difficult not to let the humor sink into her clicks, _“That is not possible, H’chak. I understand the two have gotten along in recent times, but—”_

 _“I have proof,”_ H’chak clicks softly. _“Proof the two committed acts of disloyalty. I understand Adjutant Guan is a paired Yautja.”_

 _“That is a serious accusation to levy against either Adjutant.”_ Her icy blue eyes dim behind her mask. Tjau’ke looks at her pup, studying him for any hint of dishonesty. There are none of the tells she remembers from his youth: his posture is steady, his foot does not begin tapping, and he speaks with certainty. Tjau’ke exhales behind her mask. _“Let me take care of Sundew first. I will see you before your trial—I will address this then, H’chak. But your mate comes first, sei-i?”_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ Her pup nods. At Yeyinde’s less than patient clicks outside the ship, the three finally disembark.

The docking bay of Gahn’tha-cte feels like a different world. Her pup’s words echo in her head as the nurse walks away from the _Kukulkan_. She stops when H’chak sets his mate on her feet and the two part, with H’chak being escorted to Clan Leader Daga while the Im-Gen joins Tjau’ke. Though Daga does not look pleased with the Im-Gen being present, nor with the Im-Gen being given to Tjau’ke, the Clan Leader is too occupied handing out orders to guards and walking with H’chak out of the docking bay to care. Tjau’ke watches her pup disappear out a set of doors.

She shifts her attention to the Im-Gen at her side. Sundew is quiet as she follows Tjau’ke to one of the lifts. The Im-Gen does not question why the nurse stands on the metal, only inhales in excitement when the lift activates and begins to rise. The lift rises several floors bypassing the dominate _kehrite_ , smaller training floors, the armory, the residential hall, and finally coming to a stop at the medical bay. The aroma of different _n’dui-se_ has been a constant throughout the ship, but it arrives in full force in the medical bay, where mates are constantly flooding in and out of the level to receive tests and examinations.

To Tjau’ke’s joy, she spots her Adjutant holding a small container in her arms, speaking with C’it-na. Bist’ri looks to be in good spirits; the woman holds herself with a tense but steady demeanor as she clicks away and catches up with her friend.

Tjau’ke trills loudly from across the medical bay. Her gray-blue eyes soften when Bist’ri looks over her shoulder, turns, and lifts a hand in greeting. Sundew follows Tjau’ke as the latter walks to her Adjutant, _“When did you get past me, Bist’ri?”_

 _“You were speaking with your pup, I didn’t want to interrupt you,”_ Bist’ri tilts her head to one side. She is over a foot shorter than Tjau’ke, but Tjau’ke imagines, should the woman live to be her age, Bist’ri may very well shoot up another foot. It isn’t uncommon for bearers to grow exponentially after the four-zero-zero cycle.

The head nurse clicks her mandibles together in amusement. _“Ki’sei, you are a considerate one. I see you’ve had a talk with C’it-na?”_

 _“Hello—Hon—Honorable Tjau’ke!”_ C’it-na appears nervous, as always. His olive-green coloration looks more green than usual, courtesy of the light fixtures in the medical bay’s ceiling. _“I was just—I—Talking—”_ The nurse’s _n’dui-se,_ a subtle aroma of ripe olives, increases when Bist’ri looks his way.

The Adjutant returns to face Tjau’ke, _“Forgive him, I pulled him from his duties a moment to talk.”_

 _“I am here, you may ask me directly, Bist’ri,”_ Tjau’ke nods, clicking at C’it-na to return to work. The latter reluctantly does so, but not before shooting another scathingly obvious look in Bist’ri’s direction. As C’it-na does not wear a bio-mask, it is easy to see just how deeply he longs for her Adjutant. _Him and… many others._

Tjau’ke doesn’t want to think about H’chak’s words. It seems improbable, especially when her Adjutant has never expressed interest in a mate before, much less in Akrei-non-Daga’s Adjutant. Tjau’ke is quiet, Sundew likewise, as the former peers at her Adjutant and the strange container in her arms. Bist’ri inhales slowly. She looks up. _“—Honorable Tjau’ke, have you received my medical reports over the past month cycle?”_

 _“Sei-i. They have each been logged and verified. Your documentation was thorough, as always,”_ The head nurse pauses. She opts to send Sundew away, trilling and gesturing for the Im-Gen—who seems to know the clan dialect, or parts of it, likely taught by H’chak if Tjau’ke is to guess—to take a seat on a metal table in the far corner of the room. Now alone, Tjau’ke clicks at Bist’ri to follow her to a more secluded section of the medical bay, where she is sure no nosy nurses will hear. Tjau’ke stands to the side and turns to face Bist’ri while the latter pauses. Tjau’ke clicks warmly at her, voice calm, _“—I’m pleased you and the others returned in one piece.”_

 _“We made mistakes.”_ Bist’ri shakes her head. _“It will come out in the trials.”_

 _“Ki’sei! As it should. But you and the others—Each of you are honorable clan members. You will come out on top.”_ Tjau’ke nods stiffly.

She wants to sound confident, relaxed, and without suspicion. She doesn’t want to tip Bist’ri off if her pup’s word is true. Tjau’ke turns thoughts over in her head. _How should I handle this?_

She comes up with an idea quickly. Tjau’ke clicks at Bist’ri to get her Adjutant’s attention, _“You received many gifts while absent. I believe we surpassed the record for last year’s mating season. We sectioned a room off for them—”_

 _“I don’t want them.”_ Bist’ri looks to the side. _“They can be thrown. Either—I will get to them after my trial, or—If someone else wishes to throw them, it can be done.”_

 _“Ah,”_ Tjau’ke inhales deeply. She pauses, her brain filtering through the aromas picked up by her olfactory receptors, then she stills. _“Bist’ri—”_

 _“Sei-i?”_ Her Adjutant straightens upright, full attention on Tjau’ke.

The head nurse tenses her hands at her sides. _“Is there—Anything you need to tell me?”_

She sees the Adjutant pause. For a moment—Tjau’ke tastes fear. Her chest tightens. _Oh, Bist’ri… You wouldn’t have… You never took an interest in others during the mating season. You have always been focused on your work. Always carrying yourself with honor… You wouldn’t act like a… s’yuit-de._

Tjau’ke’s heart aches. She knows someone in _ka’rik’na_ can easily pick up on the intermingled scents of two Adjutants. If the Elders decide to allow all trial attendees a seat in the council hall, perhaps it can be explained as the result of the two Adjutants being next to the other. But if not— _Anyone with sharp olfactory senses will have… suspicions. Bist’ri, Bist’ri, Bist’ri… Why would you bed a paired Adjutant? Why now? After years of going without... What changed?_

She will not warn her Adjutant. There is a chance, should the Elders know, that coming clean directly to them will spare the worse of punishments. And if the Elders do not know—There is no point in bringing it up, in making the situation more stressful. Tjau’ke feels her duty to the clan conflict with her duty to protect her Adjutant; she grimaces internally.

 _“I—There is something I need to address with you, Tjau’ke,”_ Bist’ri sounds nervous, looking around constantly now. Tjau’ke slowly nods, praying desperately for her Adjutant to come clean. What she does not expect is for Bist’ri to extend the container she holds to Tjau’ke and click softly, _“—Ikthya-De asked we store her deceased pup here until the end of the mating season. She wishes to bury her pup with other bearers who have lost their offspring. I volunteered to store her pup in one of the storage rooms.”_

 _Ikthya-De’s… pup._ She remembers. Tjau’ke feels a moment of anger, but it falls into grief. She recalls the details of the traumatic miscarriage from Bist’ri’s notes. _“—A terrible ordeal to live through.”_

 _“Ki’sei. I thought my offer was reasonable. And,”_ Bist’ri looks at the ground, to her right. _“—I—I wanted to ask if you could arrange for the fetus to be tested.”_

 _“Tested?”_ Tjau’ke growls the word with such ferocity and shock that even her Adjutant winces. The head nurse exhales softly and forces herself to calm.

 _“Sei-i.”_ Bist’ri confirms her request.

_“Why?”_

The blue Yautja before her looks back up. Her mask is angled at a strange way, reflecting ceiling and overhead lights into Tjau’ke’s face. Bist’ri hands the container with the dead fetus to Tjau’ke, then she taps inputs into her wrist computer. A tiny glass vial shoots out the side from a hidden compartment. Bist’ri passes it to Tjau’ke _. “I found this on the floor of Ikthya-De’s cabin. If it is an abortifacient, we need to identify and isolate it before any other bearers miscarry. Traces of it could be in the fetus’ cells.”_

As Tjau’ke holds up the vial—first setting the container with the dead pup on a spare table—the nurse catches sight of a crimson red plant husk. She squints at it. Her memory strains to place the plant, but she knows she’s seen it before. _“It will take time, Bist’ri. We are in the middle of a busy mating season.”_

_“Ki’sei, of course—”_

_“—It does not mean I won’t do it, but you must be patient. I am surprised Daga permitted your presence here before your trial,”_ Tjau’ke sets the vial of red plant husk next to the container holding Ikthya-De’s deceased pup. The woman clicks to herself. _“He has been on edge lately, ever since the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na ‘blessed’ us with the news of my pup. Ju’dha worries it may cloud his judgement during the trials.”_

 _“The Shadow—”_ Bist’ri’s eyes widen. She snaps her head up and inhales sharply, drawing Tjau’ke’s gaze back to her. _“We ran into them, Tjau’ke. At the Chickpea Night Walk—”_

 _“The Chickpea Night Walk—Does this have anything to do with why you came back on my pup’s ship? Without the Echinos?”_ Tjau’ke chirps.

The Adjutant nods. _“Sei-i—The Shadow detonated plasma charges in the Echinos. I would have been caught in the blast if not for the ic’jit onboard.”_

 _“Vayuh’ta? The ic’jit of Ka’Torag-Na?”_ The news startles her. Tjau’ke balks at the thought. _“Bist’ri—Be sure to mention that when they make you recant the trip—”_

 _“Why?”_ Her Adjutant takes on a different tone, clicking at her with bewilderment. Bist’ri’s hands tense. She hesitates before chirping, _“Is—Is Vayuh’ta someone important, Tjau’ke?”_

_“She is the ic’jit of Ka’Torag-Na.”_

_“But she looks just like Guan!”_ Bist’ri growls softly and curses under her breath. She shakes her head, the blue locs—tinged green at the ends—dancing with the movement. Tjau’ke falls quiet as Bist’ri begins to hiss. _“They’re almost identical in appearance, Tjau’ke—They have the same eyes, the Pride of Cetanu, the facial structure, the—”_

 _“Bist’ri,”_ Tjau’ke clicks as she throws her head back, a low sigh escaping her. _“There are—There are complicated aspects to our clan. Gahn’tha-cte is not easily explained to outsiders—”_

 _“I’m not an outsider,”_ her Adjutant interjects. _“You believe it—The two are related—”_

 _“How deep have you dug this pit, Bist’ri?”_ The head of the medical division demands. Tjau’ke has patience, but patience has a line, and it is clear her Adjutant treads the thin line precariously, like a tightrope walker on a fraying string.

 _“That ic’jit is the pup Akrei-non-Daga gave to Ka’Torag-Na as a tribute,”_ Hearing the words makes Tjau’ke hiss with frustration. Bist’ri sounds resolute as she continues, _“At that time—Setg’in-bpi-de was his mate. That makes the ic’jit Guan’s half-sister—”_

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri,”_ Tjau’ke leans down to eye level and clicks softly, sternly, without room to budge. _“You cannot mention this at trial.”_

Bist’ri stills. Tjau’ke knows her Adjutant enough to tell when the woman is startled or taken aback.

 _“If you do—You will run into more problems than your lack of subordinance,”_ Tjau’ke straightens upright and crosses her arms. Her gaze dims behind her mask once more. _“I cannot intervene if the Elders brand you Arbitrator. Only Daga can pardon—”_

 _“Sei-I, sei-I, I know how these trials work, Tjau’ke,”_ Bist’ri grits her teeth. She looks like an irate Youngblood who has been scolded over stealing an extra meat bun. _“But even an ic’jit deserves to know where she comes from. She isn’t Ka’Torag-Na by thwei—”_

 _“M-di. This is not for either us to discuss. Whoever she was before—Vayuh’ta is now the ic’jit of those who lurk in the darkness. Ic’jit are the enemies of all honorable Yautja among the stars. She is as much an enemy to Gahn’tha-cte as she is to Ka’Torag-Na,”_ Tjau’ke asserts herself without hesitation. She cannot let her Adjutant continue to probe and palpitate the past and its grievous happenings. _“You cannot speak of this to others, Bist’ri.”_

When the Adjutant does not respond, Tjau’ke sighs. She does not intend for her Adjutant to run around like a headless _kiande amedha_ , spewing secrets left and right. Knowledge is power; one must keep their secrets close and well-guarded, especially if that secret is worthy of dishonor. For a moment the head nurse’s thoughts drift to Lar’ja and her bold white eyes. She doesn’t intend to let the woman’s secrets slip. She will protect Lar’ja, just like she will protect Bist’ri. If protecting Bist’ri means the latter cannot share Daga’s actions with the clan—So be it. Tjau’ke would rather Bist’ri detest her than to risk Daga’s retaliation, especially when Bist’ri is set to go on trial soon.

 _“Bist’ri,”_ Tjau’ke trills softly. _“Adjutant Bist’ri.”_

 _“…Forgive me, honorable Tjau’ke.”_ Bist’ri lowers her head. She exhales softly and straightens up. _“This is—All of this has been stressful. I feel disconnected from recent events, even if they involve me.”_

 _“All is well, Bist’ri.”_ The head of the medical division is gentle in responding. _“These times are not easy. The mating season raises existing hormone levels to produce n’dui-se—”_ She can tell when her Adjutant grimaces out of having to listen to a lecture she already knows. Tjau’ke’s mandibles click together in humor. She shakes her head. _“I will spare you the trouble. But if I understand correctly—You are not meant to be here, unless you have further words for me?”_

 _“M-di.”_ Bist’ri shakes her head. _“That was all. I have sent the patient files and medical logs to you for review and approval. If you can handle the pup and that… plant sample,”_ she gestures at the table, where the aforementioned items sit patiently. _“—I must get to the council hall. Daga told me not to be late.”_

_“You will not be late. You are usually on time.”_

_“Usually.”_ Bist’ri grimaces again.

 _“I will see you at ka’rik’na,”_ Tjau’ke promises. She watches Bist’ri nod and meander her way back to the lift. No sooner than the blue Yautja is out of earshot does Tjau’ke exhale and take a closer look at the glass vial on the table. She lifts it up and clicks for C’it-na, _“Come over—Bring a tablet. I want you to identify this substance while I am out.”_

The olive-colored Yautja nods vigorously—or perhaps in a panic—before bolting away in search of an available device.

Tjau’ke closes her eyes. With how busy things are in the medical bay, she anticipates squeezing in three or four appointments before time comes for Bist’ri’s recant and her ensuing trial. The nurse cracks her neck, finds a pair of gloves, and passes C’it-na on the way to another part of the medical bay.

 _“W—Wait! Honorable Tjau’ke!”_ C’it-na calls. _“What do I do once I find it?!”_

 _“Message me the results,”_ Tjau’ke calls back over her shoulder, marching the rest of the way to a group of hopeful bearers and their partners. She clicks in greeting as she approaches. She remembers to take off her mask after the first set of questions for one pair. Gradually, Tjau’ke slips back into the routine of her duties as head nurse. She is grateful for it: the last thing she wants to think about are the messes coming to light in the trial.

It is going to be a long day cycle.


	57. the trial of kwei-bezas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled, "consequences pt. 1" 
> 
>   
> tw for:  
> -talk of miscarriage, infant / child loss  
> 

Before the trials, each crew member from his mission to retrieve M-di-H’chak is taken in to debrief and recant their side of the story with Akrei-non-Daga present as a witness. The policy permits only one crew member into the council hall at a time. Interactions between crew members is restricted to prevent collusion. Not even an Adjutant has access to the hall while a crew member recants.

It is only policy, but the Adjutant finds himself pacing warily around the observation deck, constantly catching looks from the Elite guards posted at the corridor leading to the council hall.

The council hall sits next to the deck on the same level as the clanship, yet it feels a million light years away when he considers what goes on behind the hall’s closed doors. He finished recanting his side of the story hours past; there is nothing to do but wait. He has not yet seen Kwei-Bezas, Nok Nok, or Bist’ri emerge from the council hall or attached holding rooms. Earlier, Gry’Sui-bpe-de came and went, a foul growl accompanying him; Guan did not ask him why.

Guan sees Ikthya-De leave on solemn spirits. He cannot find much sympathy for the woman, not after what she’s done to him and others. He feels sympathy for her deceased pup, and for the fact she experienced a miscarriage, but his mind is soon elsewhere.

He worries about Bistri. He remembers barely squeezing in a goodbye before Daga issued the order to begin disembarking from the _Kukulkan._

The Adjutant tenses as he continues to pace.

 _Things will be fine,_ Guan thinks. _Bist’ri will be fine. She’ll be fine. She can handle herself._

The Adjutant continues to worry anyways. His chest tightens and lurches whenever he hears the observation deck lift moving, a Yautja approaching the entrance to the council hall, or the doors of the council hall opening. He looks up constantly, scanning from behind his bio-mask for any hint of sky-blue scales.

A long time passes before someone exits the council hall. Guan hears the door from afar. His hearts jump in his chest and he strides to the start of the corridor leading to the hall, only to spot the cobalt blue pelt of Nok Nok walking toward him. The Adjutant gives her a simple nod. She clicks at him in acknowledgement, _“Adjutant Guan. Are you waiting for someone?”_

Her _n’dui-se_ is strange. Guan isn’t sure how to react to it. He straightens upright and nods once, his dark locs swaying from the movement. _“Did the Elders speak of the order they will conduct these debriefings?”_

 _“M-di, Adjutant Guan.”_ Every one of the blue Yautja’s words is blunt and apathetic. _“But I anticipate the Elders will talk to Kwei-Bezas next, as Adjutant Bist’ri has yet to return from the medical bay.”_

Guan’s gaze widens behind his mask. He keeps his tone calm, but his mind is a rush with different thoughts when he asks, _“Is she alright?”_

_“I cannot answer that with certainty, Adjutant Guan. I have no desire to lie to you—"_

_“—Sei-I, sei-I, of course. Ki’sei, thank you, Nok Nok.”_ Guan clicks.

 _“The chance of her going to the medical bay for a health concern is low, Adjutant Guan. Adjutant Bist’ri serves as Adjutant to the head nurse; it is within her responsibilities to deliver medical logs from the trip to Honorable Elder Tjau’ke,”_ The blue Yautja tenses briefly before her posture relaxes once more, or as much as Guan expects of her. _“If you want to see her—She will have to pass this corridor to enter the council hall.”_

His orange eyes soften briefly. _"I will take your words into consideration, Nok Nok.”_

 _“Excuse me, Adjutant.”_ Nok Nok nods and steps past.

 _She can care for others._ Guan stares at the engineer as the latter departs and disappears behind a corner of the observation deck.

Overhead, beautiful stars provide light to the observation deck’s glass paneled ceiling. It’s a beautiful sight, and one that reminds him of the night he and Bist’ri decided to revel in their selfishness with each other.

He doesn’t regret the actions he took, regardless of the disloyal acts taken. In his mind—It is fair. His _life mate_ has cheated on him many times without repercussion. Bist’ri is the first Yautja in _many_ cycles to not only catch his eye, but to care about him. The thought of being with her again, of laying together in a bed, or a pod, or _anything_ where the two can be as vulnerable as they need without judgement, is blissful. He wants more of it. He wants more of _her_.

And, from what Guan understands, she wants the same of him.

He stands to the side of the corridor leading to the council hall. The man leans against the wall, quiet and restless and hopeful. When the scent of _salt sand sea_ reaches through his mask and overwhelms his olfactory receptors, the man jumps upright and snaps his head around. He hears several guards down the hall look his way; Guan ignores them and relaxes when the observation deck lift sounds from across the ship floor. He is calm and composed by the time Bist’ri pops into view. Though the two cannot talk _now_ —some policies must be abided by—Guan feels a smooth hand graze his when she passes him in the hall.

His face fills with heat. He stares at her back as she stops and speaks to one of the guards down the hall. The latter lets her into a holding chamber off to the side. Guan exhales silently and rubs the back of his head.

 _Cetanu,_ He thinks. _I really like you._

* * *

H’chak’s _pa-e_ is a nice, _tall_ Yautja with a contrasting coloration of black and pastel yellow, and bright blue-gray eyes. Sundew likes her.

 _Guan-Tjau’ke_ is polite to the Vekin, getting her a place to sit down after taking her to the medical bay. Sundew plops on a metal table and waits. She feels terribly hungry, but no one brings her food. No hard tack, not even the gruel-colored-kind, greets her. For a time, the Vekin is silent; she sits quietly on the metal table with her legs dangling off and her clear gaze scanning the room. She does not feel an overwhelming urge to sleep. Perhaps it is her nerves, or a subconscious electrical charge within her critical mass keeping her alert, but she remains wide awake and vigilant.

 _I wonder what H’chak is doing._ Sundew folds her hands in her lap. _Or Ivon. Or Jo. Or Mupp… No. No, I know what Muppet is doing. Muppet is me. And Annie. And… A mean businesswoman._

She doesn’t like the fragments of a lady named _Miranda._ She doesn’t remember enough to recall where the woman was consumed, but the remains of Miranda floating in her system is enough for her to know she had to have eaten _Miranda_ once in the past. It frustrates her to not know more; as a Vekin, her purpose is to collect information. She wants to know. What she remembers is very scarce, even with her system attempting to piece together and rebuild memories based off the memory of strings of electrical charges necessary to receive the old memories and…

She has a headache. She misses H’chak. He is the clearest in her memories: her lovely, beautiful, handsome, fascinating Yautja. _Her_ Yautja. _Her_ mate. _Her_ partner. She likes him a lot. Not having him around feels strange, like a piece of herself is missing.

 _I love you._ She likes to pass time by thinking of the words, a human expression that conveys what she feels fluently. _I love you, H’chak. I love you more than I love Saturn’s moons. But only the moons, because otherwise—I would love you more than the ringed planet. I love my hive. I must love my hive. My hive loves me. Right?  
_

A strange feeling floats through her internal liquid mass, pulsing just beneath the artificial shell of her human body: not quite nausea, but unpleasant and lingering. She doesn’t understand why. She thinks through her memories, to the ringed planet, to the moons, to how much she loves Saturn, and H’chak, and her hive and how her hive must surely feel the same— _Oh._

 _Did I do something?_ Her clear eyes would dim if they could. _I haven’t… I haven’t recovered enough to… I don’t remember. Did I do something?_

 _“Sun-Dew?”_ The clicks are uncertain. They come from an open doorway, where a tall Yautja nurse stands at approximately… Sundew doesn’t know, but the nurse is taller than H’chak.

“That is me,” Sundew nods on the table. She smiles politely. “Greetings. May I have your name, please?”

 _“Sei-I, call me Roja. Honorable Elder Tjau’ke requested I examine you while she tends to… Yautja patients,”_ Roja wears a mask, a shiny silvery one with swirls inscribed across the surface. The bottom half tapers to a fine point. _“I’m surprised, Sun-Dew. None of us expected an Im-Gen capable of learning our dialect.”_

“Oh, I have not learned all of it—But _H’chak_ has taught me many things. I love him.” Sundew nods, her thin white hair swaying from the movement. She tilts her head to one side. “Do you love anyone, _Roja?”_

 _“’Love’ is a…”_ The nurse hesitates. _“An ooman concept. Many Yautja do not care to use it, not in Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_

Sundew pauses, taking a moment to study her nurse.

She has red scales from head to toe, with vivid black stripes mingling down the sides, though Sundew cannot assess whether the black stripes are paint or part of the Yautja’s natural coloration. As Sundew peers, she notes the nurse is tense. Roja’s long locs are the same intense black, yet time spent around H’chak tells Sundew that Roja does not possess the _exact_ same locs.

“How do you understand English? It is a human language.” The thought crosses Sundew’s mind. She blinks at Roja, expectant of an answer.

Roja clears her throat. _“A few of us across the clan have universal translator software in our masks. I would use it to speak to you if Honorable Elder Tjau’ke had not informed me you understand our dialect.”_

“A universal translator… That is fascinating. How would I obtain one?” Sundew sits upright in her seat.

Roja pauses. _“…What?”_

“I would like one of these translators for myself.” The Vekin says, “I am a species who pursues the acquisition of new knowledge at any costs.”

 _“M-di.”_ Roja clicks immediately, _“M-di, you do not possess credits to purchase one, nor do you have anything to offer Clan Gahn’tha-cte in exchange. I’m uncertain if we could implant a translator chip in your head to begin with—”_

“You have software,” Sundew frowns widely. “Can I not have my own mask and software to use?”

 _“M-di. Not now.”_ Roja chirps, and the Vekin drops the subject.

The physical examination is no more awkward than the Yautja makes it. It becomes clear to Sundew that the red nurse does not know how to address her physical composition. The Vekin is calm in explaining the differences between the expendable solid shell and the liquid critical mass within, garnering the attention of several passing nurses. Once the nurses understand, the examination goes more smoothly: there is not much to say or do beyond measuring supposed vitals, taking samples—not of the critical mass, but rather the clear white ‘blood’ coursing through Sundew’s veins—and clicking away questions about what Sundew thinks is best for herself.

 _“I am hungry,”_ is her response.

 _“We—We don’t have—Food—Food on this level,”_ an olive-green Yautja whose name she cannot remember clicks at Roja. _“Should I—I—Um—Get some?”_

 _“Didn’t Tjau’ke ask you to analyze plant fibers?”_ Roja retorts instantly, though her stature stiffens when the green Yautja slumps and shies away. She pauses. _“Forgive me, C’it-na, I’m speaking rashly—You haven’t done anything… wrong.”_

 _“Rude, Roja.”_ A young Yautja, young enough to be barely Blooded—if Sundew even recalls the terminology correctly—with pale gray and ash white scales scoffs from nearby.

 _“I will make it up to you, whatever you need of me, C’it-na—”_ Roja begins. She ignores the younger Yautja and clicks at the green one—C’it-na, apparently—until he nods. _“Tell me what is worthy of your forgiveness.”_

 _“Do you know how to—How to analyze plant fibers?”_ C’it-na begins.

The ashen Yautja bursts into loud, clacking laughter, along with other nurses nearby. When Sundew looks, she notices many of the nurses are _much_ younger than H’chak.

The same gray Yautja draws Sundew’s attention when they stomp a foot and burst into chuckles _“—He’s playing you, Roja! He takes no offense—”_

 _“Shush, Leitjin, I know,”_ the red Yautja is visibly annoyed now. Roja growls when the gray nurse—Leitjin—continues laughing. Roja looks back at C’it-na. _“If you require assistance in analyzing plant fiber—I am happy to extend help, C’it-na, if it begets your forgiveness.”_

 _“That would be very nice,”_ the olive green Yautja nods, perking up. _“But my question remains. Should we get the Im-Gen food?”_

“I am not certain food will help at this point.” Sundew frowns and taps her chin.

 _“Why not? You’re hungry, right? You hungry—You eat. Simple things, simple life, very nice!”_ Leitjin huffs and trills, voice carrying over amusement.

“I have eaten regularly since taking on this form. Still—My need for nourishment remains. I do not believe supplying my physical composition will change anything.”

 _“What else do we have that can provide food… like things?”_ Leitjin clicks louder than necessary. Several other nurses begin to click softly to one another, passing ideas back and forth.

One of the ideas must be feasible, as Roja suddenly snaps clawtips and nods vigorously at the nurses. _“—Sei-I, sei-i! The serum! We have enough to spare—Sun-Dew. Do you know anything about the cellular regeneration serum?”_

“It hurts,” Sundew remarks, a vague, half-depleted memory of being impaled on a sword floating around in her head.

 _“Sei-I, ‘course it does! We are Yautja, we are strong! Health is worth a little pain!”_ Leitjin pounds a fist against their left pectoral muscle. They, like most of the nurses, do not wear armor—Only medical vestments.

 _“It is not pleasant, but the pain is a reminder we live by the Black Hunter. Cetanu greets us at the start and the end of non-co, of life,”_ Roja interjects, mask facing Sundew while she watches curiously. _“That does not apply to you, Im-Gen. What matters—The serum regenerates lost cells. Perhaps it will do something to you? Maybe your need for food is derived off a need to heal?”_

The idea does not sound _sound_ , but Sundew does not have any other ideas to go off. She simply nods, a pleasant smile on her face. “Please remember my current system possesses critical mass within this organic physical composition.”

 _“So, what? We got two needles, two batches of serums. C’it-na, get syringes and bring ‘em over while Roja does your work for you,”_ Leitjin begins nodding, pleased by the turn of events.

Sundew smiles wider. “This medical bay is full of strange Yautja—"

 _“—Only the best for the medical division! That is what Bist’ri always says!”_ Lietjin gladly interrupts, several nurses nodding to their chirrups. When Roja growls, Lietjin clicks in amusement and corrects their past sentence, _“What—Adjutant—Bist’ri says, forgive me! Forgive me!”_

* * *

Kwei-Bezas is the first to go on trial. The engineer does not show fear when they waltz into the council hall and stride to the round stage set among rising rows of seats. The engineer’s brown eyes dart across the seats, counting heads while their two escorts— _guards_ —bow heads at the Elders present and depart. Bezas absentmindedly untangles several locs while they wait. They do not feel fear, not even with the knowledge their actions will come to light. A favor from those who lurk in the darkness is _far_ more valuable than a mere lashing.

In the council hall sits four Elders: Akrei-non-Daga, Kwei-Tyioe, M-di-H’dlak, and Migo-Kujhade. They sit in order of age, with Daga at the top-most seat, then Migo, then H’dlak, and finally—Tyioe, the youngest of the Elders, sits the lowest on the ascending rows of seats.

 _“Kwei-Bezas,”_ Elder Tyioe growls at them, clicking impatiently until they step forward and look up. Unlike other times Bezas has seen the esteemed huntress, Tyioe does not don gold armor typical of her role. Her bright beige scales are covered immaculately in fine, ribbon-red silks, with beautiful gold and silver embroidery detailing an immaculate scene of Cetanu roaring at the stars.

 _“Heya,”_ Bezas tries not to stare. She’s a pretty Elder, no doubt about it, but the attractiveness dulls at the reminder Tyioe is there as a judge. A grumpy, pouty, mean ol’ judge with a shiny set of lower prosthetic mandibles.

 _“You know them personally, Elder Tyioe?”_ The one red eye of Migo diverts to meet Tyioe’s gold ones.

 _Huh. Neither have masks._ Bezas notes, realizing in surprise only they and Daga don masks. _…And… None of the Adjutants are here. ‘Kay. Totes normal, Bezas, ya got this._

 _“—Kwei-Bezas is a… revered hunter. Legendary engineer and mechanic. Disgustingly so,”_ hearing such high remarks makes Bezas squirm with glee, at which Tyioe stands and roars at the Yautja. _“You are on trial, Kwei-Bezas! Behave yourself!”_

 _“Forgive me, forgive me, please, Elder Ty, I just_ ,” Bezas sighs loudly and shakes their head. _“I’ve been enamored by ya grace and beauty so long—Can’t help but swoon when ya compliment me! If I ain’t walking out those doors today—I’d die happy knowin’ you praised me from the bottom of ya four hearts—”_

 _“Leader Daga, permit me to end this dha-viath of a Yautja so we stop wasting time.”_ Tyioe snaps her head at Daga, the latter sitting back in his seat calmly. Tyioe’s fists clench and her muscles ripple as she waits for Daga’s response.

Bezas yawns behind their mask.

 _“M-di. Not yet, Elder Tyioe. Kwei-Bezas is a formidable engineer—Not one easily replaced. I’ve seen their work logs.”_ The Clan Leader cracks his neck and sits up, his long locs falling down his shoulders and over his bare chest.

Bezas admires the many necklaces and pendants strung around the leader’s neck. They look shiny, the same metal as Tyioe’s prosthetic mandibles and lower jaw. Several skulls hang in trophy-like necklaces and bracelets, each as eye-catching as the last. It is a shame; Akrei-non-Daga has a fine, sculpted body, and beautiful muscles, but the man wears a rich cream-colored ceremonial kilt preventing Bezas from looking where their eyes _want_ to go.

In hindsight—Gry’Sui-bpe-de is _nothing_ compared to the beefy forms of Tyioe and Daga. Bezas struggles to get their brain back on track when Elder H’dlak sits up and clears their throat. The Yautja is far from overdressed, or even dressed, looking like they only just got out of pod that morning—Messy, disheveled robes, locs nowhere near as twisted _or_ braided as they should be, and an exhaustion deep within the Yautja’s golden eyes.

 _“—Let’s not talk in circles, there are others to go on trial,”_ H’dlak is the calmest of the Elders present, but Bezas reckons some of the calm can be substituted with weariness. They wonder just what ails the older Yautja; they can’t think of any over-the-top traumatic events involving H’dlak in recent time.

 _“Ki’sei.”_ Daga nods and sits upright. The man leans forward, propped up with his forearms on his knees, as his mask angles at Kwei-Bezas. _“Kwei-Bezas. You are here on trial for the actions taken during the retrieval of M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit Vayuh’ta. As a member of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, you reserve the right to hold trial in the clanship versus the Court of Ancients. The Elders before you shall serve as your jury, but, should you be found guilty, I alone reserve the right to dictate a punishment befitting your rank and grievance. Do you have any questions before this trial opens?”_

 _“—Where’s the other two?”_ Bezas chirps, nonchalant but puzzled. _“Ol’ Lar’ja and… and… Uh… Pauk rememb’ring the name, Bist’ri’s bearer? They not coming?”_

The lack of titles, respect, and blatant calmness riles Tyioe up more. Bezas knows she can’t see, but they wink at her regardless.

_“—They are expected. I do not know what delays them.”_

_“I bet they’re pauking!”_ Bezas begins to click and clack in laughter. _“Horny ol’ boomers! Ha ha, that’s an ooman expression, if ya didn’t know—"_

 _“Kwei-Bezas, the next time you speak out of turn, I will allow Elder Tyioe to remove your tongue from your mouth.”_ The Clan Leader’s voice becomes cold and his clicks harsh. Daga looks at the other three Elders, each of them nodding one-by-one in support.

Kwei-Bezas holds the snarky quip they want to trill.

 _“You are on trial for lack of subordination,”_ Daga begins, _“You admitted to tampering with the locks and doors of the Echinos in order to hinder other crew members. Is this correct, Kwei-Bezas?”_

 _“Sei-I, sei-i.”_ Bezas grunts, feeling less cheeky than before. They cross their arms and look over their shoulder, where two Arbitrators stand and wait at the closed council hall doors.

 _“Explain yourself.”_ The Clan Leader snaps.

 _“I was bored,”_ the engineer shrugs amicably.

 _“You do things like this out of boredom?! Elder Tyioe—Tell me how you can praise this s’yuit-de when they run around acting like this!?”_ Migo growls at the huntress from the side. The man’s red scales emphasize the anger and agitation in his clicks. Bezas shudders at the thought of what he might be like in the bedchamber.

 _Angry, rough, like ol’ sausage, but better…_ Their mind temporarily spins. Bezas struggles to reel in their thoughts, even when Migo and Tyioe start to click back and forth at each other furiously.

Eventually, Daga stands and roars for silence I the council hall. He looks down at Kwei-Bezas and hisses. _“—Kwei-Bezas, are you claiming you chose to act of your own volition?”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ The engineer looks away.

 _“…Fascinating.”_ Daga sits down.

A seed of dread sprouts in Bezas’ stomach. The Yautja’s brown eyes widen behind their mask, lingering on Daga while the latter drums clawtips on the armrest of his seat. The Elders in the hall fall silent, and an ominous shudder seizes Bezas. Their pulse begins to quicken, and it is not because they are back to feeling hornier than a hare in heat. For the first time since entering the hall, a flicker of fear passes the Yautja.

 _“Before the Elders cast their vote—”_ Daga tilts his head to one side. His voice is low and smooth. _“Kwei-Bezas. You are aware I alone have heard the accounts of you and your fellow crew members? If there is something you spoke to me, or they spoke to me, which these honorable Yautja are not privy to—This is the only chance you have to come clean and embrace punishment instead of sullying your honor.”_

 _“M-di. I have said what I have said.”_ For once, Bezas is upright and attentive. Their mind feels wide awake and alert. They don’t believe Ikthya-De would sell them out, as it means selling herself out, but they aren’t certain what the other crew members have said.

 _“Elder Tyioe, Elder H’dlak, Elder Migo… I documented the recants of each crew member. There have been unexpected losses and incidents over this trip, but not even I anticipated a Ka’Torag-Na plant as one of our own.”_ Daga’s words cause the tension in the room to boil over, with a brief interlude of shock before Tyioe jumps to her feet and demands an answer. The Clan Leader waits until H’dlak and Migo calm her and she sits in her chair.

Bezas does not remember feeling this numb in a long time. Their body is frozen in place, horror climbing up their throat like a hand trying to scratch and claw its way free from their esophagus.

 _“My daughter, Ikthya-De-Th’Syra, was one of the Yautja onboard the Echinos during the time you took these actions, Kwei-Bezas. She reports overhearing you discussing plans to sabotage the Echinos’ electrical system and isolate the crew onboard so the plant had enough time to send a transmission to the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na.”_ Daga clicks each word calmly, methodically.

Bezas cannot stop their hands when they begin to tremble in realization. _“That—That isn’t—”_

_“Shortly after, the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na tailed the Echinos to the Chickpea Night Walk space station and bombed it using plasma charges. It resulted in the loss of a military-class speedcraft and multiple injuries.”_

_“She’s lying! That’s not—She’s not—”_ Bezas feels their mind spin as they try to explain. They grit their teeth and ball their fists as the circumstances sink in. They won’t go down without taking her with them. _“—She’s a pauking liar! The worst kind! She’s not even one of Gahn’tha-cte’s—She’s the Ka’Torag-Na plant! She asked me to sabotage the Echinos’ system—”_

 _“Is this true, Daga?”_ H’dlak chirps loudly from the side. _“Your daughter—”_

 _“The words of an engineer cannot be taken without a grain of salt. My daughter has never demonstrated any instances of loyalty to the Ka’Torag-Na clan. In fact—She was recovering from a traumatic miscarriage at the time of these events. I have reviewed the medical logs verified by Honorable Tjau’ke, given freely by Adjutant Bist’ri.”_ The Clan Leader sits back in his seat. His mask angles to face Bezas. _“Do you have any proof Ikthya-De is a Ka’Torag-Na plant, Kwei-Bezas?”_

Bezas’ face flushes in embarrassment. They growl loudly at the clan leader. _“M-di—But—But I know she is—She’s offered a favor from those who lurk in the darkness—”_

 _“You admit to aiding a spy. S’yuit-de, especially for a traitor.”_ Elder Tyioe’s voice reflects only bloodlust as she hisses at the engineer. _“This is not a trial for Ikthya-De, Kwei-Bezas. But if it were—You admit you have no proof. We cannot judge on witnesses alone. We can only judge on evidence and confessions. Leader Daga!”_

 _“Sei-i?”_ Daga pauses.

 _“I cast my vote. Let the engineer suffer before we bring the final rest to their shoulders. They are not worthy of life.”_ Tyioe growls across the chamber.

Bezas falls silent. Their anger dissipates into fear.

Elder H’dlak clicks in agreement. _“I vote for a quick and painless death. None of our clan members met the final rest in the bombing of the Echinos—There is no need for a lengthy execution. Do it and be done with it. Burn the body; traitors have no place in Gahn’tha-cte.”_

The engineer’s brown eyes water. _“M-di—M-di—”_

 _“I do not cast dissent. I vote for Kwei-Bezas to meet the final rest. May Cetanu judge you for your sins, Kwei-Bezas.”_ There is no sympathy or mercy in Migo-Kujhade’s one red eye, locked on and glaring at the engineer.

Bezas falls to their knees. It feels like the air has been knocked from their lungs. They look up at Daga, where the ivory Yautja stands. Bezas’ clicks come out soft as a whisper, _“Please… Please… I don’t want to—"_

 _“Kwei-Bezas, you have been found guilty. Your lack of subordination and ensuing treason cannot be redeemed but through the offering of thwei. You are hereby sentenced to death. Your time of execution will be determined following the conclusion of your fellow crew members’ trials. Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, baring unusual circumstances, will bring you the final rest.”_ Daga gestures at the two Arbitrators behind Kwei-Bezas. _“Take them to a solitary holding cell. No one but myself is allowed to visit them, save for my Adjutant on the day of execution.”_

 _“What of this traitor’s accusation?”_ H’dlak trills quietly even as the two Arbitrators by the door walk to Bezas and haul them to their feet.

 _“—Elder Tyioe—Your Adjutant, is she available?”_ Daga asks.

Tyioe growls. _“It will disrupt her work—"_

 _“Good. She will investigate the remaining crew members for evidence of Ka’Torag-Na collusion. I will send the details to you shortly,”_ the Clan Leader chirps, ignoring Tyioe’s howl of irritation. Though Bezas cannot see Daga’s face, the tone of his clicks sounds pleased, and it is more than enough for the engineer to curse the leader out as they are dragged by two Arbitrators out of the hall.


	58. the trial of gry'sui-bpe-de

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -whipping / flogging / torture  
> -bunch of talk about needles  
> -talk about past abuse
> 
> chapter alternatively titled 'consequences pt.2'  
> there was going to be another section at the end of this but I'm just going to tack it on to the next chapter because Sleepy...

_“I think they’re in the pre-op room! That’s the only place I’m not allowed,”_ Leitjin waltzes in through the open doorway, grumpy as they stride to where Sundew sits daintily on a metal table. The ashy white-and-gray Yautja grunts loudly when she doesn’t respond right away. _“Ya get me, Im-Gen? Tjau’ke doesn’t let me cause riff-raff in the surgical center anymore.”_

“Ah. Perhaps she can confirm their location once she returns. Guan-Tjau’ke is a kind individual of an honorable culture,” Sundew nods. She stares, puzzled, by Leitjin’s sudden onset of soft laughter.

Next to her—C’it-na has pulled rolling tables of containers riddled with geometric labels over. The olive green Yautja is deep in thought as he plucks the appropriate containers from the table’s shelves and sets them next to Sundew. Her clear eyes watch in fascination as the kind nurse dons a new set of gloves. C’it-na strides to the wall and presses glowing dashes until a drawer ejects from a nigh invisible slot. He retrieves new syringes from the drawer and returns to Sundew’s side. She smiles politely at the nurse while he attaches needles to the syringes and opens the first serum container.

Leitjin makes a face. _“Smelly as ever…”_

“I do not possess a sense of smell. What is it like?” The Vekin looks from one nurse to the next.

C’it-na shrugs. _“Uh—Sterile? I guess.”_

 _“But it still smells better than you.”_ Leitjin clicks and chortles.

 _“I know…”_ The green Yautja slumps and sighs. _“How am I supposed to win Bist’ri over if I smell like this?”_

“Bist’ri?” The name is familiar on her tongue. Sundew frowns at C’it-na while the latter begins filling a syringe with regeneration serum.

 _“She’s the Adjutant nurse. Second-in-command of this division, and first in line if anything unexpected comes up. I’m the third, technically, but my duties and obligation are nowhere near as time-consuming as hers or Tjau’kes. Still higher ranked than them.”_ C’it-na clicks, gesturing at Leitjin. The latter groans loudly.

Leitjin begrudgingly drags themself to a wall, shoves their hand against it, and opens the cabinet that protrudes from the wall. A moment later, Leitjin finishes pulling a massive steel-colored machine out of the wall. It extends on an eerily thin retracting bar, capable of folding up or branching out as necessary. The machine itself is shaped like a small handgun, only where the barrel of a gun might be, there is a blunt, rounded end with one circular ray of light shining unto the floor. 

C’it-na continues explaining while Sundew stares at the strange machine with a strange fascination. _“—Bist’ri is… She’s beautiful—And—And kind. She’s never spoken down to me, even when she learned why I was here.”_

“Why are you here _, C’it-na?”_ Sundew asks, not looking away from the machine.

Leitjin begins to snicker. C’it-na sighs loudly and shakes his head. _“Look, most of the Yautja in Gahn’tha-cte are great hunters… Amazing warriors… Fierce, brave, you name it. Me? Pauk that. I faint when someone runs at me screaming. Don’t, Leitjin,”_ C’it-na growls at the gray Yautja when the latter begins to rear back in preparation to sprint. C’it-na picks up his filled syringe and flicks the needle gently. _“Kv’var-de only hunt equal prey—Prey that can fight back. Our chiva reflects that; we hunt kiande amedha to prove our strength and honor. Except—I—I fainted in front of my chiva mei-hswei… I became the laughingstock of my bloodline. Killed the kiande amedha, but proved I have no courage. The Elders suggested I come here.”_

“Your clan takes honor and bravery very seriously.” Sundew pulls off the glove of her mesh suit and begins rolling up one sleeve.

 _“—Most of us do. Honor is essential to living a just life in any Yautja clan, save for the ic’jit clans.”_ The olive Yautja nods. _“But it doesn’t—It doesn’t change the fact most of the clan’s bearers think I’m cjit for it. Pretty sure a handful of nurses here think the same...”_

“I am sorry, _C’it-na.”_

The nurse pulls a strange, handheld device out of the pocket of his uniform. It resembles a pistol, but without the barrel and with many Yautja numbers glowing on the side. C’it-na holds the filled syringe with one hand while his other slowly runs the device along Sundew’s exposed arm. Lietjin holds her arm still to keep it steady for C’it-na.

 _“—This is a sterilizer—It—We use it to ensure injection sites are clean. Anyways,”_ C’it-na clicks. The ‘sterilizer’, as it is called, feels like a sudden heat bath as it trails her limb. Sundew bites her lip to keep from cursing in pain. C’it-na draws back after a minute of concentrating. _“Bist’ri’s never judged me—The way others have. She says it’s not a big deal, but—But it is to me.”_

 _“She ain’t interested in anyone. You’re wasting your time.”_ Lietjin scoffs from the side.

C’it-na sets the sterilizer down and hisses at the ashen-colored Yautja. _“Y—You don’t know that—”_

_“She’s never taken a mate!”_

_“Most of the nurses haven’t! If you aren’t a bearer, the rest of the clan doesn’t give two cjits of you come mating season.”_

_“Can you get a load of this guy?”_ Lietjin angles their mask at Sundew. _“Thinking he’s got what it takes to court an Adjutant.”_

“Yes? I am confused?" Sundew blinks slowly.

 _“When you’re talking about the Adjutant nurse? Pauk yes! She’s the only Yautja left in Elder Ju’dha’s lineage who can bear pups. Her twin’s dead and Ju’dha’s made it real clear they aren’t having more. Everyone wants to incorporate those blue scales into their lineage…”_ Lietjin trails off with a shake of their head. _“What’s great about blue, anyways? Why don’t Yautja want gray scales?”_

 _“You sound jealous, Lietjin.”_ Roja enters the room, an electronic tablet in one hand. The red Yautja ignores Lietjin’s protests of _not jealous_ and _shut up_ and instead walks to C’it-na. He frowns and blinks at her. She sighs. _“You’ve got me on a real chase around the clan’s databanks, C’it-na. I haven’t been this bored in a full cycle.”_

 _“Ah—Sorry.”_ The olive green Yautja shrinks a little where he stands. _“I—I do—I do intend to help you, err, look, it’s just—I need to take care of my patient first. Roja.”_

 _“…What are you doing to her that requires a cauterization laser?”_ Roja trills with concern.

 _“Nothing—Nothing!”_ C’it-na exclaims. _“Just—I want it on hand—In case—In case something does go wrong.”_

 _“If something goes ‘wrong’, I ask you do not apply heat to my physical composition. My critical mass would react poorly to the sudden flux of temperatures._ ” Sundew shifts in her seat. Lietjin tightens their grip on her arm, keeping her still. She stares at C’it-na. The latter pauses, then nods. The Vekin exhales softly. _“Thank you.”_

 _“Aren’t Im-Gen allergic to a certain kind of light?”_ Roja pauses. She snaps her head at Sundew, voice rising in volume. “ _Do the lights of the clanship impair you? Sun-Dew.”_

“It is possible,” the Vekin slowly nods. “I—I do not remember the exact kind of wavelengths I am susceptible to, but I remember one of them interferes with my system. Please note I have displayed these… ‘symptoms’ since coming to on the _Kukulkan._ I am still hungry.”

 _“Let’s—Let’s try the serum first. Roja. I just—I got everything ready—And—So—"_ C’it-na fidgets.

The red nurse clicks softly. _“Sei-I, sei-I, third-in-command… Serum first.”_

* * *

Gry’Sui-bpe-de is a man who does not get upset easily. Yet when the Arbitrators escorting him to the council hall begin making jokes about _lav’a-da_ and his supposed ooman fetish, the Elite’s temper flares. He cannot do anything but walk and accept the insults, but in his mind, he thinks every expletive in the book for the two Arbitrators’ audacity.

 _“Gry’Sui! Right through here. Don’t want you wandering off and falling for an ooman,”_ One of the Arbitrators, a younger kv’var-de by the name of Garra, trills with faux courtesy at the Elite.

Gry’Sui feels a vein bulge across his forehead. He grabs hold of Garra by the shoulder and squeezes it, _“If you ever imply I am capable of indecency again, Arbitrator, you will lose more than your honor.”_

 _“Not implying you were, Elite,”_ the hunter chirps quickly, smug façade melting in the face of a higher ranked and _far_ more capable fighter. _“Just a—Concern—”_

 _“Keep your concerns to yourself.”_ The Elite hisses and releases Garra.

Neither Arbitrator comments the rest of the walk to the council hall. On the way, Gry’Sui spots two of the Adjutants together. He nods politely at Guan and Bist’ri, ignoring the not so subtle way the two’s hands brush against each other. A brief pang on jealousy wells up inside him, but he dismisses it.

 _Jealousy is unbecoming, Gry’Sui. You know better._ He reminds himself as he walks by, Arbitrators stopping briefly to greet Adjutant Guan and Adjutant Bist’ri before catching up with him. Gry’Sui does not hesitate to enter the council hall. It is his first time in many cycles visiting the grounds; he looks across the seats and notes two Elders are absent. _Elder Lar’ja and Elder Ju’dha… That doesn’t seem like them._

His hairless brows furrow. He holds his head high as he strides forward and looks up where the ivory-pelted Clan Leader sits.

Akrei-non-Daga is an intimidating figure. The man is tall, exceeding several inches over Gry’Sui-bpe-de. His locs are impeccably long and hang freely over his shoulders and bare chest. There is something inescapably powerful about the leader’s presence. He is impossible not to notice, or to drown out. Gry’Sui feels smaller by the second as the Clan Leader’s masked face angles down at him. It is only cycles of training which keeps his head up and his posture firm.

 _“Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de.”_ Leader Daga calls for him.

He steps forward unto the circular stage of the council hall and looks nervously around. The Elders are in the same heat as the rest of the clan. There are many interesting smells, but three of the four Elders tell a story in their scents. Akrei-non-Daga smells vaguely of algae-filled pond water, the telltale _n’dui-se_ given off by one Ju’dha-Jehdin. From another side, the bastardly, sweaty odor of Migo-Kujhade fills and mixes in with that of the saccharine-smelling M-di-H’dlak. It provokes mental images of lewd things, which only increase in intensity when Gry’Sui notes Elder H’dlak looks tired, as if they have been up the previous night cycle occupied with _other_ things.

Gry’Sui attempts not to think of the Elders together. Sex, intercourse, mating, whatever term is used in reference to the act of copulation—He does not want to think about genitalia and bodily fluids when it comes to the individuals he greatly admires and fears at the same time. Partially out of respect for the Elders, and partially out of the knowledge he will never live his own embarrassment down if he gets an erection in the middle of a trial.

Yet for a moment—just a moment—his mind wanders enough to picture two of Gahn’tha-cte’s Elders with him in a bed. It’s just enough for his _n’dui-se_ to thicken in the air around him. One of the Arbitrators by the door snickers softly. Gry’Sui pretends not to notice, flushing his head free of thoughts related to Elder Tyioe’s muscular thighs straddling him or Elder Migo’s bare chest and toned abdomen crushing his back as he’s filled, stretched, and taken.

 _Why is this cycle’s heat so bad?!_ He wants to roar out his indignation at the events transpiring since the start of the heat. Fantasizing over an ooman is too much, but to disrespect his Elders in spirit by daydreaming about them claiming him as a mate? He longs for a shower of cold water. And a warm body to press himself into.

Daga clicks at him, _“Are you aware of why you are on trial, Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de?”_

 _“Lack of,”_ Cetanu help him. He struggles to speak clearly. _“Subjugation.”_

The two Arbitrators behind him struggle to contain soft laughter. Elder Tyioe growls lowly at them, then turns her wrath to the Elite, _“You think us as s’yuit-de, Gry’Sui? I expect better from an Elite! Not jokes!”_

 _“I am sure it was a slip of the tongue, Tyioe, calm yourself,”_ From the side, Migo leans forward in his seat. His one red eye trains on Gry’Sui. _“You meant subordination, did you not?”_

 _“What?”_ It dawns on Gry’Sui what he says. He freezes up. Heat fills his face. _“I—Yes. Yes. A… A Lack of subordination. I acted against the orders of Adjutant Guan.”_

 _“That is correct.”_ Daga’s voice forces the tension away. The Clan Leader tilts his head to one side, _“What was the incident in which you defied my Adjutant’s authority?”_

 _“At the—The Chickpea Night Walk—”_ He has not sputtered so much since he was a Suckling.

Gry’Sui quickly recites the events of the space station, adding as much detail as he remembers. He cannot blurt the words out fast enough, eager to move on to punishment and get the _pauk_ out of the council hall. He is in desperate need of a lay, maybe two, whether he gives or receives irrelevant considering how impactful his heat is on his thoughts and actions.

 _“What is this Elite’s record?”_ Elder Tyioe grunts, annoyed.

“Clean—Gry’Sui-bpe-de is a fine example of Gahn’tha-cte’s Elites. In fact—He has never committed an act of dishonor during his time as a Blooded hunter. The only time he’s been disciplined was during his training, when he challenged an Elder over insulted honor.” Migo leans back in his seat. His gray scales appear like little spikes, beget by actual spike-like quills protruding from different parts of his form. The old Brawler keeps his red eye locked on Gry’Sui while he explains. _“—If I recall, Elder Tyioe, it was you he challenged.”_

_“I don’t remember that.”_

_“The Late and Honorable Elder Ma-Or recorded the incident. When his duties passed to me after… he met the final rest, I read the logs,”_ The Brawler grunts at Tyioe. _“You won. The Late Ma-Or’s writing mentioned you knocking him flat on his face in less than a second cycle.”_

Tyioe clicks, unamused. _“As I would.”_

The other Elders laugh among themselves. Gry’Sui-bpe-de longs for a spacecraft to crawl into and rocket far, far away from here.

* * *

 _“Are you holding up okay?”_ Bist’ri’s question surprises him. His eyes trail away from the stars looking over the observation deck; he drops his orange gaze to meet her green one. Even now, like _this_ , she worries for _him_.

He nods once, not wanting to give away how fraught with nerves he is over _her_. Guan is a tired man, but he feels wide awake and vigilant of everything going on around the two. He knows it is only a matter of time before the Elders and Daga send for him or Bist’ri. He hopes the Elders permit each other to sit in on the other’s trial. Guan aches with dread at the thought of her being forced to stand in front of the Elders alone. Even with Elder Ju’dha present, the other Elders are imposing in presence alone. Guan can’t remember if Honorable Tjau’ke can attend, or if she too must wait outside the council hall.

“Guan?” Bist’ri clicks at him, taking his hand in one of her own and squeezing it lightly.

“Sei-I, I’m here,” the Adjutant exhales sharply. He wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and show her how much she means to him, but there are too many witnesses. Instead, he squeezes her hand and lets go. “I want tomorrow to come. Today to end.”

“Both of us do.” She nods in agreement. “Just a little longer, Guan.”

“A little longer.” He catches himself leaning down to nuzzle her forehead. The man draws back before he can and clears his throat. “If all the trials conclude today—Save for my mei—Save for H’chak,” Guan is careful in his choice of words, uncertain who exactly can be entrusted with the knowledge of his familial ties with the man who hates him so much. “Then—Then—I intend to go before the Elders and ask for a formal split from Ikthya-De.”

 _Cetanu,_ he struggles to ignore the increasing coil of heat in his abdomen. His eyes tear away from the blue Yautja at his side, darting back to the stars overhead and using different mask filters to view the cosmos in their glory.

He’s well past smitten with the Adjutant nurse. The thought of taking the steps to… _officially_ court her is… His face lights with heat. Guan thanks every god he remembers in his head for remembering to wear his mask. He cannot think of a better description for himself at that second than _smitten s’yuit-de_.

He feels nervous despite knowing her feelings. The nervousness is a mixture of his own anxieties but also the overwhelming warmth, vigor, and sweet, blissful joy he finds at her side. Part of Guan feels silly for feeling it at all, but the same half of his brain that reminds him what a smitten fool he is, also acknowledges he is happiest being a smitten fool for Bist’ri. He knows she won’t judge him for it. He gets confirmation of the latter when Bist’ri’s face lights up, her mandibles clicking excitedly as his words sink in, albeit not for the _exact_ same reasons.

 _“—Guan! Guan, that’s wonderful—”_ She trills sincerely. _“I think—You’ll be much happier when the two of you are apart—You need space to heal—You can have your own residence again—She won’t be able to hurt you—”_ Bist’ri catches herself before she goes on a tangent. Guan doesn’t mind if she does, but he knows she doesn’t share his view of finding her spiels endearing. The Adjutant nurse pauses, _“You know—You have a whole world out there. Without her tearing you down—"_

 _“With you, I hope,”_ He doesn’t say it with the finesse he wants to possess, but it has the desired effect anyways. Guan finds little pings of delight in watching how quickly Bist’ri’s face goes from a pale blue to a very, _very_ intense ultramarine hue.

Her hands tense. _“Guan—”_

 _“Sei-i?”_ He sounds pleased. He _feels_ pleased. Pleased, exhilarated, happy… 

Bist’ri looks up and down the observation deck. There are four sets of Elites patrolling the deck at present time. She clicks softly at him, _“The trials are not over yet. You are still a paired Yautja.”_

 _“Not for long.”_ He keeps his eyes on the clear ceiling of the deck, admiring the stars.

 _“You aren’t,”_ Bist’ri pauses, as if debating whether to continue. Guan clicks at her to go on. She sighs. _“—Please—Make sure you are doing it for yourself. Guan. Not because of me.”_

 _“Ki’sei, don’t worry,”_ His gaze softens. _“I haven’t forgotten what you said to me before the trip to Terra. I didn’t—I don’t think I would consider it if I hadn’t… heard that. You could say it’s because of you, but I am doing it for me. I don’t want to be chained at the hip with her anymore.”_

The Adjutant nurse relaxes at his answer. Guan waits a moment, debating whether to speak further in his mind, before he leans over and clicks at her to do the same. She leans closer to him, but in a way that gives the impression she leans back against a railing in the observation deck. _“Guan?”_

 _“I will need your help with something when this is over.”_ The man chirps matter-of-factly, calm and composed and feeling _very_ much like the Adjutant he knows he is.

 _“With what?”_ Bist’ri inquires.

Guan looks at her. _“—I’ve heard the Adjutant Nurse is very picky with accepting gifts—”_

_“Guan.”_

_“—But if I wanted to present a token of affection to her—”_

_“You don’t need to get me anything!”_

_“But if I wanted to,”_ the Adjutant carries on, leaning a little closer. _“If I wanted to present something exceptional—Meaningful—What would catch her eye?”_

Guan’s hand drifts to hers. He takes it gently and intertwines their fingers together. Though his face remains concealed behind his mask, the Adjutant feels incredibly at ease. He has a relaxed expression; his eyes are locked on her, the rest of the world melting away for a second. He leans his head down and rubs his mask against her forehead, a tiny gesture of all he wants to do but can’t—Yet.

 _“Guan,”_ Bist’ri’s hand lets go of his and she cups his face. He can’t feel her fingers on his mask, but he can imagine them, and it builds the heat in his chest. The Adjutant nurse sighs against him _. “Make me s’pke.”_

 _“What?”_ He balks at her. _“Bist’ri—I don’t know how—”_

 _“Ask Tjau’ke, I don’t know how to season it,”_ she releases him and draws back, head tilt to one side. Her eyes possess a mischievous gleam to them, but as much as the green depths are full of play, they are equally full of warmth.

Guan clicks quietly, _“What if I can’t season it correctly? Even with her help?”_

_“S’pke. That’s my answer.”_

_“Do you want it in a thermos?”_ He hears her laugh softly at his inquiry. Guan blinks. _“Is that such a strange thing to ask, Bist’ri?”_

 _“When you split from Ikthya-De—You’ll get a new residence. A smaller one, more accommodated for a single Yautja.”_ Bist’ri states in a collection of warm clicks and amused chirps. _“I would like you to make s’pke for dinner. And then—Serve it. And eat it. With me,”_ she clears her throat and glances away. _“In a bowl, preferably. Not—One bowl, but—Our own bowls.”_

 _“…Ki’sei… You want to eat dinner with me,”_ Guan pauses. _“In my residence—The two of us—Alone—oh. Oh. Sei-i. That—I can do that.”_ It is difficult not to sputter when his entire body feels like fire. He knows at least one Yautja guard has picked up on his increased production of musk, as one of the Elites patrolling the observation deck look in the two’s direction, but at that moment Guan finds it very difficult to care about anything other than how much he wants Bist’ri right now.

He knows he can’t have her again. Not yet, not on the clanship, not until matters are resolved. Patience is something the Adjutant knows well; he will wait until things are sorted before pursuing her further.

 _Cetanu help me._ Guan thinks. He curses the presence of witnesses on the observation deck.

 _“I’ll—I’ll look into that. S’pke. Thank you, Bist’ri.”_ Guan nods once. He watches the woman inhale. Idly, the Adjutant flips through different optical filters in his bio-mask. His natural thermal vision picks up the influx of heat in Bist’ri’s face. It makes his gut twist in want. He likes seeing her react positively to what he says or does. He likes her. He really, really likes her. Acknowledging the fact—again—returns Guan to the sweet, comforting, warm headspace. He begins to lean to her, to hold her and breathe her in and remind her how much he appreciates her presence, but before he can—He hears the lift to the observation deck activate.

Guan snaps upright and looks in the lift’s direction. Bist’ri follows suit. The two Adjutants express tension before Tjau’ke walks into view and clicks in greeting. Bist’ri straightens upright a little more and nods at the head of the medical division. _“Honorable Tjau’ke.”_

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri—Adjutant Guan.”_ There is something off in Tjau’ke’s words. The way the older Yautja looks from Bist’ri to him is disconcerting, like Guan-Tjau’ke has a sixth sense he doesn’t know about. It is nothing more than anxiety and mild paranoia; Guan dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.

 _“Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ The Adjutant nods.

 _“I’m surprised to see you two here together.”_ Tjau’ke’s blue-gray eyes are visible, as she lacks a mask. Her eyes constantly flicker from one Adjutant to the next.

It brings back the paranoia. Guan’s body tenses. _Does she know? Can she tell? We’ve been so careful since the Kukulkan docked in the clanship._

If she knows—Guan figures Tjau’ke would already have spoken to the Elders about the two’s disloyalty. The Adjutant calms himself. He will not show panic, let alone _fear_ , in front of either woman. He must be as composed as his role expects of him. But as Tjau’ke and Bist’ri talk back and forth, the Adjutant finds he barely holds on to his composure. Dread fills his stomach.

He has a bad feeling about this.

* * *

The Elite’s trial is painfully smooth. Gry’Sui-bpe-de is nothing like Kwei-Bezas; the Elite possesses a rigorous sense of honor. He does not toy with any of the Elders, he does not deny the charge brought against him, and he acknowledges the lack of subordination as wrong. Aside from the brief sputters at the beginning of his trial, Gry’Sui-bpe-de is a well-rounded man with a good head on his shoulders and the ability to self-reflect. Once the awkward start of the trial moves into the past, even Elder Tyioe admits to the man having some positive traits.

 _“I won’t suggest leniency. But perhaps… He does not deserve the worst of punishments for his actions,”_ Tyioe grunts from her seat toward the end of the trial.

Elder Migo and Elder H’dlak follow suit. Akrei-non-Daga has no doubt Gry’Sui-bpe-de is willing to accept any punishment thrown his way, but he notes the short falter in the Elite’s composure when the two Elders agree with Tyioe’s suggestion of a milder punishment.

If the outcome of the trial had not already been decided upon, perhaps the Clan Leader would take the Elders’ words into consideration. Daga leans back in his seat as each Elder votes guilty and none cast dissent. The unanimous vote entails punishment, but the guilty Elite is almost _relaxed_ by the time attention returns to Daga. The Clan Leader makes a show of clasping his hands together and leaning forward in his seat. He eyes Gry’Sui, knowing the young Elite cannot see his expression, but looking to provoke uncertainty in the man anyways.

 _Make an example out of them._ The words of his _daughter_ sings in his head. _Make an example out of them all._

He must do as she bids.

 _“Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de, you have been judged guilty by the Elders before you. With them as witnesses, you are to atone for your dishonorable actions in the offering of thwei.”_ Daga rises to his feet. He feels eyes on him, some aghast and others baffled, but all on _him_. The man roars to the Arbitrators below. _“Bind him! Thirty lashes from you each.”_

 _“Leader Daga—”_ At first the Elite is stunned, shocked, bewildered, but the sounds end when Daga looks at him.

 _“Sei-i? Do you not agree you are guilty, Elite? A guilty party accepts their punishment or rejects it in favor of the life of an ic’jit. What do you choose?”_ Daga speaks even as the two Arbitrators in the hall seize Gry’Sui and unclasp his armor. The Elite does not resist. Daga nods. _“Sei-I, good, you understand where you stand on the path of honor. You will be an honorable man once more, Gry’Sui-bpe-de.”_

The Elite’s mesh suit is ripped down to his waist. Gry’Sui says nothing as his wrists are bound in front of him. The Arbitrators force him to kneel, then they walk to the other end of the stage. Each one taps a command into their respective wrist computers. A moment later, the council hall door knocks and a third Arbitrator steps in holding a case. Daga watches it pop open and reveal two wretched flails. Gry’Sui grits his teeth and shudders when the Arbitrators take them out and test the whips against an empty seat.

“Thirty lashes, Leader Daga!” One Arbitrator, a red Yautja by the name of Garra, confirms the number with him.

Daga nods. _“From each of you.”_

The third Arbitrator hesitates with their empty case. Daga clicks at them to stay. Each Arbitrator takes up position in a line, with the third Arbitrator last. Daga does not look away as the whipping begins. He watches all of it, even when Gry’Sui cannot hold in the pain and begins to roar and bellow in agony. He stares past the brilliant green blood, he eyes the Elite even when one of the Arbitrators has to walk over and wrench the Elite up, and he refuses to do anything but offer the sight his full attention once the Elite is reduced to weak croaks from expended vocal chords.

The entire room spells of _thwei_ by the time it ends. Gry’Sui is barely conscious on the floor, unable to hold himself up. Daga walks down the steps of the seating and leaps unto the central stage. He strides to Gry’Sui and kneels to examine the wounds.

 _“—Honorable Tjau’ke is expected to be coming here. Find her, have her take this honorable man to the medical bay. He has offered his blood in atonement; treat him with the respect his rank demands.”_ Daga orders the three Arbitrators, each of them nodding. One scurries off while another lifts Gry’Sui off the ground. The third picks up the Elite’s discarded armor.

 _“Leader Daga!”_ Kwei-Tyioe roars at him from her seat, only now just coming to terms with what previously unfolded in front of the three Elders. _“What was that?”_

 _“It was… justice,”_ Daga clicks in response. He looks away. _“An example of justice to come.”_


	59. the trial of gahn'tha-cte-guan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw:  
> -needles  
> -whips / flogging / torture  
> -medical procedures 
> 
> alternatively titled, "consequences pt. 3"

The tension lingers even after Tjau’ke departs for the council hall. The nurse is someone Bist’ri deeply respects, but her paranoia simmers under the surface. What she and Adjutant Guan have done—multiple times—is nothing short of disloyalty. Even with Ikthya-De acting dishonorably during the huntress’ partnership with Guan, Bist’ri knows the Elders will not overlook the actions both have taken. She keeps a _nok_ worth of distance between the other Adjutant even after Tjau’ke disappears into the council hall.

 _“I’ve said nothing to her,”_ Guan assures her, a stiff nod following. _“Bist’ri—Even if she suspects something—Suspicions aren’t proof.”_

 _“But it can lead to proof.”_ The Adjutant nurse clicks slowly. _“I—We need to watch what we say. How we act. The steps we take—Especially with her. She knows me well, and you well enough.”_

At her side, Guan exhales softly and nods. _“Ki’sei. I will be more careful with her—”_

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri!”_ The shout comes from the council hall doors, where a red-pelted Arbitrator calls from the doors. Bist’ri snaps her head up and clicks loudly in affirmation. The Arbitrator, a Yautja she vaguely recalls being named _Garra_ , trills at her to come over, _“Honorable Tjau’ke requests your assistance immediately!”_

Guan’s head turns to face her. Bist’ri’s throat becomes dry. Her body moves before her mind catches up processing the words; she knows Tjau’ke does not call for her unless the circumstances are dire. The Adjutant nurse runs down the corridor leading to the council hall; she bursts through the doors and holds back the gasp threatening to spill out. Her green eyes widen; her natural thermal gaze picks up on the mess of _thwei_ splashing the floor of the hall’s circular central stage. In front of her, several dozen _noks_ out, Tjau’ke kneels next to the body of someone whose scent is deeply muddled by _thwei._

 _“Gry’Sui—”_ Bist’ri blurts out the name and sprints forward. She comes to a sudden stop next to Tjau’ke, dropping to her knees and looking over the unconscious Elite’s thermal signature.

 _“Akrei-non-Daga! What is the meaning of this?! Tyioe—Migo—H’dlak! Explain yourselves!”_ Next to her, Tjau’ke _roars_ in outrage, loud enough to rattle the doors of the council hall.

Bist’ri doesn’t need to be told what to do. As Tjau’ke goes off on a rant tearing into the Clan Leader and Elder’s supposed punishment, Bist’ri has already tapped the command into her wrist computer to unlock the emergency compartment within. The serum dose is small, but far more effective than usual regeneration serum. Bist’ri pulls the accompanying syringe out of the compartment and fills it with serum. Already, her medical vestments, thermal mesh, and knees feel damp from the coagulating but wet blood.

 _“—He was guilty, Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ Daga’s voice is calm.

 _“No—No, Leader Daga, I agree with Tjau’ke—This is—An unprecedented use of force for an honorable man who made a minor mistake,”_ Elder Tyioe’s voice snarls at the Clan Leader. The huntress is on her feet and stalking forward, jumping and climbing over seats to meet Daga head-on. She faces off with him while he tenses but remains as he is. Tyioe hisses, _“All of us advised against—”_

 _“He admitted his guilt. He must understand not even the highest-ranking warriors are spared justice. Accountability means pain in many cases.”_ Daga clicks curtly, coldly, without remorse or hesitation.

 _“S’yuit-de! This is not justice, Akrei-non-Daga! The man’s dying of thwei loss!”_ Tjau’ke howls at him. Her fists tense so much Bist’ri wonders if the head of the medical division might draw her own _thwei_ from her talons digging into her skin.

 _“Injecting restoration serum now,”_ Bist’ri calls out, one hand on the unconscious Elite’s back while Tjau’ke clicks at her to hurry. Bist’ri jams the needle into the Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s back. Her eyes widen and her four hearts begin thumping loudly in her head at the realization the serum is not working. She knows it hasn’t expired; the dose was changed out when she visited the medical bay earlier the same day cycle. The nurse checks the man’s neck for a pulse, then his wrist. Her hands tremble but she fights the growing panic and focuses on lifting the man up, _“Tjau’ke! It’s not—The serum isn’t taking—He needs a transfusion! He's lost too much thwei!”_

 _“Pauk—You, Arbitrators!”_ Tjau’ke takes command of the hall in seconds, eyes locked on Garra and the other two Arbitrators present. _“Help carry this honorable Elite to the medical division!”_

_"But..."_

When one of the Arbitrators hesitates, Tjau’ke storms forward and grabs one by the collar of their mesh suit. _“If this man meets the Black Hunter tonight—His thwei is on your hands.”_

* * *

The injections hurt.

To say otherwise means she is lying, and Sundew does not like lying. When asked, she does not hold back any details, not even the gruesome, gory bits and nastiness of having the metal of one syringe accidentally puncture deep enough to grind against a synthetic bone. It’s not fun, and it does _nothing_ , but Sundew finds herself fascinated by the process all the same: taking notes, asking questions, and listening as one or more nurses explain subjects in delightfully eccentric spiels.

She likes to learn. Not only is the medical division full of nurses who know things H’chak never explained to her, but she also carries on with the injections with the understanding she does so with a purpose. Sundew takes great care monitoring her system’s responses to the serums. While any injuries the nurses inflict on her physical composition heal with an injection of serum, injecting the serum into her physical composition does nothing for her critical mass.

 _“Can we even… Inject something there? Sun-Dew?”_ C’it-na, inquires where he deposits used syringes into a compartment protruding from the wall. _“Critical mass… That—I mean, I’m not an Im-Gen nurse—But it sounds bad to mess with.”_

“It would require an exceptionally long needle. Puncturing the critical mass demands a needle of… Approximately…” She struggles to convert the units in her head. Sundew frowns at herself and looks away. “It would require an exceptionally long needle.”

 _“Can you make a cut and inject into that? Rather than attempting to inject through the flesh directly? No need to go all the way through.”_ From the side of the room, still attempting to procure details and origin of the red plant fibers sitting in a glass vial to her right, Roja sounds nothing but bored. The nurse clicks at Sundew when she says nothing.

Sundew considers it. “—It is worth a try. _C’it-na?_ ”

 _“I—I’ll try it.”_ C’it-na nods, walking around the room and gathering clean gloves, a cutting laser, and the longest syringe available in the medical bay.

In her peripheral, Sundew spots Leitjin pause and tap something on the computer strapped to their wrist. The nurse stiffens. If Leitjin could go from ash white to _white,_ Sundew is certain they would. The tension is accompanied by shaky chirps as Leitjin intones, _“Pauk—C’it-na—Roja! Bist’ri just sent a message—”_

Pings come from C’it-na’s and Roja’s wrist computers. The two tap commands into the device. Roja scrambles to her feet while C’it-na freezes. _“We need your… thwei… But—That—Leitjin—”_

 _“You didn’t tell us you were an Elite’s pup! S’yuit-de! I’ve been heckling an Elite’s progeny all this time?!”_ Roja throws an electronic tablet at the gray Yautja. Leitjin hisses and ducks behind Sundew for cover. Sundew winces when the tablet smashes into the metal table she sits on.

 _“I don’t like talking about my sirer! He’s… I don’t like him.”_ Leitjin growls the words, voice raspy and irate.

 _“Roja, can you please take their blood? I—I’m busy.”_ C’it-na clears his throat and walks to Sundew.

 _“Really? You want me to do it?”_ Roja snaps. A second later, the red Yautja stills and tenses. She sighs and clicks, _“…Forgive me, C’it-na—I am—I’m frustrated this pauking plant isn’t easier to find. I’ve gone through every plant we have sampled in the herbology department. Nothing in there, nothing in the clan database—This isn’t something you find every day.”_

 _“You’re forgiven. But you are taking Leitjin’s blood. Please hurry—I suspect they’ll need it when they get here,”_ C’it-na taps his wrist computer again. He trills softly. _“I don’t understand how an Elite got so badly wounded. Leitjin, do you have any ideas?”_

_“I’m not talking about him! I’m not.”_

_“What did he do to piss you off? I would be honored to descend from an honorable kv’var-de of such rank.”_ Roja clicks at them.

Leitjin hisses and struggles to take the upper half of their mesh suit off. They begrudgingly still long enough for Roja to help them pull it down to their abdomen. Sundew notes mishappen lines of bleached white sprawls Leitjin’s pelt in a marble-like pattern. Leitjin growls at her, _“Staring’s rude! S’yuit-de.”_

“Were you in an accident in the past?” Sundew tilts her head to one side. “Those look like scars. Scars from… acid?”

Leitjin freezes in place. Their fists tense and they hiss. _“That’s none of your paukin’ business! It’s not yours either, Roja—”_

Their words are cut off when C’it-na promptly stabs Sundew in the abdomen, prompting her to scream and cuss loudly. The Vekin keels over in pain while Leitjin and Roja stare. C’it-na clicks apologetically, _“Sorry—Sorry—But I need to—The incision—”_

Sundew’s expletive list is not expansive by any means, but she repeats the words enough to convey the searing hot throbbing in her side. Clear, faux blood spills out. C’it-na pulls out the scalpel and begins to ready the laser, only for Sundew to shriek and push herself backward further up the table. “—No—Not—You cannot—”

 _“Oh—Oh, no, no, I am so sorry, I—I forgot_ ,” the green Yautja slumps and shrinks a little where he stands. He puts the cauterization and cutting lasers aside, then hefts the loaded syringe and approaches Sundew again. She whimpers in pain when he gently—not gently enough—touches the open wound. _“I—It’ll be quick, okay? I’ll be fast—Fast as I can—”_

Then the needle goes in, and existence becomes a struggle not to engulf the Yautja and drain him of life to stop the sensation. Sundew’s physical composition breaks out in cold sweats and she weeps in agony. Her body writhes and thrashes against C’it-na’s superior strength, soon joined by Roja’s firm hands. The two nurses pin the Vekin to the metal table while C’it-na finishes the injection and pulls it out of her. Sundew curls up in a ball on the table. Her body shakes and trembles with pain as the serum runs through her critical mass and overwhelms her senses.

_Do you see, FLORA? Do you see me? This is what we are—Entities who use the flesh of others, who carve out new shapes, new forms, and new variations to blend in with our opponents. I do not know how many of us exist—But once many, many cycles ago—We took the steps necessary to ensure the Yautja did not view us as worthy prey._

Her mind is and is not her own. The voice of someone she knows but cannot remember rings through her head.

_The Yautja—If they discover you—They will farm Vekin from your body. They will use us as domesticated prey… It disgusts me to think of us in that manner. Surely it disgusts you as well, FLORA?_

She doesn’t remember all the evening spent as GHOST’s captive, but the serum is enough to restore a scrap of her memories. Her critical mass regenerates under the haze of excruciating pain. What was less than one percent becomes just a little over three percent. 

_I am a… Vekin. I am a Vekin. Not an Im-Gen._ Her clear eyes stare at the blank metal wall, riddled with ridges, grooves, and indentations marked by the dash-like geometrical clan script. _I am a Vekin. My name is FLORA. I came to this planet to… To… I came to this planet with one of humanity’s creations. The Cassini-Hyugens. My name is FLORA._

Her head hurts.

 _“It’s—It’s done something. It worked. It did, right? You didn’t—You weren’t reacting like that before—”_ The olive green Yautja trills happily from the side, his hands still gripping her arms and keeping them pinned to the table. Roja clicks in agreement.

Sundew’s eyes water. “It hurts…”

 _“But it worked,”_ C’it-na nods. He looks at Roja. _“Hey—Enough stalling—You—You need to get Leitjin’s blood—now!”_

 _“Sei-I, sei-I…”_ Roja trails off in her clicks.

* * *

 _Terror_ does not adequately describe the feeling blooming in the Adjutant’s chest. He stares at the group of Arbitrators, led by Tjau’ke and assisted by Bist’ri, work together to lift and carry Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s unconscious body to the observation deck lift. The trail of _thwei_ lingers in the air, obfuscating his olfactory sensors until he acknowledges the horror present. Guan recalls Gry’Sui acting against _his_ commands at the Chickpea Night Walk station, but it was to keep him from _s’yuit-de_ actions. To think the Elite’s actions could lead to this makes him want to throw up and retch in sheer dread and fear.

 _“Adjutant Guan!”_ One of the Elite’s trills from his post mid-corridor. The Yautja waits until Guan approaches before the Elite clicks, _“The Elders informed us your trial is to begin shortly. Please head inside.”_

 _“But—That man—”_ Guan sputters in his clicks. He stares.

The Elite is unwavering in his stance, posture, or attitude: a true _kv’var-de_.

The Adjutant exhales sharply. _“Ki’sei, I understand.”_

The inside of the council hall is even worse. Though one Arbitrators runs a cleaning laser across the area, it does nothing to remove the stench of _thwei._

Or hide the flails used to flog Gry’Sui-bpe-de.

Guan’s orange eyes widen. He stands, frozen in place, as his mind blanks under the unfolding reality.

Everything is _wrong_.

* * *

She is _furious_. Not only at Akrei-non-Daga, not only at the three Elders present in the council hall, but at _her_ old friends, at two Elders _incapable_ of showing up on time and preventing such a damning incident from occurring.

There is no doubt in Tjau’ke’s mind that the presence of Elder Lar’ja or Elder Ju’dha could have circumnavigated the brutality inflicted upon Gry’Sui-bpe-de. The man’s _thwei_ is on all their heads should he die. Tjau’ke struggles to see more than red— _red, red, red_ —as she exits the lift on the residential floor and barks orders at Bist’ri to tend to the dying Elite. Her Adjutant clicks in confirmation before the lift continues to rise toward the medical division. In the residential floor, surrounded by dozens of Yautja couples and groups who either heed her zero attention or look on with confusion, Tjau’ke’s footsteps echo across the floor.

She marches directly to M-di-Guan-Lar’ja’s residence and pounds on the door. When the woman doesn’t answer, Tjau’ke roars at the door. She punches in a command on her wrist gauntlet; the residence’s door recognizes her authority as head of the medical division and unlocks. No sooner than it slides open does she enter in loud, boisterous steps. Her gaze trails the common area.

 _“Lar’ja!”_ The nurse howls in a rage. She is not gentle in forcing doors open and checking the washroom, kitchen unit, or the private _kehrite_ attached to the Elder’s residence. She rips the bedchamber door open and snaps her head back and forth. Her long spiral of locs, each intricately woven into the next in a beautiful hanging style, fly and whip against her head and neck as she scans the room. Despite reeking of Lar’ja’s scent, Tjau’ke does not find the woman. She throws the pelts off the bed to be sure. Her icy blue eyes harden in resolve.

In her rush to track down the Elder and drag her and Ju’dha kicking and screaming to the trials, Tjau’ke’s foot knocks something across the floor. The object skids and crashes against the wall. The nurse pauses; she pulls her bio-mask off a belt looping around her medical vestments. She exhales as the tiny sensors dig through her flesh. With the mask on it is easy to change the optical settings and see the world in color. Her eyes land on a very large skull. The woman stills, anger draining out of her, as she stares at the polished, painted head of a Queen _r’ka._ Hard meat.

_I… I am here for advice._

Tjau’ke freezes at the recollection of her and Lar’ja’s conversation in the medical bay. She remembers it very clearly, as clearly as she recalls the organs of the body, pints of _thwei_ one can lose before the final rest comes, or any of the three-five-zero plants capable of relieving constipation in an ailing patient. Her memory is sharp.

_This… Kv’var-de… is younger than I am._

She picks up the skull. Her stomach twists in sudden nervousness, as if the _r’ka_ might spring to life and bite her. Heat wells up inside her gut as she turns the skull over.

_I would like to know… What gifts are considered acceptable? By… the less traditional standards._

Tjau’ke’s four hearts skip beats in unison as her eyes fall upon the most brilliant cut of _Bloodstone_ she has ever come across in her many cycles.

_Let us say… if I wanted to make a statement. Not simply… a mating partner._

_“Oh, Lar’ja...”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly. She hugs the skull to her chest and exhales.

When she breathes in, even through her mask, she picks up nothing. It is _n’dui-se_ in its purest form: the absence of odor, the deterring of scents, the calmness of mind provoked by clean, fresh air. Tjau’ke wants nothing more than to sit and admire the beautiful creation for a while. She can’t.

She has patients. She has _duties_ to her patients.

She needs to find Lar’ja.

She places the skull on the bed and leaves it and the rest of Lar’ja’s residence unhindered. Her rage is gone; she strides out of the residence and locks the door behind her. There is a small group of Yautja looking on curiously, but she trills at them to get a move on and they disperse. Tjau’ke makes the march across the residential floor, through different divisions of clan members, and over to where Ju’dha-Jehdin’s residence sits tucked away in a corner.

When the Elder does not answer, Tjau’ke finds uncertainty worm into her stomach. She does not expect _both_ Elders to be absent. The nurse is about to leave when she catches a waft of Ju’dha’s _n’dui-se_ in the air. She fights the urge to retch; the Elder’s scent is nothing she cares to dawdle in, but it is a sign Ju’dha is inside somewhere. Tjau’ke grimaces internally and enters the command to override the residence’s lock. She quietly pushes the door open when it doesn’t open fast enough, stepping inside and closing it just as quietly. She is about to call for the Elder when the _n’dui-se_ falters as if drowned in something.

Tjau’ke’s stomach twists. This time, her hearts do not beat with hopeful longing. There is nothing pleasant about the nausea crawling up her spine. Yet when she stills, when she holds her breath and listens, she hears both Yautja’s voices come from Ju’dha’s bedchamber.

 _“Ki’sei…”_ Ju’dha sounds authoritative and completely in control. Tjau’ke wants to vomit as the Elder trills, _“Do you want to receive, Lar’ja?”_

 _“Please—”_ The words belong to her old friend. Lar’ja sounds so desperate. The cry she makes reeks of arousal and lust. The ensuing, methodical thumps are enough to tell Tjau’ke everything she needs to know. But for a moment—She cannot find it in her to leave, overwhelmed by shock at what she hears, at the intimacy she is unwillingly privy to.

_This… k’var-de… is younger than I am._

She hears Lar’ja’s words echo in her head, singing as vilely as the horror clawing her throat.

She was wrong. She acted like a fool. _S’yuit-de, Guan-Tjau’ke._

Ju’dha-Jehdin is approximately six cycles younger than Lar’ja. But even if they weren’t—It dawns on Tjau’ke how arrogant she is to assume she was the object of Lar’ja’s affections. The woman and her have history, but that history is of _friends_. She should have known better. Her beliefs the two had something are unfounded thoughts.

 _And what am I? Nothing but a selfish nurse! Selfish, selfish woman! Lar’ja came to me because she trusts me—Because she knew I wouldn’t judge her for who she holds her affection—And I still had the audacity to think… To think… S’yuit-de. I am the foolish one._ Her hands clench into fists.

She doesn’t make a sound when she departs the residence and locks the door behind her. She does not register the looks of others. What gossip rises from this occasion is irrelevant. She is not a newly Blooded incapable of handling rejection; she has the maturity to ignore rumors and move on—

But it hurts.

It _hurts_.

She doesn’t make it to the lift before she ducks into a lesser used hallway, smashes a fist against the wall, and sobs.

It hurts and she has no one to blame but herself.

* * *

He is alone before three Elders and Akrei-non-Daga. Even in his armor, even with the prestige his title blesses him with, there is nothing to shield him from the wrath he knows will fall upon him. Guan understands certain things _will_ happen. It is not a matter of _if,_ but _when_ , because he is the Adjutant and as Adjutant to the Clan Leader, he retains the most responsibility of the outcome of any assignments bestowed to him.

But even if he were not, even if Gahn’tha-cte-Guan were but an Elite with only Hunts to his name, he knows it wouldn’t change the _when_ to _if_. The credits spent at the sex club, the loss of the speedcraft _Echinos_ , his reckless behavior when the _Echinos_ was bombed… It does not even touch the subject of _disloyalty,_ of the heathen acts he partook in with Bist’ri, of the ways he betrayed his partner so, _so_ willingly—He does not have a case to fall against. He has only himself as he clasps his hands behind his back and looks up at Daga, unwilling to buckle under the overwhelming _fear_.

Elder Tyioe pauses. The woman gestures at him, but her words—when they come—are directed at Daga. _“—For what very little it’s worth, I did not think you were serious when you informed us your Adjutant was to stand trial.”_

 _“Adjutant Guan is an honorable man who faces his wrongs head-on. Thar'n-da s' yin'tekai!”_ The Clan Leader’s words do not bring comfort.

 _“He reeks of fear.”_ Tyioe barks.

 _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan knows when to fear and when to fight. I oversaw his second chiva.”_ Elder Migo trills from the side, legs crossed as he leans back in his seat.

 _My second chiva._ A reminder he can never escape Chirp’s death. His _mei-hswei_ died at his hands, died because Guan told him and H’chak to rely on the Elders to resolve things, and it is a sin Guan must not forget. He will not forget Chirp. He will not forget.

But he is scared. He is _petrified_ at the thought of what is to come.

 _“Adjutant Guan—Step forward.”_ Leader Daga orders, face hidden behind a bio-mask.

Guan pulls the scraps of his composure together. None of these Yautja are Bist’ri, or like Bist’ri. They will judge him, and they will bring him unfathomable pain. The least he can do is try and preserve a semblance of dignity.

 _“Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_ The Clan Leader’s voice has a disconcerting feel to it. _“You are on trial for the actions taken by your crew during the retrieval and recovery of Elite M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit Vayuh’ta.”_

 _“I am.”_ He confirms when Daga pauses.

Tyioe growls. Daga holds up a hand to silence the woman, then returns his focus to Guan. _“—Gahn’tha-cte’s Elders will serve as your jury. As your Clan Leader, I alone will determine the punishment you face if you are found guilty of the charges set against you. Do you have any questions before this trial begins?”_

 _“Sei-I, one, Leader Daga,”_ Guan clears his throat. He scans the room again and pauses. _“—Where is Elder Lar’ja and Elder Ju’dha?”_

 _“Their absence will not delay the trials. We have one more to get through before the day cycle is over,”_ the way Daga speaks so _calmly_ of the trials, as if they are walks in the park and will not result in Bist’ri or himself being flailed mercilessly, it leaves Guan nauseous once more. Leader Daga clicks at the Adjutant, “I alone have been privy to the words offered by you and your crew members. If there is anything you wish to say to the Elders of your own volition—Now is the time. It will not pardon you of dishonor, but it may make the path to atonement less rocky.”

Guan hesitates. His mind immediately flashes to Bist’ri, to the beautiful, blue Yautja nurse and all the amazing things about her. His brain briefly revels in the memories of her scent— _salt sand sea_ —and the recollection of how alien yet welcoming her smooth, smooth scales felt against his own when the two were in the throes of passion and embrace. He doesn’t want her hurt. He doesn’t know if his words will come back to bite her. Bite him, certainly, he will throw himself into the wrath of the Elders in a heartbeat to keep her safe, but _her?_

He can’t risk it. He can’t. _He won’t._ He wants to protect her.

He shakes his head. _“M-di. I have nothing to say which has not already been said.”_

 _“Noted…”_ Elder H’dlak clicks to themself, leaning forward in their seat. When Guan stares at them, he realizes H’dlak looks tired. More than that—The Elder _sounds_ tired. _Smells_ a certain way—The same odor coming from Elder Migo-Kujhade. Guan dismisses the thought; if anyone ever asks whether the Elders occupy themselves during the mating season, at least he has an answer.

A solemn knock comes from the hall doors. Both Elders and Adjutant alike still and look in the direction. The two Arbitrators standing guard wait for Daga’s click of approval before they open the door and allow the eight-foot-three figure of _Guan-Tjau’ke_ to enter. Guan shakes as he breathes in relief. The relief fades when he realizes Tjau’ke does not look at him or anyone else as she strides to her seat and climbs the steps to it.

 _“Forgive me, Leader Daga. I was distracted on my way here.”_ The woman sounds disconnected from the present.

Even the Clan Leader appears taken aback by the drastic shift in the nurse’s attitude. Daga grunts offhandedly, _“You are forgiven, Honorable Tjau’ke. We were preparing to hear my Adjutant’s recant of the event—”_

 _“I have already recanted the incident at the Chickpea Night Walk.”_ Guan stares at the man. Daga’s mask angles to stare back. Guan gives in and glances away first. _“—But if the Clan Leader believes it is beneficial to the Elders’ judgements, I am happy to comply with his directive.”_

 _“It would be helpful, yes. I am eager to know how visiting a sex club turned into a bombing.”_ Migo’s one good eye, his _red_ one, burns into Guan’s metaphorical back.

Guan grits his teeth. He forces his fearful blood to _calm. “—It was not—We did not expect a bombing—”_

 _“No one does.”_ Tyioe chirps, amused.

 _“It was a well-populated, busy space station. Neutral territory. The station is notorious for the Chickpea Night Walk, most patrons do not risk angering the establishment’s owners,”_ Guan clicks through his explanation. His posture remains tense. _“As it happens, the engineer piloting M-di-H’chak’s ship—Nok Nok—requested the Echinos and Kukulkan land at the station to investigate the Kukulkan—”_

 _“Why did the Kukulkan need investigating?_ ” H’dlak yawns, mandibles flaring, before they settle in their seat.

 _“Nok Nok recorded videos indicating a… bhu’ja might be occupying the Kukulkan. She requested the ships land so a team could sweep the interior.”_ Guan feels heat fill his face when the Elders, save for Honorable Tjau’ke, begin laughing and snickering. H’dlak’s chuckles are lighter than the others, but the Elder laughs all the same. Guan clenches his eyes shut and goes on _. “—An Im-Gen was discovered on the premise. Lower level, kitchen unit. Nok Nok confirmed the Im-Gen was the ‘bhu’ja’ from the videos.”_

 _“Ah… Yes. This Im-Gen,”_ Daga nods stiffly. _“Sun-Dew?”_

_“Sei-i.”_

_“You mentioned during your recant—M-di-H’chak refers to Sun-Dew as his mate?”_

_“Sei-I, he does.”_

_“But she is an Im-Gen.”_

_“To my knowledge. I have not met her face-to-face.”_ Guan clicks, trying to force his way past his own flustered state. He recalls his _mei-hswei_ ’s conditions for atonement. He opens his eyes and looks at Daga. _“—M-di-H’chak speaks highly of her, with the loyalty and devotion a Yautja would another Yautja. I have no doubt he views her as an equal. He expressed desire in having her Blooded and marked a true member of Gahn’tha-cte—"_

 _“Preposterous!”_ Tyioe roars across the hall. _“Prey cannot be equal! It is why we hunt and prey are preyed upon!”_

 _“M-di-H’chak believes otherwise.”_ The Adjutant clicks in response. _“He views her as his mate. He claims the two are equal. He will not tolerate disrespect toward her, not from a Yautja or another prey species.”_

 _“Fascinating,”_ Migo trills under his breath, rubbing his lower mandibles in thought.

 _“This subject will be addressed during M-di-H’chak’s coming trial, but let us return to you, my Adjutant,”_ Daga centers the focus on Guan once again. The Clan Leader clicks sharply. _“—You acknowledge your reckless behavior during the bombing of the Echinos resulted in Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de defying orders and keeping you alive?”_

_“Sei-i.”_

_“Are you aware he was flogged three-zero lashes by three Arbitrators for his lack of subordination?”_ Daga drags on the subject, forcing Guan to wallow in the guilt.

 _“…Sei-i.”_ The Adjutant’s voice is soft.

Tyioe growls. _“S’yuit-de, Adjutant Guan. You do not run at a detonating spacecraft! Even the most asinine of engineers knows that.”_

 _“This is not the time to discuss Kwei-Bezas’ antics_.” H’dlak flares their mandibles as they yawn.

 _“I for one am eager to hear his reasoning for the amount of credits spent on the Chickpea Night Walk’s dancers.”_ Elder Migo nods.

 _“—How did you spend this many credits, Ajdutant Guan? You are a paired Yautja. You do not have need of extra hands in the bedchamber.”_ Daga grunts loudly.

Guan exhales. _“—It is courtesy to tip when using the club. This extends to the club’s docking bay.”_

 _“Are you saying,”_ Tyioe accuses him in tone alone. _“—You willingly offered these credits to the dancers?”_

 _A trap._ Guan curses himself inside. He should have known the Elders would play dirty to force confessions out of him. Confessions that, while true, are taken out of context and shown in a different light.

 _“I did what I thought was necessary.”_ Guan offers in exchange.

 _“It’s fascinating, is it not? How quickly—The Echinos was bombed after docking at the station.”_ Daga tilts his head to one side. _“I understand it was the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na who planted the charges.”_

_“—That is who we suspect. Bist’ri informed me she believes the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na is responsible.”_

_“’Bist’ri?’ You refer to her personally?”_ The realization of his slip of the tongue becomes apparent when Daga chirps at him to elaborate. The Elders in the room, Tjau’ke included, stare at Guan while the latter feels color drain from his face at the blunder. He cannot speak, momentarily spurred into shock at his inability to say _one damn thing_ correctly.

Guan’s brain scrambles for a suitable excuse. _“I—We became friends—Companions!–Over the—The course of the trip.”_

 _“You two must be very close to forego titles.”_ Daga clicks, monotone yet with a disgustingly clear and horrifying accurate implication.

 _I must protect her._ He holds his tongue. _“As close as I am with Honorable Tjau’ke. I often forego titles with her. The medical division is a lax place.”_

 _“That is going to change.”_ Tjau’ke interrupts Guan before he can go on. _“That is going to change soon—Changes are coming.”_

The man falls silent along with the rest of the room, Tjau’ke included. For a long minute no one says anything. Guan’s chest tightens in realization the nurse is unusually somber. He does not know what provokes such a reaction, but he prays she does not take rash actions in her personal grief.

 _“Clan Leader Daga—I am ready to vote.”_ H’dlak’s tired voice seeps in from the side. They look _so_ exhausted. Guan questions if the Elder might suddenly pass out.

His gut twists. _Can they judge fairly in this state?_

It isn’t his place to question. Guan nods slowly at H’dlak. He looks at the other Elders, glancing from Tyioe’s gorgeously dressed form to Elder Migo’s simply adorned one. The latter nods firmly, grunts to draw attention in the room to him, and declares with a sweep of his hand, “I too am ready to vote! I believe, given the circumstances, something more tangible as a punishment must be in order.”

He knew this was coming. The Adjutant nods stiffly.

 _“Then let us vote.”_ Daga does not wait or ask Tyioe for her opinion.

She growls at the Clan Leader. _“—And if I disagree?”_

_“Two to one wish to proceed. I respect the vote of the majority here. Ki’cte, Elder Tyioe, what are your thoughts?”_

Guan does not know if Tyioe genuinely seeks to disrupt the voting process, or if her actions are out of spite. Given the state of Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s condition, and Tjau’ke’s sudden change in behavior, the Adjutant reckons his fellow Elite’s trial did not go in a satisfactory manner. It concerns him. The amount of _thwei_ , the involvement of Honorable Tjau’ke _and_ Bist’ri— _And those flails… They whipped him… m-di h’chak. Merciless. His mistake did not warrant such extreme measures!_

A ping of anger wells inside his chest, but it dissipates when the Elders begin to cast their votes. Tjau’ke stays silent. Guan knows her vote wouldn’t count, but her words might offer respite from the Elders’ harsh natures.

 _“The way I see it,”_ H’dlak trills quietly, the green-and-brown Yautja tense in their seat. _“—The bombing of the Echinos was an opportunity our enemies took advantage on. By landing at the station—It offered the speedcraft like a sacrifice to Cetanu. While I respect the consideration… consideration displayed by your Adjutant, Leader Daga, it is clear he has not… He has failed to consider the repercussions of something as simple as whether to land at a station.”_

“Ki’sei!” Elder Migo roars across the council hall in agreement, voice full of vigor. _“The loss of the Echinos is no small matter! Ka’Torag-Na has effectively launched an attack on our clan and without the speedcraft, we have only witness testimony to go off proving the cause of the bombing! No one at the Council of Ancients will condemn Ka’Torag-Na, not with one of their own on the Council! Not with the corrupted bio-mask footage!”_

 _“Corrupted—”_ It is the first time Guan hears such a thing. His orange eyes widen behind his mask. _“Which of the mask feeds corrupted?”_

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri’s and Ikthya-De-th’Syra’s mask feeds corrupted. The feeds are useless,”_ Tyioe clicks sharply, cutting into the conversation. She sounds aggravated, but for once it is not directed at the one standing trial. _“If Ju’dha-Jehdin were here—Perhaps it could have been discussed more prudently. As it stands, they are absent, along with Elder M-di-Guan-Lar’ja—”_

 _“I found the two.”_ Tjau’ke’s words are short, far from sweet, and utterly disdainful. Guan pauses and stares at the honorable woman who has fought hard on behalf of him and his _mei-hswei_ in the past.

 _“You should have dragged the two here by their locs.”_ Migo remarks, huffing. His one good red eye locks on to Tjau’ke’s form.

The head of the medical division is quiet for a long, painful minute. Migo quiets in his seat whereas H’dlak straightens up a little more, shifts how they sit, and peers at the nurse. Tyioe’s gold eyes are ablaze in concern, but she holds back on expressing it. Guan notes the way the Elder’s body tenses, fists curled up and ready to draw blood should someone give the command.

 _“Forgive me, Elder Migo-Kujhade, but I did not want to interrupt the two in the middle of their mating dance.”_ It is all Tjau’ke says on the matter, and it is all that needs to be said.

Guan’s chest tightens. _That is why…_

He remembers what the Adjutant nurse told him on the _Kukulkan_. Setg’in, his bearer, gave M-di-H’chak to Guan-Tjau’ke as ‘the gift of mercy’. To do such a thing implies not only was Setg’in close to Tjau’ke—But it implies M-di-Guan-Lar’ja knew Tjau’ke well enough to sanction the adoption. Guan doesn’t remember hearing Tjau’ke speak poor of the woman.

He did not think Tjau’ke’s feelings extended past companionship, but he sympathizes now that he knows. He remembers the agony of first walking in on his life partner taking another, the first of what would be endless betrayals leading up to and into the present. It is not the same, but he sympathizes from what little similarities the two situations reflect.

 _“Those cjits.”_ Tyioe growls under her breath. The huntress’ muscles bulge from how rigid her body is, like a loaded spring ready to snap.

 _“We are not here on trial for Elder Lar’ja or Elder Ju’dha, nor have they done anything out of line by mating during the mating season,_ ” Leader Daga reminds the huntress, firm and absolute on the matter. _“—Elder Tyioe and Elder Migo. Do you cast dissent or not? Give us your vote.”_

 _“Guilty. I don’t care what the pauk you do with your Adjutant. Get us out of here as quickly as possible.”_ Tyioe sounds furious, and now Guan knows who it is directed to. If the huntress gets her hands on either absent Elder, Guan easily sees a bloodshed forming.

 _“—Elder H’dlak’s words earlier—They summarized my thoughts on the Echinos sufficiently. For that matter, I vote Adjutant Guan guilty, of improper management of the resources afforded one of his position.”_ Migo nods once.

 _“Adjutant Guan, with these Elders as witnesses, you are hereby pronounced guilty of failing to uphold the standards of your duty, the expectations of which resulted in the loss of a speedcraft and the lack of subordination demonstrated by one of the Elites under your position.”_ Leader Daga begins the spiel immediately, wasting no time on divulging every way the Adjutant messed up over the course of the retrieval mission.

But the Leader says nothing about disloyalty.

Guan holds his tongue.

 _“—For this reason, I am obligated to deliver a punishment worthy of your rank and grievance. You are stripped of the title Adjutant. Any privileges obtained during your time as Adjutant are hereby revoked. You are barred from the council hall outside future trials and ka’rik’na, as appropriate.”_ Daga’s words force a soft gasp from Tjau’ke. The head of the medical division stares at Daga, as if challenging the legitimacy of the sentencing, but Guan clicks at her and shakes his head.

He faces Daga and nods. _“Ki’sei.”_

 _“—Furthermore, as the expenditure of credits at the Chickpea Night Walk totals a gross amount of,”_ the numbers Daga proceeds to cite makes Guan’s chest ache. _“…It has been determined you will pay restitution for the next one-zero-zero cycles. Any income and earnings, both here and off the clanship, will be deducted by a percentage of five-zero percent. You may appeal this decision after the first two-five cycles pass.”_

 _It’s only credits. Currency most Yautja do not use._ Guan reminds himself.

 _“Lastly,”_ Daga looks down at him. _“For the inability to command your subordinates_ —” The Clan Leader gestures at the Arbitrators behind him. _“Two-zero lashes, each.”_

Guan’s stomach twists violently. His hands ball into fists.

 _“Is that necessary?”_ It is Elder Tyioe who speaks, clicks full of ire even as Guan’s shaking hands begin to unclasp his armor.

Daga nods at her. _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan is an honorable man. He understands where he failed, Elder Tyioe.”_

 _“Sei-I, sei-i…”_ The huntress trails off, accompanied by a long growl.

The former Adjutant nods in thanks to the two Arbitrators as they take and hold his chestplate, arm guards, and pauldrons. Guan wrestles briefly with his thermal mesh suit before he peels it off, down to the hips. The light of the council hall reflects off his dark gray scales. He wonders, briefly, if he should begin calling them black, as the colors are darker than most gray hues. Guan’s thoughts are interrupted by one Arbitrator’s click of alarm.

 _“—Leader Daga—”_ The Arbitrator exclaims. _“—There are—He is—”_

 _“By Cetanu. Former Adjutant’s getting around.”_ The second Arbitrator looks at Guan’s bare back and clicks in amusement.

It takes a moment to realize the two refer to the long scratch marks along his back. The marks left by _Bist’ri_ , on the _Kukulkan_ , during what is positively one of the best experiences of his life. Guan’s face fills with heat and he forces himself to breathe, even as Daga clicks at him. _“Turn.”_

Guan complies. He shuts his eyes, desperate for everything to be over. He wants to see Bist’ri. He wants to hold Bist’ri. He wants to touch and smell and feel the call of the shores, the coast, the seas.

He doesn’t get to. The realization of what lacking the title Adjutant means comes crashing upon his shoulders. His eyes widen in horror. He stares beyond his mask as he stops and looks up at Leader Daga, silently begging for the man to change the punishment. _I can’t be with Bist’ri in her trial. I can’t be with Bist’ri in her trial. Then—She’ll be alone—She’ll be alone—M-di, m-di, m-di!_

 _“Proceed, Arbitrators.”_ Daga calls out. Guan is walked forward across the central stage. His mind swarms with different thoughts; he doesn’t register his hands being bound in front of him until he hears the Arbitrators return to their positions at the other end of the hall. There is a sick, nauseating _crack_ as both Yautja test their flails.

The first strike comes in an agonizing, restrained cry. Guan doubles over against his bindings. He hears the Arbitrator rear back and snap the flail forward. _Two. Two. Two!_

_Crack._

Three. One-seven left.

_Crack._

Four.

_Crack._

Five.

_Crack._

Guan’s head begins to throb from the pain. He grits his teeth, a low hiss coming out just as the Arbitrators rear back and—

_Crack._

Seven.

His _thwei_ spills across the ground.

_Crack._

Tjau’ke stands and shouts something at Daga. Guan is in too much pain to pay attention.

_Crack._

Nine.

Guan howls, unable to hold the sounds back.

_Crack._

Ten.

_Crack._

Eleven.

_Crack._

He is only vaguely aware of his own garbled roars.

_Crack._

Thirteen.

_Crack._

Fourteen.

_Crack._

The Elders squabble over something. Shouts, clicks, voices—None he can understand or follow, not in his pain.

_Crack._

Sixteen.

_Crack._

One of the Arbitrators asks something. Guan doesn’t respond, nor does he know if the Arbitrator refers to him in the first place.

_Crack._

It hurts. So close.

_Crack._

One more. One more. He just needs to hold out for one more—

_Crack._

The former Adjutant howls again. He keels over, panting and covered in sweat and blood. His entire body trembles. He has not felt such pain in cycles. But he is done, and that means he is one step closer to surviving the day, to getting to the _next_ day, to—the Arbitrators switch places.

Guan remembers then—Daga ordering the two to lash him. Two-zero lashes, _each_.

His eyes well with tears.

He doesn’t remember to ask about the _Vekin_. He doesn’t remember to ask about splitting from his life mate.

All he remembers is the _crack_ of whips against his back as the count resets to zero.


	60. stay awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -medical procedures / needles / blood  
> -mentions of flogging / whips
> 
> enjoy!

It takes two transfusions, a cauterization laser, and five injections of serum to stabilize the dying man. The Adjutant nurse does not track the hours, but by the end of the surgical procedure, she wants nothing more than to curl up in a pod and sleep away the exhaustion. Similarly, many of the nurses in the operating theatre demonstrate the same lethargy: C’it-na, third-in-command after her, slumps against a rolling table full of surgical instruments and sterile tools. To the far right, two nurses have already dozed off on each other, the relief at having successfully intervened on a patient’s behalf overwhelming the duo.

Sweet, small, young Leitjin is a mess in a chair. The Adjutant feels her chest tighten and ache when she looks at their sullen, weary posture. She recalls the nurse never being one to show worry, but even Leitjin’s asshole demeanor has a breaking point. For all they claim to hate their sirer, the young nurse expresses little distaste while up close to the unconscious Elite resting on the operating table.

 _“Staring’s rude.”_ The Yautja clicks at her, voice soft and informal.

 _“Sei-i—Forgive me, Leitjin.”_ Bist’ri shuts her eyes.

She feels tired. Beyond tired. Tjau’ke has not returned to the medical division. Though Bist’ri has taken control of an operating theater in the past, rarely has it been so spontaneous and with someone she _knows_ and considers a friendly acquaintance. Perhaps she is lucky in that endeavor; she has yet to experience the true horror of having to treat someone she holds close.

 _Not yet._ She grits her teeth. She knows it is only a matter of time. The Adjutant nurse leans back and lets her locs fall against the cold metal wall.

She doesn’t want to think about what the Elders will do to Guan. To _her_ , she must find a way to handle it, she must, _she will_ , but the thought of seeing Guan in the same wretched state terrifies her. She knows he is a strong man, infinitely caring. He has his faults, but he is still incredible in her eyes. _Incredible and mortal. So, so mortal. We’re all capable of ending up like Gry’Sui-bpe-de. Payas, please—I don’t want that for you, Guan._

She cannot wipe her eyes because her mask obscures her face. Bist’ri prays the other nurses in the operating theater refrain from making comment on the scent of salt or mucus. She can only handle so much at once; the strain of fighting to keep an Elite alive has worn on her. She is tired. She is tired.

 _Tired._ Bist’ri’s eyelids feel heavy. She forces them to stay open. _No—Don’t sleep. Sleep makes the trial come faster. Sleep makes… Sleep makes time pass. I need to stay awake. What if Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s body rejects the transfusion? Does the medical division have the authority to peruse his lineage and identify possible donors? Tjau’ke does. I do. But I don’t—I don’t know about anyone else. I need to stay awake. Stay away. Stay…_

Her eyes shut. She hears the thumps of four heartbeats in her head, each a note of the nigh silent lullaby lulling her into the past.

* * *

_The roars bellow across the training floor. Public kehrites full of warriors ignore her as she follows the head of the medical division to the kehrite farthest from the lift. There are so many noises, smells, and things to look at—More than once she narrowly avoids tripping and stumbling into someone. One kv’var-de cusses her out, only to shut up when Tjau’ke growls a warning at the hunter. It is both an embarrassment and a relief, as the nurse knows she wants nothing more than to have someone drive away all the stares._

_So many stares…_

_“Bist’ri.” Tjau’ke is calm addressing her. Always—Calm. So calm…_

_She seeks to emulate the woman’s composure, but her nerves return to her when she makes eye contact with a maskless Yautja. Even with the kv’var-de lacking a mask, it is enough to invoke a disgusting ping of terror in the woman._

_The nigh white Yautja shudders and wraps arms around herself. She stands still as stone, begging the kv’var-de to look away, move, something, only to garner more looks from the sparring Yautja nearby._

_She imagines she is a strange sight. Her medical vestments are brand new. She walks with unease in each small step. And, in a clan full of individuals whose pelts are beautiful hues of brown, red, black, and gold, she is a scrawny nurse with a pelt of light, light blue, a color easily passing for white until one looks closely._

_“Bist’ri,” Tjau’ke repeats, her voice carrying a hint of gentleness in the clicks. “Look at me. Don’t focus on them.”_

_“Yes—Yes, m’am.” The nurse replies in a whisper, meek and fearful. She lifts her head up and stares at Tjau’ke’s mask._

_The older Yautja clicks in approval. “Good, good. Just like that—You are a nurse now, you must remember to keep eye contact when addressing patients. Unless—If the patient does not want eye contact, you respect their wishes. Understand?”_

_“Ki’sei.”_

_“Now—This kehrite is reserved for the Elites of Gahn’tha-cte. Most of the Yautja you see here are well past two-zero-zero cycles. There are two exceptions,” there is a note of pride to Tjau’ke’s voice. “Gahn’tha-cte-Guan—You do not know him, but I anticipate you running into him here eventually. He is an excellent kv’var-de and greatly skilled in using an Elder Blade. The other—My pup, M-di-H’chak. He uses a combistick and two dha’kte while hunting. His fighting style is fascinating.”_

_“I—I will—I’ll keep my… dekna… out for him. I will. Promise.” Bist’ri’s voice is soft and withdrawn. She doesn’t really care about meeting either Yautja, but she understands Tjau’ke wants to familiarize her with some of the environment and with friendly faces capable of helping her if she gets lost._

_She appreciates it. The long cycles of cowering in her bearer’s residence are over. Bist’ri intends to make a place for herself in the clan, even if it is not what she dreamt of as a Suckling or Unblooded._

_And—Being a nurse means she can help other Yautja! She can help them heal and recover. She can support them and work toward redeeming herself. She will never find atonement, not for her sins, but the nurse pretends such a thing is possible. She attempts to ignore the voice of her dead brother repeating in her head, begging her to do it, to finish him, to free him of the abominable world the two were forced into. She can’t block him out completely, but for a time—Tarei-Jehdin’s voice fades, and Bist’ri buries him deep in the recesses of her fragmented, repressed memories._

_It is how her life restarts, not in the vengeance of a thousand burning suns, or the offerings of thwei to Cetanu, but in the sweat-riddled, bloodstained kehrites of the clanship._

_There—The nurse begins to learn how to live again, an often-silent presence on the sidelines while Yautja Elites square off and fight one another with weapons she fears holding. Most of them are respectful. A handful are crude, but she doesn’t care when the rest tolerate her waste of an existence._

_Eventually, she does meet Gahn’tha-cte-Guan and M-di-H’chak. Not because either go out of the way to speak to her, but because the former lands a nasty hit on the latter mid-spar. Bist’ri shuffles over to the duo, bowing her head and walking across the kehrite floor in her medical vestments. At M-di-H’chak’s side, she instinctively takes a knee next to him and gently begins examining the man while he and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan click back and forth._

_“—You need to stop relying on your dah’kte for close-quarter combat. It’s predictable. Your enemies will learn your strikes and anticipate them coming,” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan is a man with precise composure, intimidating and awe-inspiring all in one. His scales are deep, dark gray, the kind of gray hinting at the blackness of the cosmos where stars do not shine._

_The man on the ground growls. “Says the Elite who took a dah’kte to the shoulder.”_

_“Scratching my armor does not equate to a lethal strike, H’chak.”_

_“M-di-H’chak! M-di-H’chak,” M-di-H’chak grumbles under breath. He crosses his arms—he has a strange motley of green, white, and hints of brown for coloration—and grunts at Bist’ri while she fills a syringe with serum and prepares to inject it into the stab wound gushing thwei. “You planning to finish anytime soon? Or am I too irresistible?”_

_The nurse’s face flushes light blue. She looks away. “—I—I apologize for it taking—So long.”_

_“H’chak, stop flirting with the nurse.” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan sounds irritated in his clicks and chirps._

_“Why? You jealous I got to her first?” M-di-H’chak begins to laugh, mandibles clacking together in amusement._

_It does nothing to help lift the blush on her cheeks. Bist’ri thanks Cetanu she wears a mask. She winces at the string of curses M-di-H’chak roars when she injects the serum into his stab wound. After a minute of writhing and expletives M-di-H’chak pauses and looks at the injury site, then at Bist’ri. He begins to click something, but Gahn’tha-cte-Guan hauls him to his feet and cuts him off. “—We are not done with our set.”_

_“Fine, fine. I will get water and then—Jehdin jehdin!” M-di-H’chak shoves Gahn’tha-cte-Guan away and wanders off._

_“You must be one of Tjau’ke’s new nurses,” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan clicks at her with vague interest. He appears distracted, his mask angled away from her at the ceiling. “I haven’t seen you in the kehrite before.”_

_“Sei-I.” Bist’ri does not know what to say to that. She looks away. “I—I am new. Tjau’ke—She instructed me to be here. Today. This day cycle.”_

_“I hope the Elites here don’t scare you off. Most of Tjau’ke’s newer nurses change stations shortly after their time here.”_

_“Change stations?”_

_“Sei-I, sei-I,” the man nods firmly, visible in her mask’s peripheral. “We have not had a consistent nurse oversee this kehrite in many cycles. I’ve heard too many complaints about the constant change of staff. But I understand why many leave; some of the injuries here are brutal. The gore will leave an impression. But we need a nurse. Tjau’ke cannot attend to us all and run the medical division. Her time on administrative duties tripled thrice over after the Late and Honorable Elder Sa’ud met the final rest.”_

_Her hairless brows furrow. The Yautja turns the thought over in her head. “Has—Has it been brought up—With—”_

_“If it hadn’t, I would not be telling you these things. I would go directly to Tjau’ke.” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan nods once. “I hope you consider my words. Do not let the rankings of these warriors intimidate you; you are as essential to them as they are to Gahn’tha-cte.”_

_Her green eyes widen. She nods stiffly. “Ki’sei. Th—Thank you, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

_The laugh that rings clearly makes her clam up. His laugh doesn’t sound malicious. Amused, but not malicious._

_“Most of the clan calls me Guan,” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan shakes his head. His locs are long and dark, the color of the deepest, farthest reaches of space. She knows there is a name for the color, which appears like a void falling from the man’s head, but the nurse does not remember it. The kv’var-de looks back at her, light of the kehrite gleaming off his mask. “What is your name, nurse?”_

_She hesitates to answer, as her eyes fall to the line of thwei seeping out of the man’s left bicep. “You’re—Are you injured?”_

_She gestures to the wound. The thwei is clearly visible against Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s deep, dark gray, almost black scales._

_“My mei-hswei is an excellent fighter. This is a mark of his prowess, nothing more; it will heal. The scar will be satisfactory.” The kv’var-de isn’t concerned in the least with the cut._

_“Guan!” From across the kehrite, M-di-H’chak calls for the warrior._

_“Excuse me.” Gahn’tha-cte-Guan bows his head and steps around Bist’ri. Her green eyes follow him as he strides to the other hunter, leaving her alone in the middle of the kehrite._

_‘He seems like a kind man,’ the nurse thinks. ‘A kind man for someone named Ruthless Night.’_

* * *

The former Adjutant is not as injured as the Elite admitted prior. She knows why; four-zero lashes are nothing compared to nine-zero lashes, but Tjau’ke seethes regardless. If not for the need to remain calm and orderly as she directs nurses around her, the woman might have roared hard enough to shatter windows.

 _A farce. It is all a farce!_ The nurse howls in her head, the bloodlust in check but growing. _Did he intend this from the start?! He has never handed out punishments of such extreme measures, not this often, not to this extent!_

Her bitterness at Lar’ja and Ju’dha—such a petty bitterness it is, she _knows_ —wanes in favor of her desire to rip Akrei-non-Daga’s skull from his body. She can’t; she knows the man can best her in most forms of combat. Tjau’ke revels in the thought regardless as she imagines all the ways she might prolong the leader’s suffering. An immediate death is too merciful for a man like Daga. _No, he needs to feel it. Every pauking thing… Dissect him alive… Remove one piece at a time…_

Over the two hours it takes to stop the egregious bleeding in the former Adjutant’s back, Tjau’ke finds her mind reverts to the hostile, aggressive thoughts she once perused as a Brawler. It has been hundreds of cycles since she took up two _dah’kte_ , but the offensive method of thinking she ingrained in herself back then resurfaces. Over, and over, Tjau’ke stops to soothe her nerves and keep her restraint unwavering. She is a _nurse_ now—Not a huntress. She needs to focus on her patient, on Guan.

It takes multiple injections of serum to make the man’s injuries close. Tjau’ke prepares the third injection halfway through, a group of nurses assisting her in holding the former Adjutant down, when the footsteps come _thundering_ down the outside hall and skid to a stop at the open doorway. Wide-eyed, panting hard enough to be heard even through her mask, Bist’ri’s form stumbles into the room only for Tjau’ke to click sharply, _“—If you can’t keep yourself together—I’ll ask you step out—"_

The younger nurse stands frozen in place, form rigid as stone. _“Guan—"_

 _“Adjutant Bist’ri!”_ Tjau’ke growls, louder this time. _“Right now, he is a patient. I am treating him—You are in the way—"_

She needs to continue the injections. The wail sounding from the former Adjutant when she stabs him in the back with the needle and injects serum into one of the gaping craters is a nefarious, monstrous cry. Tjau’ke grits her teeth when Guan begins to writhe and thrash against her. His weeping wails and screams are enough to make several nurses assisting her flinch. One of them, a younger nurse who has yet to see the brutality of the medical division up close, pales in color, letting go of the former Adjutant and backing away. The slip allows the former Adjutant to throw his limbs wildly, connecting with a nurse’s gut and making him cuss and keel over.

 _“Bist’ri! I need another container of serum!”_ Tjau’ke snaps orders when her Adjutant stands looking like a lost Suckling.

To her surprise and relief, Bist’ri shakes off the horrified stupor. She radiates fear, but the Adjutant does as she is told, fetching another container and new, clean syringes on instinct. Tjau’ke feels a tiny swell of pride, the distraction brief before Bist’ri is at her side helping her and others pin the former Adjutant to the metal table. It is unbelievable how the younger nurse has thrived and grown under her watch, under the support of the medical division. But she cannot spend the day in her pride at her student’s accomplishments; Tjau’ke’s attention shifts back to the man on the table and she begins clicking out orders.

 _“—There are two more injection sites—One of the lashings nicked a vein, but his thwei level remains high enough to continue injecting serum—"_ She repeats everything she has gone over in her head up until now to Bist’ri. _“If his thwei levels begin dropping—_

 _“You’re leaving?!”_ One of the other nurses cries out, aghast.

 _“Once he’s stable_ —” Tjau’ke shuts her eyes and growls. _“If his thwei levels begin dropping—You find M-di-H’chak, transfuse his thwei—”_

Bist’ri stills. _“But—"_

 _“Do not question me on this, Bist’ri,”_ Tjau’ke clicks briskly, unable to waste further time on the subject.

She preps the next injection site, wiping it quickly and assessing the missing chunks of flesh before she angles the needle and shoves it into Guan’s back.

It’s a fight to keep Guan from throwing half of the nurses into walls. He’s in good physical shape, enough to clobber another two nurses attempting to wrestle his arms down. He doesn’t appear lucid, responding only in howls and snarls as he fights back against the medical division’s staff.

 _“One more…”_ Tjau’ke clicks to the nurses. She braces herself for the last one; the other nurses do the same. The injection site is at the right of Guan’s back, dangerously close to one of his hearts’ aortas.

She feels pity and relief wash over her like a wave when the man passes out from pain. Tjau’ke finishes the injection and pulls the syringe out, dropping the used needle into a container for recycling and sanitation. One of the nurses takes the container to the wall, where a gaping slot in the wall eagerly accepts the container when held up to it. Tjau’ke knows things are far from being over—in her head, she wants to rip Lar’ja’s head off, too, but to a lesser degree and in a non-lethal way—she turns to Bist’ri, intending to speak, only to see her Adjutant shaking like a leaf where her hands clasp Guan’s arm.

 _“Bist’ri.”_ Tjau’ke clicks at her, concerned. _“Adjutant Bist’ri!”_

The other nurses give the two room, with two already moving to begin clean-up and sanitation procedures.

 _“Is this—Is it going to happen to me_?” Her Adjutant does not sound like the Yautja she selected as her Adjutant. Bist’ri’s voice and clicks are full of terror. Her mask shifts to face Tjau’ke. _“Am I next?”_

 _“I don’t know,”_ the head of the medical division shakes her head. _“Right now—I am leaving you in charge of the medical division—”_

 _“What?”_ Bist’ri’s voice is but a whisper.

 _“There is another matter that requires my immediate attention! Lar’ja is a s’yuit-de who challenged the Clan Leader—The Elders did not vote to block it—I have to keep the two from killing the other,”_ Tjau’ke hisses under her breath. With Guan’s prognosis looking up, and his condition stable, her anger and bitterness returns with a vengeance. Her icy blue eyes darken. _“S’yuit-de, both of them! Jehdin jehdin at a time like this—Lar’ja challenging Daga’s leadership—They will slaughter each other before the day cycle is up! All of it—Cjit!”_

Her fist smashes on a rolling table. Two nurses snap their heads at Tjau’ke in surprise.

 _“I am entrusting you with this responsibility, Bist’ri. I pray I won’t be long, but—You have done this before, Bist’ri. You can handle this,”_ Tjau’ke nods at her Adjutant. _“I have faith in you, my Adjutant.”_

 _“What about my trial? What if an Arbitrator comes here?”_ Her Adjutant continues to tremble, but to a lesser extent.

The head of the medical division leans down to Bist’ri’s mask and growls. _“Tell them to pauk off. Send for Ju’dha—They can’t hold a trial until Daga is done—But even if he is triumphant over Lar’ja—You do not, under any circumstances, leave the medical bay without Ju’dha or I accompanying you. Do you understand, Bist’ri? Do not go anywhere by yourself outside the medical bay. Not to your residence, not to the kehrites, not to the council hall or docking bay—Nowhere. Nowhere!”_

She doesn’t relax until Bist’ri nods her head. “ _Ki’sei. I will not leave this floor.”_

 _“Good_.” The head of the medical division exhales. _“Update me hourly on the conditions of the two oomans, Gry’Sui-bpe-de, and Guan—The oomans should be waking up soon. They may be confused. Our drugs are meant for Yautja, not ooman bodies. As for the Im-Gen—No one lays a hand on her unless a Yautja’s life is in peril.”_

Bist’ri clicks in acknowledgement.

Tjau’ke exhales, loud and restless. _“May the Payas watch over us all.”_

* * *

_I was supposed to take the Cassini-Hyugens to Earth—I wanted to… I was supposed to do something with it. Because of it? No. No. It does not matter. This is not the blue planet. This is not Earth._ Her thoughts are a mess, lost in the sound of background screams while the silver figure attempts to pry the container of serum open.

The Vekin’s mind is wholly focused on the jar, but she doesn’t ask for help. No, she knows the Yautja around her are not… _allies._ None of them are, none but H’chak and Vayuh’ta. She doesn’t know where either is in the ship, or if the two are on the ship at all. Her immediate focus is the serum, injecting the serum into the critical mass swirling at three-percent efficiency within her physical composition’s soft, cool flesh.

 _I am not regenerating, GHOST._ The Vekin pries the lid off. She stares at the strange, dark blue substance, debating whether to drink it like an Earth slushie or scoop it with her hands as if it is sand. She opts for neither, grabbing an empty syringe and filling it to the brim with serum. _I remember—Vayuh’ta injected serum into me after impaling me on her sword. She is the reason why…_

She bites into a metal tool—one of the scanners—as she plunges the needle into her flesh. It doesn’t drown out the noise, but her physical composition complies with her command to inject the serum into the open wound on her side. Sundew blacks out briefly from the pain, unaware of her own screams. She comes to a moment later, on her side in a corner of the room, with the empty syringe and scanner—riddled with teeth marks—on the ground next to her. She reassesses her critical mass.

Eight percent.

 _I never regenerated on my own._ Her clear eyes would dim if they could. She settles for narrowing her gaze on the next syringe. The Vekin’s hands shake. _I need more. I need…_

Repeating the process hurts, but a little pain goes a long way. She isn’t afraid of the pain. This kind of pain _helps_ her. It is motivation to never let her critical mass deplete to such low levels again. She is not part of a Cluster. She is not a new Vekin, suddenly formed out of the swirling gases of her hive planet. She is Sundew, and she is FLORA, and she is GHOST, and she is Muppet and Annie and Miranda and several other humans, but she is, at the core of her being, _Vekin_. Vekin.

 _You told me—We are prey for Yautja. I am prey surrounded by predators._ She bites her lip. _I need to… I will raise my critical mass… I will be more me. More me. More Vekin. Less human…_

She wonders, briefly, if it is GHOST or the businesswoman _Miranda_ whose fragments influence her desire to take an aggressive response to the Yautja around her. She hopes the latter; GHOST is more tolerable than Miranda, and Sundew recalls never liking Miranda anyways. Better to blame things on a businesswoman than on an expired Vekin.

In the end, it doesn’t _really_ matter. She injects dose after dose of serum into her critical mass, muffling screams through the sheer force of biting into objects accessible in the room. She eventually draws the attention of passing nurses, but the Vekin finds—much to her surprise—they do not stop her or restrain her.

 _“Inform the Adjutant,”_ one says in passing, while another scurries off.

Sundew injects the entire container of serum over many hours.

She has a small audience by the time she finishes, collapsing into a heap in the corner with clear blood coagulating into a puddle. Her eyes feel heavy, her jaw aches, and she lets go of the electronic tablet she bit down on for the latter half of the injections. It clangs to the floor. She rests her head against the wall and reassesses her critical mass. _Thirty-six percent._

She feels better. Less hungry, though the thought of food appeals to her at present time. The woman looks up and blinks slowly as a familiar face ventures forward. She recognizes the blue Yautja as the one who trained on the _Kukulkan_ on the flight to Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship.

 _“Greetings. You are… Bist’ri? Greetings, Adjutant Bist’ri.”_ The Vekin smiles politely.

The Yautja stares at her. Or she thinks the nurse does, if the angle of the nurse’s mask is anything to go off.

 _“What are you doing?”_ The woman sounds bewildered and afraid.

 _If I was a Yautja… I could smell her fear. I did that once. GHOST did that once. She consumed the corpses of two expired Yautja and…_ Sundew’s head throbs; she dismisses the memory.

“I am sitting.” Sundew replies, retaining her smile.

 _“M-di! What are you doing with my medical division’s equipment? What have you been using it for?”_ The Adjutant nurse strides forward, but there is a hesitation before the first step.

 _Two corpses. Easier than injecting three or four more containers of serum. I could engulf two of them, and… And… No. No. I am not engulfing H’chak’s clan members._ Sundew chides herself and her fragmented, mental cohorts. She anticipates the fragmented remains of the entities she consumed in the past to become more prevalent as her critical mass regenerates. She wonders, briefly, if she might inherit some of her victim’s physiological attributes. She recalls picking up on Monet’s personality, but her question applies to the hallucinations Louanne Garcia began to experience shortly before the doctor’s murder.

She makes a note to ask the nurse H’chak said she could trust— _Guan-Tjau’ke_ —when she returns.

“Oh.” Sundew perks up a little, then immediately regrets it. Her open wound throbs with pain. She leans back where she sits. “Excuse me, do you know where H’chak’s _pa-e_ is?”

 _“…She’s injured—Be careful, do not touch her.”_ Adjutant Bist’ri gives the orders to the nurses surrounding her. Then the Yautja shifts her focus back to Sundew. _“Honorable Tjau’ke had a… She had a matter of great importance to tend to. I am Adjutant Bist’ri—”_

“We have met,” Sundew interjects, nodding. She curses at the pain the movement provokes. “You are the nurse who assisted my mate and my friend when they were held captive by Stargazer Corporation. I am uncertain I know enough of your language to adequately convey my gratitude for your help. I understand it was not your intention,” she pauses, a moment of paranoia overwhelming her when a fragment of _Louanne Garcia_ floats through her head. Sundew grimaces internally; she will have a talk with Annie later about interruptions. She returns to smiling and peers at Bist’ri, “But—You helped _H’chak_ and _Vayuh’ta._ I understand you also intervened on behalf of Ivon and Jo? They are my friends; thank you. I would like to see them when the two wake up from surgery.”

 _“I… C’itna!”_ Bist’ri turns and shouts at the doorway. A moment later, the green nurse’s head pops in. The Adjutant clicks quickly, _“Can you check on the two oomans, please?”_

 _“Sei-I! You can count on me!”_ The olive green Yautja scampers down the hall.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The Adjutant clicks at her and walks to her side. There is less apprehension now. _“Will you comply with my orders if you are with the—With your ooman companions?”_

“I do not intend to cause trouble regardless of Jo’s or Ivon’s presence here, Adjutant Bist’ri.” The Vekin tries to sound reassuring. She can’t tell if the Adjutant believes her or not. Sundew forces herself to sit up a little more and clears her throat. “You are part of H’chak’s clan, correct?”

Bist’ri clicks swiftly. _“Gahn’tha-cte, the Ruthless.”_

It is only then the memory flickers of his vow to reject his clan to devote himself to her. It is a nice memory, one that fills her body with a swell of warmth. She misses him. She misses how he feels, how he holds her, how she holds unto him and refuses to let go—She misses him. Her lovely, beautiful, handsome H’chak, with all his scars and stories and fiery orange eyes.

 _Eyes like Jupiter…_ Sundew mimics the act of inhaling. She notes the quantity of elemental gases in the clanship’s air.

“I love H’chak,” Sundew thinks aloud, nodding mainly to herself. She smiles politely at the Adjutant nurse. “Do you love anyone, Adjutant Bist’ri?”

* * *

It takes a long moment for her mask’s new translation software to bring up the definition of _‘love’_. It is a ooman term, one most Yautja shy from. Bist’ri’s eyes flicker along the description presented in her bio-mask’s optical system. She taps a command into her wrist computer to save the definition for later review. In present time, the Adjutant nurse inhales deeply and looks back at the silvery figure sitting on the floor.

 _What do I say?_ In front of the nurses, who may not have translation software—a fair number of Yautja do not, as prey languages are irrelevant most of the time—but who can understand any of her clicks or chirps perfectly well. The nurses are a gossiping bunch. Even with good intentions—Rumors are bound to run rampant. Rumors she _knows_ will be a pain to deal with.

 _“—I want to speak to her alone.”_ It is not something she would ever advise others to do.

Especially not with a Vekin.

But the situation is complicated. There is the underlying fear of letting it slip she knows the truth of Sundew’s species. It is something she should have picked up sooner, back on the Kukulkan, back when Guan wasn’t a battered mess on a bed in another room, but it is too late for immediate action. She has no idea _why_ M-di-H’chak believes a _Vekin_ to be his mate, but if this Vekin is anything like the one that attacked her on _Terra_ , she must act carefully. She needs to isolate the entity, put her under watch, and inform—She doesn’t know.

 _Guan, perhaps?_ The woman deliberates on the subject while the room clears of other nurses. _When he is conscious. If I can—Before my trial…_

Soon, she is alone with the Vekin. The silvery figure smiles again.

Bist’ri stands up and steps away. “ _Who did you speak to before?”_

 _“A nurse named Roja. A nurse named C’it-na. A nurse named Lietjin. But—I only asked Roja if she loves anyone. She does not care for the concept,”_ Sundew replies. It appears the Vekin tries to shrug but the entity’s body remains in pain. She hisses softly but soon regains her calm persona. _“What about you, Adjutant Bist’ri? Do you agree with Roja?”_

 _“That’s hard to say—Truthfully, I have yet to research the full definition of ooman ‘love’ as it is used on Terra across different cultures.”_ Bist’ri takes another step back.

She debates sending Tjau’ke a message but decides against it. If Elder -Lar’ja has truly challenged Leader Daga, there is _no_ doubt in Bist’ri’s mind the fight will be a bloody, horrifying mess. Tjau’ke has too many worries as is; she needs to handle this on her own.

“That is fair. I struggled to understand the concept at first, but it has grown on me. H’chak,” The Vekin closes her eyes and inhales. “—He is someone I cannot stand to live without. He makes me feel happy when we are together. The sort of joy—Joy that is separate from what I feel with my hive, or with Vayuh’ta, or with Jo, or Ivon.”

 _Vayuh’ta._ The Adjutant thinks. _The ic’jit. She considers the ic’jit her friend._

“Do you think the rest of the clan will hate me?” The question takes Bist’ri aback.

She blinks. _“Pardon?”_

“I understand I am viewed as _prey_ by most Yautja. I know H’chak—He puts himself in a dangerous position by calling me his mate. I question if that is the best possible option,” The Vekin lowers her head. She shuts her eyes. “I know his clan is very important to him. I know—The Yautja here are his friends, his family, his allies—I remember he promised to leave the clan. He swore by it.”

Bist’ri’s eyes widen. She doesn’t remember hearing of this before.

The Vekin mimics the act of exhaling. “I wonder if he would be happier here. I do not want him to live a life hunted by his clan. Even if he says he is fine with it—I wonder if…”

As the Vekin trails off in her speech, Bist’ri finds herself at a loss for words. The Adjutant nurse stares at the Vekin, at the entity who she believes is capable of engulfing and consuming others. _Am I wrong? Perhaps—Is she an Im-Gen? The lesser subspecies of Vekin? She sounds like she actually—Like she cares for him one would a mate. The way I care for…_

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The Adjutant nurse says, against what she believes is right. She isn’t sure where she stands anymore, especially when so much overwhelms and confuses her. She clicks softly at the Vekin-Im-Gen-Entity. _“Don’t repeat that to anyone on this ship. They will use it against your mate. Against—M-di-H’chak.”_

“I think he knows that. What will happen if he disavows his clan,” Sundew looks away.

 _“Do not give anyone a reason to believe he will. If he does—So be it—Do not make it harder for him. You will watch him meet the final rest in the worst way possible. His brother will be forced to cut his head—"_ Bist’ri catches herself too late, realizing in horror not only has she yet to process the fact Guan has been stripped of his title, but also that she has slipped in her words. Sundew’s head snaps up as Bist’ri internally chides herself. She growls softly; her frustration remains directed at herself. _“—I—Forget the last sentence.”_

“But…”

 _“Please.”_ The nurse tenses her hands. She curls them into shaky fists.

“I will forget, then. Adjutant Bist’ri.” The silver figure nods once. She smiles. “Thank you for talking with me.”

Knocks ring out as a hand hammers the door to the room. Bist’ri chirps loudly and the door opens. C’it-na comes stumbling in, looking pleased if his body language is anything to go off.

 _“Good news,”_ the olive green Yautja trills. _“The oomans have woken up! They are both sedated, but the drugs should wear off in roughly one to two hour cycles.”_

 _“Ki’sei, thank you, C’it-na. Sun-Dew,”_ Bist’ri looks back at the silver figure. _“When they are lucid—I will come find you. But I am a nurse; I have patients and responsibilities. Can you give me your word to cooperate even in my absence?”_

“I give you my word, Adjutant Bist’ri. I would love to see my friends again, and I am very good at keeping my word.” The Vekin-Im-Gen- _Something_ extends a hand to her.

Bist’ri stares.

“A handshake—Oomans call it a ‘handshake.’ In some cultures, it is done when business is conducted or in greeting and passing.” Sundew continues holding the hour out to her. Tentatively, Bist’ri reaches forward and takes it.

The entity feels _cold_. Bist’ri grits her teeth and forces herself through the handshake.

She prays she has not made a grave mistake in negotiating with the silver figure.


	61. i'm proud of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very heavy chapter. 
> 
> tw for:  
> -the section with bist'ri and tjau'ke there is a flashback referencing past abuse and self harm  
> -talk of pregnancy and birth  
> -talk of death and grieving  
> -sundew is experiencing what can be interpreted as hallucinations  
> -ivon and guan are both high on drugs  
> -medical procedures  
> -talk of needles and injections in the sections with sundew  
> -talk about angels / holy figures  
> -leitjin makes a reference to suicide in the section where they, jo, and roja are in gry'sui's room

It is quiet in the medical bay. Even with a nigh endless stream of patients, the nurses are somber. The air is thick and heavy with the same tension plaguing the rest of Gahn’tha-cte, but for Yautja who look up to Guan-Tjau’ke—There is no denying how the bitter worry rolls off her in waves and wraps the other nurses in its numbing influence. The head nurse is not simply _sad_. She is mortified, fearful, uncertain, and the other nurses in the division are reminded she is as mortal as they are.

The morale has not been this low in many cycles.

It is lowest with the highest ranked nurses, where individuals like C’it-na and Adjutant Bist’ri work vigorously to try and keep the medical division running while the head nurse locks herself away in one patient’s room. It is lowest with those who feel helpless to do anything, especially the Adjutant who credits Tjau’ke with so much. It is lowest with individuals who do not know what to expect in the future, and that sentiment is slowly spreading across the descending ranks.

 _“—Do you think—Does Bist’ri know how to access the late Elder Sa’ud’s personal database?”_ The words come from a red Yautja who sits in a chair on the side. Rosa’s mask hides her face, but the weariness remains in every click and drawn-out growl.

 _“M-di?”_ Leitjin shakes their head. _“Does it pauking matter?”_

 _“C’it-na said—Tjau’ke told him identifying this is important.”_ Roja lifts and shakes the small glass vial. In it—A sliver of red plant fiber dances from the movement. _“Besides—Isn’t it better than sitting around lamenting over how cjitty everything is?”_

 _“I don’t know.”_ The gray Yautja growls and balls their fists where they stand. In front of them—The unconscious Elite’s chest rises and fall with each breath. Their sirer has not stirred, and it aggravates them more than they want to acknowledge.

_“Do you think the Im-Gen would know? I know she’s—Well, an Im-Gen—But she might know of plants we haven’t catalogued—”_

_“Pauks sake, Roja—”_ Leitjin trails off into a long string of expletives.

Roja looks away. _“You have a better idea? No? We have nothing to go off, Leitjin. Nothing. Useless, all of us. This entire division. Useless. We can’t even help our own. I’m trying to do something.”_

Leitjin’s black eyes dim behind their mask. Their shoulders slump. They look at the amber-pelted form of Gry’Sui-bpe-de sprawled out on the metal table, unconscious. The man’s long red locs are a mess of luminescent green blood. Leitjin absentmindedly tries to wipe some off, but it is caked into the twisted hair. Leitjin grits their teeth and draws back. The young Yautja crosses their arms. _“How would findin’ a plant help? What’s the point of it? Of any of this? Adjutant Bist’ri’s still gonna be tried! Honorable Tjau’ke a mess—We’re in the mating season, right? And Gahn’tha-cte’s medical bay is real cjit on the inside! We’re pauked. This clan is pauked!”_

Leitjin attempts to kick a chair over but their foot connects with the metal base. They curse as pain shoots through their foot. Roja groans. _“S’yuit-de.”_

 _“Pauk these chairs, too!”_ Leitjin hisses. _“We might as well lay down n’ wait for Cetanu to take us.”_

 _“You do that. I am going to attempt to figure out what this thing is.”_ Roja lifts the glass vial to her face and rotates it in the pads of her fingers.

 _“Great. Have a blast.”_ Leitjin huffs. They attempt not to limp as they walk to the door of their sirer’s room and unlock it. They step aside and hiss at Roja. _“Do your weird plant cjit outside here. I don’t want to look at it while I’m dealing with this,”_ they gesture at Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s sleeping form. _“Go.”_

 _“You’re kicking me out? You, Leitjin?”_ Roja snaps, deeply offended.

 _“Sei-I, sei-i. I’m bored of listening to your plant talk.”_ The gray Yautja clicks.

 _“And standing next to your unconscious sirer for sixteen hours a day is any better? For a Yautja who claims to detest him—You convey a lot more sympathy than I thought was possible,”_ The red Yautja gathers the vial and her electronic tablet. She stands and strides to Leitjin, no hesitation in the steps. _“I don’t know what on Yautja Prime happened between you two—But given how many of us are struggling in the clan, maybe you should pull the stick from your ass and figure your cjit out.”_

 _“Uh-huh. Door’s right there.”_ Leitjin looks away.

Roja growls once before pressing a gloved palm to the door. The door slides into the wall, and the sight of the individual beyond it makes Roja freeze. The red Yautja stares at the much shorter ooman in front of her, one who is clad in a mesh bodysuit and leathery loincloth to go with a long garment wrapping around the chest.

The human freezes and stares up at Roja. The scent of fear fills the air as the human’s hands shake.

 _“Hurry up, Roja—”_ Leitjin growls behind her, peeking around the edge of the doorway and stilling at the sight of the human.

“God, this is weird.” The human blurts out, gawking visibly. Her brown eyes are big as saucers.

Roja clicks at Leitjin. _“One of the oomans. Make sure your translator software is on.”_

 _“It’s always on.”_ The younger gray Yautja retorts, irate. They still want Roja gone, but their brain is temporarily distracted by the ooman’s sudden appearance. In hindsight—It makes sense. Leitjin recalls hearing C’it-na yap about the two oomans waking up the _previous_ night cycle.

“Hi. Uh.” The human woman bites her lip as the two Yautja fall quiet, the latters’ eyes locked on her form. “Can one of you—I need help. I have no idea where the _fuck_ I’m going—"

“We have been instructed to give you roaming privileges provided you do not attempt escape. The pasty one already tried, if I remember this morning right,” Roja taps her mask’s cheek in thought. She glances at the human. “Where are you trying to go, ooman?”

“I—I.” The ooman grits her teeth. “I don’t know his _name_ , but—I know part of it? But I don’t know if I can pronounce it, so…”

 _“What does he look like? We only got so many ‘he’ patients hangin’ ‘round this area. One conscious, one unconscious.”_ Leitjin chirps.

“He’s…”

* * *

Nothing like running into two tall killer Yautja to remind her how small and weak she is in comparison to the alien species. Jo grimaces internally.

She still feels sore at the incision sight on the base of her neck, and her body is sluggish as remaining drugs wear off, but she is alive. She wants to walk, explore, _something_ besides flop on an uncomfortable metal ‘bed’ all day. Granted, she wasn’t intending to run into someone, but the two nurses put her on the spot. She feels her nerves flare with pain and worry. _These aren’t—They aren’t Mercy or Maelstrom. I need to be careful._

“Hi. Uh.” Jo waves flimsily. Her dark locs sway with the movement. “Can one of you—I need help.”

Right, help. Help is good. She likes where she’s going with this.

“I have no idea where the _fuck_ I’m going—”

Her excuse should work. She thinks it fits. If she knows anything from spending time with Mercy, it is that his species—or at the least, his _clan_ —have serious issues when it comes to how they view other species. Might as well play up the helplessness.

 _“We have been instructed to give you roaming privileges provided you do not attempt escape. The pasty one already tried, if I remember this morning right,”_ the red Yautja nurse clicks slowly, tapping a clawtip to her cheek.

Jo winces at the words. She vaguely recalls Ivon looking _incredibly_ stoned sprawled out on their metal ‘bed’.

 _“Where are you trying to go, human?”_ The red Yautja trills at her.

_Think, Jo, think…_

“I—I—”

Thinking is hard in the face of tall walls of muscle that kill for sport. 

Jo grits her teeth. Her mind rakes through recent days on the ship. She thinks back to the Yautja she has met since being rescued from Stargazer Corporation.

“I don’t know his name,” the woman speaks slowly, dragging out every second to think more. “But—I know—Part of it? But,” Jo adds quickly, recalling she lacks the full names of all Yautja she met on the Kukulkan. “I don’t know if I can pronounce it…”

 _“What does he look like?”_ The gray Yautja previously peeking out and looking her direction now steps outside the room. They advance on her, not caring about personal space in the slightest as they growl, _“We only got so many ‘he’ patients hangin’ ‘round this area. One conscious, one unconscious.”_

“He’s…” Jo sucks in a deep breath. She can’t describe Maelstrom or Mercy, she knows the two aren’t reachable. Or—She knows Maelstrom can’t be reached, though she anticipates the same for Mercy going off what Sundew told her prior to her and Ivon disembarking.

 _Barbecue. Sausage._ She catches a whiff of the scent in the air, faint and delectable despite the nauseating odor of sterile cleaning solutions and medical equipment everywhere.

“—He’s got amber scales. Really big muscles. Red hair, kind of like yours but not—Not grey. The same style of locs,” Jo says, gesturing at the gray nurse as she speaks. “He smells like barbecue.”

The gray Yautja grabs her by the shoulders and begins cussing and shaking her. Jo screams and slams her fist into the Yautja’s head, desperately trying to dissuade them, but their grip is tight. The red Yautja groans loudly before walking over and seizing a fistful of the gray Yautja’s long, spindly locs.

 _“Leitjin!”_ The red Yautja growls. _“Put the ooman down!”_

The gray Yautja hisses before dumping her unceremoniously on the floor. ‘Leitjin’ storms back inside the room they just came from. The red Yautja groans loudly. Jo forces herself not to flinch when the red Yautja looks back at her. The human quickly pulls herself to her feet, silently pleading the red Yautja doesn’t notice how fucking _badly_ her hands tremble.

 _“That is Leitjin. I am Roja.”_ The nurse introduces herself with a quick nod. _“If you are looking for Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de—He is unconscious in this room.”_

 _Gry. Gry! Barbecue!_ That must be him. Jo doesn’t acknowledge the small plume of excitement in her stomach. She wonders, briefly, if Sundew experiences the world with nonstop excitement for learning everything. Jo certainly sees where knowledge has its appeal.

Her thoughts fade when she processes the nurse’s last sentence. “What do you mean he’s unconscious? That guy is—He’s _huge._ A beefcake.”

 _“Beef-Cake…?”_ Roja clicks, confused.

“He’s got a lot of muscles. As do all of you. Your species, I mean.” Jo dusts off dust that isn’t present on her suit, solely to have an excuse not to stay still. She fidgets, feeling out of place all over again as she glances at the open doorway. “Can I see him? I kind of. We had a thing happen on the ship—The snake ship. The Kukulkan? Kukulkan. Him and I had some, uh, _things_ happen on the ship and…”

* * *

Roja does not know how the ooman can talk so casually of such scandalous affairs. She balks openly at the woman’s words. Her face reddens more than it already is at the implications. She cannot fathom how an honorable Elite seeks to do _things_ with an _ooman_ , but given the Im-Gen’s insistence she too has a Yautja mate, and the pasty ooman’s attempt to find the _ic’jit_ delivered to Gahn’tha-cte, perhaps the entire crew of the _Kukulkan_ has lost sight of honor.

 _And this ooman wants to see him. Thank Cetanu none of this came to light before the Elite’s trial._ Roja calms her racing heartbeats. _But the scandal… The gossip… What do I do?_

“Well?” The ooman’s words bring Roja out of her thoughts. “Do you think I could see him?”

 _How would Leitjin react to this?_ Part of Roja remains annoyed at the gray Yautja for making her move out of a comfortable spot. The red nurse figures Leitjin doesn’t want anyone else around their sirer. She turns the thought over. _Would an ooman annoy them? Yep. Let them stew on an ooman for a while. The ass._

 _“Sei-I, of course,”_ Roja clicks carefully, hiding how smug she feels. She steps aside and gestures for Jo to walk through the open doorway, _“After you.”_

* * *

The man is awake when she returns to his room after finishing her late morning rounds. Bist’ri’s green eyes widen when she sees the former Adjutant sitting on the metal table, bent over with his head in his hands. Either he smells her or hears the door shut behind her, Guan snaps his head up and stares with brilliant orange eyes. _“Bist’ri?”_

The Adjutant nurse’s mind blanks momentarily. She hadn’t expected him to be awake, not after emergency op that morning _and_ the events of the day cycle prior. Most Yautja patients, if they reach such a state, opt for sedation versus writhing in agony and potentially prolonging the healing process.

 _But you aren’t like most Yautja._ Her eyes water behind her mask. Bist’ri walks forward just as the former Adjutant tries to swing his legs off the metal table he sits on. Bist’ri grimaces internally and puts a hand on his arm, touch gentle as ever. _“—Don’t try to stand, you have no idea how bad your back is—”_

 _“My back is…cjit?”_ He clicks with confusion.

Perhaps—He isn’t as lucid as she thought he was. Bist’ri exhales sharply; she needs to get him into a pod. She coaxes the Yautja back unto the metal table and helps lay him down on his stomach. Guan doesn’t resist. If anything—He leans into her touch, soft hisses escaping him while the Adjutant nurse struggles not to cry. Guan sounds pained. Bist’ri lets him hold her hand while her free hand taps a command into her wrist computer. She feels his orange gaze linger on her while she works.

 _“Beautiful...”_ The man clicks slowly. _“You’re beautiful. Beautiful Bist’ri. Beau-ti-ful…”_

The Adjutant nurse pauses. Her gut twists with an equal mix of warmth and worry. _“Don’t say that here—”_

 _“Why?”_ He sounds baffled.

 _“You’re more sedated than I thought.”_ The Adjutant nurse exhales softly. _“Or—No, not a reaction. You’ve been on this drug before, haven’t you? ...I should check.”_

She inputs the command to bring up Guan’s patient file into her mask. She scans it quickly, finding the man’s known allergies toward the bottom. She feels relief when she confirms no documented allergic reactions to the drug currently connected to his intravenous line. _Not an allergic reaction. Very sedated. I’ll need help moving him to a pod._

Bist’ri feels the former Adjutant squeeze her hand. Her four hearts skip beats in her chest. She meets his bright orange gaze and feels dread come crawling and clawing back up her throat. He does not look _tired_ , he looks lifeless. Beyond exhausted. His orange eyes are so beautiful, but the beauty feels nauseating to admire. She absentmindedly shifts her free hand to carefully, _slowly_ move some of the man’s locs from his face.

_“Guan—”_

_“Adjutant Guan...”_ The lazy correction reminds her how drugged he is.

Bist’ri doesn’t have the heart to remind him he isn’t an Adjutant. She nods instead. _“Adjutant Guan—”_

 _“And you’re Adjutant Bist’ri,”_ Guan clicks, slow and at differing volumes. He shuts his eyes, mandibles clacking together in soft chortles at something only he perceives.

 _“Adjutant Guan—In a moment—I’m going to send for other nurses. We need to move you into a medical pod,”_ Bist’ri squeezes his hand lightly. _“Do you understand what I’m saying?”_

 _“So,”_ the Yautja rattles on, the chirps full of amusement. _“Now—I’m you, and you’re you—But you’re also me. Because. You could say—Oh, Adjutant Guan, you want me to get in a pod with you! But—You’re not you—You’re me! So, I would say—Adjutant Bist’ri! You are… You want me to go into pod? With you? That is funny…”_ He begins to click softly in another bout of chortles.

Bist’ri clicks firmly, _“I am being serious—”_

 _“As am,”_ Guan’s hand slips from hers and he lifts it to tap on her mask, both eyes fluttering open. _“I. As am I. I am as… as I am.”_

Then he returns his hand to hers and clutches it loosely. Bist’ri’s green eyes dim. She can see the man fighting off sleep. To be with her, no doubt. She squeezes his hand and clicks softly, _“I’ll be here when you wake up, Guan.”_

 _“What if you’re not?”_ The man’s chirrups are weary.

 _“Then someone will come get me and bring me here to see you. I’m still part of this clan—As are you,”_ Her words make his eyes water, though the former Adjutant does not begin crying.

Instead he peers up at her with a very real, raw stare, the kind she both dreads and adores: dreads for the pain she knows he faces, and adores for the man beneath it with all of his flaws and vulnerability.

 _“I really,”_ Guan tries—fails—to lift his head up. _“—really like you. I want to make you stew.”_

 _S’pke._ It takes her a second to remember. The Adjutant nurse exhales softly. _“Let’s talk about this when you’re more awake. Alright?”_

 _“Sei-i…”_ He trails off in a prolonged trill, his eyes fluttering shut. In no time, the man has returned to slumber. Bist’ri squeezes his hand one more time before letting go and moving to stand at the table’s side.

She checks his back, noting the inflammation along the incision site. For an invasive, sudden surgery, it appears hers and C’it-na’s handiwork has paid off. There is no sign of infected tissue. It looks nothing like it did when C’it-na came running for her and dragged her out of her sleeping pod. There is still thwei oozing out of the areas the serum did not close, but Bist’ri prefers those parts of the wounds heal naturally. Now that Guan has experienced volatile reaction to regeneration serum, she doesn’t want to risk exposing him to more over minor lacerations.

Her wrist computer prompts a notification to pop into her bio-mask’s optical system. Bist’ri reads the message quickly. Her gaze dims. _Tjau’ke…_

* * *

The room is detached from the rest, isolated in a corner of the medical bay with a single hallway connecting it to the rest of the floor. Two Elites stand guard at the doors, though the woman knows the two are not there to keep others _out_ but someone _in_. If she was not wracked with grief, perhaps the head nurse could find it within her to feel something akin to anger.

She has not moved from her old friend’s side since stitching up the incision wounds and cleaning up. She has not moved since she ordered the other nurses to cease lifesaving efforts and begin palliative care. She has not moved, but she has _wept_ , because her old friend is not only _s’yuit-de_ —Her old friend is dying, and she cannot stop the Black Hunter from taking what is his.

M-di-Guan-Lar’ja did not defeat Akrei-non-Daga in _jehdin jehdin_.

Her chest tightens as her blue-gray eyes dip and trace the outline of Lar’ja’s unconscious form. Her old friend looks almost peaceful, save for the ugly, swollen patches of skin and scales, and the endless crust of dried _thwei_ from the wounds Daga left on her. Tjau’ke grits her teeth, hissing into her mask when her eyes land on the Elder’s torso. She sees the long line where she attempted to cut through skin, muscle, and tissue all the way to Lar’ja’s ribs. Breaking the ribs and exposing the four hearts did nothing in the end. All she could do was remove the severed organs, redirect arteries and veins to the remaining heart, stop the remaining bleeding, and close the wounds.

 _A Yautja needs two hearts to function. Three to perform to the standards of a Hunt, as dictated by the Council of Ancients long ago,_ the words flash through Tjau’ke’s head again. Her hands ball into fists and she fights to maintain her composure. _Why did you fight the man, Lar’ja? Why did you fight a man you have never bested in combat?!_

She hisses at her friend, but she gets no response. Nor will she. From now until Lar’ja’s remaining heart gives out from stress and exertion, the Elder will remain comatose and heavily sedated. Letting the woman die honorably, without pain, is the best possible outcome. There is no honorable way to obtain a heart Lar’ja’s immune system will not reject; allowing Lar’ja to stir in the first place will kill her from the shock of having her chest splayed open, or it will leave her in egregious pain her final moments of life.

She wants to scream and scream and _scream_ , until her larynx is numb and her vocal cords _snap_ from the strain. She has already lost Setg’in, and now she will lose Lar’ja, and once more the nurse is useless in the face of it all.

Tjau’ke snaps her head up at the sound of someone knocking. She sits upright and watches the door slide open. A figure shorter than her steps into the room, one donning no armor but humble, flowing robes that trail just above the floor. The blue green Yautja is not someone she wants to see now or in a thousand years. Tjau’ke holds in the growl she longs to unleash at Ju’dha-Jehdin.

 _This_ , she knows, _this is petty jealousy. What kind of Yautja am I to feel this way over another’s personal affairs?_

 _“Tjau’ke.”_ Ju’dha greets her politely, a stiff nod following. The individual no longer carries Lar’ja’s scent on them, but Tjau’ke cannot tear the image from her head. She looks at Ju’dha and all she thinks of is the authoritative words the Yautja asked just before Ju’dha claims her friend for themself.

 _Please_ , Lar’ja had begged in response.

Tjau’ke feels nausea boil dangerously in her stomach. She stands up and steps away under the guise of running her hands through a cleaning laser’s blue light. She hears Ju’dha sigh and the latter step forward, crossing over to where Lar’ja’s body lays.

 _“You fought honorably, Lar’ja,”_ Ju’dha clicks softly, voice nothing but a nuisance to Tjau’ke at that second.

Tjau’ke says nothing. She hears Ju’dha stand.

 _“Is that it, then? Honorable Tjau’ke.”_ The Elder trills at her, the words simple yet _demanding_ of an answer to something she does not want to address. Ju’dha clicks impatiently when Tjau’ke says nothing, _“Bist’ri will go on trial if something is not done.”_

 _“I am aware of that, Elder Ju’dha.”_ Tjau’ke cannot hold back the venom in her clicks. She curses herself a thousand ways in her head. She thinks herself weak to be this way, a mess trying to hold herself together when those she cares about are coming undone. The head nurse sighs and shuts her eyes. She can feel Ju’dha’s gaze on her back. She trills, _“Forgive me, Elder Ju’dha. I am grieving what I will lose, and what I have already lost.”_

 _“You do not need to apologize, Tjau’ke.”_ The reassurance does nothing for the head nurse but make her want to roar. Tjau’ke stills when Ju’dha walks to her. The latter intones in clicks, _“Daga cannot hold trial today. His injuries—”_

 _“Substantial, but not enough. Never enough,”_ Tjau’ke hisses, fighting her shattering composure. _“Elder Ju’dha—I do not believe anything more can be done for your pup. Not with these circumstances. She will go on trial, whether it is now or three day cycles onward—”_

 _“Are you giving up? On—Your Adjutant—”_ The Elder’s words are shocked, mortified, and flabbergasted all in one.

_“I am acknowledging there is nothing more we can do. I am acknowledging your pup will face consequences for her actions and we cannot prevent those consequences from being carried out.”_

Guan-Tjau’ke is a bitter, angry woman.

She is a bitter, angry woman who risks losing everyone important to her. Her pup, her Adjutant, her old friend—Tjau’ke wants to weep and run rampant all at once. She yearns to satiate her mourning with offerings of _thwei_ , ripped from the ripest and most fragrant of prey. She longs for bloodlust. She longs to kill until the pain leaves.

She can’t, but she _wants_ to, and she knows from how Ju’dha steps back that the rage must swell up in waves pouring off her. Tjau’ke falls silent and looks at the floor.

And, like the flash of lightning in a storm, her fury evaporates until only her sorrows remain. The head nurse’s shoulders slump. She looks away. _“I wish you had not come here, Ju’dha-Jehdin.”_

The blue green Yautja is quiet a moment.

_“Tjau’ke—”_

_“Do not call me that. Do not call me anything without my title, Ju’dha! You do not have the right anymore,”_ the head nurse seethes where she stands. She clenches her teeth and prays to the gods to spare her the humiliation of sobbing in front of the other Elder. _“I—I am sorry about Bist’ri—But you—You I feel nothing but hate for. You have done nothing to warrant it, but it is there. It is there and it burns, Ju’dha. Like a pain lasting a hundred cycles. It burns.”_

 _“Why?”_ The question is immediate. Ju’dha growls when Tjau’ke falls quiet.

The latter inhales slowly _. “I am… not as strong as I thought I was. I am as flawed as an Unblood in training—And that—It makes me a wretched Yautja, Ju’dha. But it is true. As much as I want to pretend it doesn’t affect me—All I think about—When I see you—And Lar’ja—”_

Her eyes water again. She tears her mask from her face and wipes them, unable to hold back the heavy sobs.

Ju’dha has the decency to wait until the woman stops weeping before they click at her. The sounds are carefully composed, neither probing nor shielding any emotion as Ju’dha speaks, _“How did you learn of this, Honorable Guan-Tjau’ke?”_

_“You two did not attend the first two trials. I tasked myself with locating you before Guan went on trial. I did—In your residence.”_

Ju’dha takes a deep breath _. “You should not have seen that—"_

_“I did not see it, Ju’dha. I heard enough of it.”_

_“Lar’ja is not paired, Tjau’ke. She is free to pursue her own pleasure.”_

_“—I am aware of that,”_ the head nurse growls. _“As I am aware of my own pettiness! She has done nothing wrong! She wanted you—She had you—I—I need to accept that. I need to accept I was wrong who she—"_

The feelings melt back to that horrible nausea. The dread, the remorse, the regret, the _everything_ sticks to her throat and leaves her weeping into her hands.

 _“I am the fool,”_ Tjau’ke weeps. _“The fool—Selfish fool!”_

* * *

Three-six percent. Thirty-six percent. There are many ways to describe the current level of critical mass surging within her soft outer shell, but the Vekin is more entertained by repeating the numbers until her mind flashes a sequence of oscillating triangle shapes. She knows—somehow—that the triangles arrange themselves to convey the number in her species’ non-verbal language. It is something she dabbles in while she waits for Ivon to wake up from their drug-induced nap.

She is surprised by her own memory retention. The electronic impulses comprising her consciousness have regenerated more of _her_ , of FLORA, of what she truly is and embodies, all thanks to the repeated injections of serum. It is both liberating and bewildering to recognize the Yautja who prey on her kind invented something capable of helping her kind regrow.

 _But they do not know that._ The Vekin reminds herself, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the room where Ivon is currently passed out on a metal table.

 _I need more serum._ The Vekin thinks, deliberating on whether to withdraw from her wholesome activity thinking about numbers and go look for some, or to remain as she is and hope Ivon Yurvchik wakes up before she gets bored.

She flashes through memories in her mind. They pop up like a mosaic of different camera feeds. Sundew looks through each one carefully, hunting down a memory of one nurse retrieving the serum container from a…

 _Cabinet with the indentation… -|-\\._ She understands, now. The Vekin pushes herself up and walks over to the wall. She tilts her head to one side and looks over the different script glowing on the metal panels.

She touches the corresponding glyph and attempts to push it in. When it does not comply, she frowns and tries pulling it out. Finally, with her patience beginning to falter in favor of disappointment, she touches a cold finger to the surface and breathes—

“Unlock, please.” The Vekin asks of it, shooting a small electrical charge into the wall.

The entire wall shudders and rumbles. Cabinets protrude as each possible indentation activates and unseals or ejects its contents. She steps back and looks curiously at the now crowded room. Footsteps run to the door outside and a second later C’it-na is a panting mess in front of her. The olive green Yautja rakes hands through his locs as he spins around and balks at the wall, _“I—What did you do? Did you do something, Im-Gen?”_

“My name is—” _FLORA._ “—Sundew.”

 _“Did—Did you do something, Sun-Dew?”_ C’it-na wails, becoming more overwhelmed by the second.

Sundew smiles and nods. “I think that was me, yes.”

 _“How?!”_ The Yautja clicks incessantly.

“Sometimes, I can do things I once forget about. This is one of those things.” She talks calmly as she walks up to the wall, squeezing between two ejecting cabinets to touch the wall and repeat the electrical charge. The room groans with different mechanical complaints before the wall reverts back to normal. Sundew taps her chin. “—Oh, that will not do. I need to find more serum.”

 _“More—More serum? More serum?! You could’ve crushed someone to the final rest! If you need more serum—Why didn’t you just ask?!”_ C’it-na goes off on a surprisingly loud rant. He looks very apologetic by the end of it, but Sundew makes a note that the green Yautja has a line in the sand with his patience.

“I thought you were busy.” Is the honest answer. Sundew resists an airy laugh when the Yautja slumps and sits on the ground against the wall.

C’it-na shakes his head. _“I am busy—But someone could still—Never—Nevermind. Nevermind. What do you need serum for?”_

“I am only at three-six percent critical mass,” The Vekin explains calmly, like it is nothing more than the color of the sky. She pauses when she remembers she is on a spacecraft, in space. Sundew gradually frowns and shrugs. “I would like more serum to restore myself to my full potential.”

 _“Can your—Err,”_ C’it-na peers closely at her, expression sharp and visible as the nurse’s mask is clasped to his belt and not his face. _“Can your body—Is it going to handle that okay?”_

“Pardon?” The Vekin asks.

 _“You were in—You looked like—You were in pain. A lot of it,”_ the nurse slumps against the wall, watching her. He worries about her; _good._

She recalls the strands of _drosera_ on Earth—Such beautiful, glistening things, where the mucilaginous glands attract prey in and strangle them in their sticky embrace. She remembers the plants Stargazer Corporation compared her to. She remembers where she was given her Earth name.

_“—Will your body be able to handle it?”_

The nurse’s question gives her pause. Sundew blinks, then begins laughing, unable to hold in the light, airy noises. She feels her hair—still a weird development, one she is not necessarily sure she likes—dance with each chuckle at the sides of her head. The woman smiles. “You are considerate. Thank you, _C’it-na._ My system will remain stable through a little pain. I am willing to endure more drastic measures for the sake of acquiring new knowledge—”

 _“Are these injections—Do they really help?”_ The nurse looks at her curiously.

Sundew nods. “They are both a means for my system to heal, and a vast source of knowledge my hive… My hive…” The woman trails off, mind blanking momentarily. She doesn’t remember much of her hive, except it is on Saturn, and it is upset with her.

 _Why?_ She thinks to herself, mouth hanging ajar as she zones out. _Why does it hate me? Why is it furious? What did I do? I was—I was taking the Cassini-Hyugens to Earth. I was returning it to the humans. I was… I needed to find GHOST._

She desperately needs more serum. The only answers are in the serum, in the mass regenerated upon injection of the substance. She needs it. She _needs_ it.

“C’it-na—Please—I need more serum. It will help me,” the Vekin attempts to keep her voice neutral, but she sees the nurse pause. Sundew’s gut twists as she considers her options; she will incapacitate him without second thought if he doesn’t comply and get her _what she needs is the serum_.

 _Shush._ FLORA thinks to herself, irate with _GHOST_ ’s nonsense.

The other Vekin is displeased, but the fragment of GHOST’s consciousness fades into the background of FLORA’s mind. Sundew blinks and looks at C’it-na. “Can you help me, _C’it-na?”_

 _“Let me—Let me find you an—An open container. So—We don’t waste any,”_ the nurse stands up. Sundew perks up immediately, nodding to his words as C’it-na clicks, _“Stay right here—I—I’ll be quick—”_

* * *

The ooman is strange.

She sits on a chair next to the metal table. She does not display the same degree of fear she did for Leitjin and Roja. In fact—The dark-skinned woman displays little fear at all as time goes on. She sits, and she sits, and she occasionally peers up at the two, but the ooman mostly _sits_ and looks down at the unconscious Elite.

“Damn.” The ooman says at one point, voice soft and in shock.

 _“Excuse me!”_ Leitjin inevitably has enough of keeping the ooman around. For a second, Roja considers grabbing them, but they move too quickly and spring over to where the ooman’s chair is. The ooman yelps in surprise and draws her legs up. Leitjin’s mandibles click together in amusement before they resume a serious demeanor and huff at her. _“Care to tell us why you want to be with my sirer? Paukin’ weird, especially for an ooman!”_

“My name is Jo—What do you mean by sirer? Your—Sperm donor?” The woman— _Jo_ —sputters in response before pushing Leitjin away.

Roja clicks. _“Do not touch the Yautja, Jo. Leitjin bites.”_

“Oh. Oh, god, I’m sorry—” Jo throws her hands up. A waft of fear fills the air, mingling with the porky scent of the unconscious Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s _n’dui-se_ and the much lesser-appealing, _incredibly_ smoky scent of Leitjin.

Roja looks down at her tablet. The electronic device syncs with her wrist computer and gives access to the entire clan’s database. Useful—Bot not for the damn red plant that ails her. She regrets taking on C’it-na’s work, even if it begets his forgiveness for her rudeness. The nurse sighs into her mask and shakes her head. She sets the tablet aside and picks up the small glass vial. The red plant fiber inside is obscenely tiny.

 _Where did Adjutant Bist’ri find this? It’s not found in Gahn’tha-cte’s spatial territories._ The nurse rotates the vial in her hand. _Is it—Could it be from another clan’s region of space?_

The thought disturbs her. She can’t explain why, but it does.

Behind her, Leitjin continues heckling Jo with questions the latter does not know how to answer. The gray Yautja appears to derive enjoyment from making her stress. Roja looks over and grimaces. _“Leitjin! That’s enough. The ooman wants to sit there and enjoy Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s… company,”_ it is difficult not to begin squeaking and blushing in embarrassment at the scandal implied in her words. _“So—So leave her be—”_

 _“I don’t like others around my sirer!”_ The younger nurse snaps.

“How did you wind up in this state, Gry?” Jo mutters under breath. She winces when Leitjin hisses at her, though the gray Yautja scampers to Roja’s side shortly after. The ooman breathes out and relaxes again. Her brown eyes flicker to the unconscious hunter next to her, lingering a little too long on the man’s fascinating musculature.

Leitjin huffs at Roja. _“You’re supposed to leave!”_

 _“You said that an hour cycle ago. Didn’t happen then, not happening now. I’m claiming this seat for myself.”_ Roja crosses her arms, growling at Leitjin to try and take it from her.

The younger Yautja knows better than to fight her. They’ve lost to her in the past one too many times to try again. Leitjin simmers with angry clicks regardless, cursing expletive after expletive endlessly for minutes on end. When they finish, they sit on the floor next to Roja’s chair and grumble incoherently at the air.

Roja would clap, but she doesn’t want to encourage their behavior. She clicks instead, voice lower and begrudgingly gentle _,”…So… Why do you run around saying you hate your sirer if you also run around trying to keep everyone but you from him?”_

 _“Why do you wanna know, huh?”_ Leitjin squares their shoulders and looks away.

 _“I’m attempting to understand your perspective on this. Humor me, Leitjin.”_ The red Yautja trills.

The gray Yautja groans loud enough for Jo to look over briefly. Leitjin growls at the ooman before turning to Roja and glancing up. _“Look, he’s—I know everyone thinks he’s alright—But he’s responsible for my bearer meeting the final rest.”_

Her eyes grow big behind her mask. Roja balks at the gray Yautja’s clicks. She leans down and hisses, _“He—He committed—”_

 _“No, he didn’t murder her. But he,”_ Leitjin shuts their eyes and grits their teeth _. “The Elders said it was a—A mechanical error. An accident. Dah’kte that wasn’t supposed to extend. Cut straight through and left an ugly mess behind, according to Tjau’ke. I don’t care if it was an accident or not—He’s still responsible—Should’ve been maintaining his weapons better—Should’ve made sure the dah’kte internal springs were up to date—Don’t make me talk more, Roja, I don’t like this subject.”_

 _“They weren’t mates, were they? An official pairing?”_ The red Yautja’s curiosity seeps out.

Leitjin shrugs. They look at the floor. _“Maybe they were. Maybe not. Must’ve been friends, though. Good friends. I don’t—I don’t remember a lot about my bearer, honestly. But what I remember of her—She was always with him. I was with them. They were happy. I was happy. Not anymore, huh? That Leitjin is a thing of the past! I’m all grown up now. Blooded, too. Pauk.”_

_“That’s... tragic, Leitjin.”_

_“A load of cjit... You know, I heard it’s his fault I wound up here, too. Pauker can’t leave my life in peace. I’d rather off myself than be a nurse!”_ The gray Yautja speaks in a way that takes Roja aback. Leitjin growls softly at her pause. _“—What? Not all of us enjoy living like this! Nurses get cjit from everyone. Nobody thanks us. We can’t move up ranks the way others in the clan do. Unless you’re a bearer—No one paukin’ cares about you come mating season. Not even other nurses.”_

The words hint at something else, at a resignation. Vaguely, Roja recalls one of her remarks to Leitjin, when the latter went on and on about how C’it-na couldn’t accept the Adjutant nurse never took mates. It makes her want to laugh, but she decides not to upon considering how much the gray Yautja has opened to her. Instead, she breathes in deeply, ignores the younger Yautja’s aggravating stench, and clicks, _“Is this coming from the fact C’it-na thinks you’re a friend and not mate material?”_

She flips through her mask’s optical systems, finally reverting to her natural thermal gaze. Her vision informs her everything she needs to know, even while Leitjin sputters and yaps and throws out every excuse in the book for how they most certainly do _not_ have a thing for _C’it-na_. How they would _never_ have a thing for such a soft-spoken, kind, handsome, _green_ Yautja. How they have never stared at C’it-na’s muscles or ogled his legs or done anything that could imply they might _possibly_ have a single whiff of feelings for the medical division’s third-in-command. _Never._

By the end of it, Roja is grateful they shut up at all about how much they—don’t—think about the Yautja. The red nurse clicks at them, _“I don’t care who you’re after in the mating season, Leitjin. Nor do I intend to speak of this to C’it-na. But you won’t get his attention by being an asshole.”_

 _“I—I don’t want his attention, anyways,”_ the Yautja grumbles under breath. _“I never do. He just shows up where I am.”_

 _“You follow him like a hunting hound’s pup.”_ Roja remarks.

 _“He makes me follow him! And spend time with him! And—And—”_ Leitjin buries their face in their hands. A muffled, _“I don’t want to talk about it!”_ follows shortly after.

Roja gives up and straightens upright. She looks over at the unconscious Elite in the room, then at the ooman, before deciding the two are boring and picking up her electronic tablet from the ground. She resyncs it with her wrist computer and begins browsing the clan database anew, in search for the name of a small red plant in a glass vial nearby.

* * *

It is not the drugs wearing off that prompts the pasty white human to stir. It is the ungodly, mutilated screams of pain which snap Ivon from their stupor and back to reality. They sluggishly flail their limbs and attempt to locate the source of the noise, only to hear a whimper and sob from the side. Ivon’s brown eyes widen at the sight of Sundew pulling a needle out of her side. She breathes heavily, with cold sweats up and down her silvery flesh. Ivon opens their mouth to speak, but words are hard to word, “—Sundew—Is you pain? Are you the pain?”

“Greetings, Ivon,” the woman looks over and remarks in a cheerful voice, utterly devoid of the violent pain plaguing her a second ago. Sundew turns to a green Yautja in strange black robes, handing the syringe off to the nurse. “If you could bring me another … I would greatly appreciate it. I have not felt this delighted in weeks.”

“Sundew—Sun. Sundew? Sunday. Sunday.” The words spill lazily while Ivon struggles to recollect their thoughts. Their thoughts decide not to recollect, and Ivon gawks in realization their brain is still stupendously drugged out of its mind. “Fuck me… Fuck… Fuck me! Fuck me!”

“With all due respect, Ivon, I do not possess feelings for you in that manner, but if you are interested in pursuing a mutually pleasurable session of copulation, I can inquire with H’chak if he is interested in the same. I will warn you, I do not believe he shares in your desires, given you are currently infatuated with his half-sister and that would be strange.”

“That not mean what I said!” Ivon throws their arms up and then drops them immediately.

 _“Wait, half—Half-sister?”_ The green Yautja clicks at Sundew as he busies himself around the room, prompting cabinets and drawers of all kinds to eject from the wall in pursuit of a tiny container and another syringe.

“Mercy has. Mercy and Maelstrom. Mail. Strobe. Mercy. Family.” Ivon nods vigorously, before they are distracted by their lack of toes. They begin to panic, struggling to sit up and grab at their feet—Only to discover they wear sandals concealing their toes. The person gasps as if breaking the surface of water for air. “My feet are toes!”

“Are they, now?” Sundew tilts her head to one side. She has a comfortable smile on her face. “I am glad you are awake and in one piece, Ivon. Jo has gone for a walk. The nurses here requested you don’t attempt to leave again.”

 _Again…?_ It comes back to Ivon with a feeble cry of pain. The human holds their head and whines miserably at the ensuing headache. Aside from a sore excision site, they also have a _terrible_ throbbing in their skull where one of the Yautja knocked them over the head earlier. Ivon sways where they sit. They feel incredibly nauseous suddenly, and they lay back down on their metal table-bed.

“Sundew… Sunny… Sunshine…” Ivon blurts at the air. “Can you—Tell. Tell the bush. The bush—I wanna see Mail. Strobe. Mail-Strobe. Tell the tree—Bush—Tree-bush—”

 _“A half-sister… How…”_ The talking tree is distracted by Ivon’s brilliant request. Ivon is certain that is why the talking tree is talking to himself.

“I will consider your request. But you are still quite—Well,” Sundew sounds like she has the voice of a six-winged angelic being whose face is constantly on fire. But she isn’t an angel, not to Ivon’s knowledge, so the electrician mumbles incoherent words of support as the not-angel Sundew explains. “—You are still under the effects of what the nurses here gave you earlier, Ivon.”

“I’m not angle,” the electrician decrees.

“No, drugged—”

“Angel!” The electrician flails weakly where they lay. “Not… I… Seraph…”

They pass out mid-rant about a lady named Mercy who watches over them.

* * *

Ivon is silly. Sundew smiles to herself as she looks back at C’it-na. The green Yautja is busy thinking aloud, but his clicks are too soft to understand. She clears her throat and inquires, “Could I—May I please have the serum, C’it-na?”

 _“Sei-I, sei-i… Half-sister…”_ C’it-na trills quietly while he hands over the syringe, followed by the serum containers.

“I wish to ask—Will they be like this permanently? It is a very funny state—But they are capable of exquisite inventions when they are not incapacitated.” Sundew fills the syringe with serum as she talks. It is a struggle not to jam it immediately into her silver flesh, though she knows at least one previous victim of hers _desperately_ wants to. She concentrates on her actions, taking care to angle the syringe over the injection site.

 _“What? O—Oh, no, no, no—Not—Hopefully not. That’d be bad—The science division—One of the—The engineers—There—Wants them intact. Is it true they can repair our electronic equipment?”_ C’it-na takes a seat against the wall.

Sundew hesitates with the injection. Inside her mind, she hears GHOST ordering her to comply with the demand to inject, inject, _inject._ She does not. She is not GHOST, she is _FLORA_ , and FLORA does not listen to ghosts of the past.

“When we first met—They repaired a plasmacaster— _Sivk’va-tai._ They shot a xenomorph with it, the hard meat.” The Vekin responds before she jabs the needle into her flesh.

The scream she makes is enough to make C’it-na jump and scramble back several feet.

 _Forty-five percent…_ The Vekin takes deep breaths, calming herself as the pain becomes a terrible stinging sensation, then a deep ache. She puts the syringe aside and exhales. _If I could do two more…_

 _Be careful how much you use._ The voice that flicks through her head is not a human, nor a Vekin. FLORA pauses and focuses on the strange speaker, shifting through memories in order to hunt down the fragment of consciousness.

He is an old fragment. Not her oldest, but old. _Old._ Old and tied to the tragic expiration of two Vekin on a distant planet long ago. Vaguely, FLORA identifies memories of her mate on the planet. She recalls perusing one of H’chak’s memories and stumbling through a scenario where he and two other Yautja escaped an attacking Vekin. She doesn’t match the speaker’s voice to the other two Yautja in the copied memory, but she recognizes enough clicks and growls to know the raspy dialect belongs to Clan _Gahn’tha-cte._

 _What is your name?_ FLORA demands of her mental cohort. _Who are you?_

She hears his clacking laughter. _Does it matter anymore?_

 _You are part of my system._ She finds herself surprisingly irate with the absorbed Yautja’s resistance. _I am not required to hold unto you forever._

 _Yet you have, FLORA. For one-eight-five cycles…_ The clicking noises stop in her head. She hears the fragmented consciousness cough weakly.

FLORA feels her agitation rise, in part fueled by Miranda Escrow’s internal bitching. She concentrates on the fragmented consciousness. _What do you want?_

_To instruct you. S’yuit-de, Vekin. You will meet the final rest if you continue injecting serum. There comes a point where your body cannot handle the substance. Your flesh mutates against it. Your thwei feeds into a grotesque splay of flesh. I have seen it before—_

“Shut up!” Sundew hisses at herself, dismissing the thoughts in their entirety. She pauses at the sight of C’it-na clicking curiously at her. The Vekin pauses. “…Perhaps I should—Perhaps I should take a break from the serum.”

 _“—Yeah.”_ C’it-na clicks once. _“Here, let me—Let me leave you some syringes. I need to—I need to make rounds, but—I’ll check on you both after. Okay?”_

“Thank you,” the Vekin mumbles. No sooner than the green Yautja is out of the room does Sundew begin looking for gauze to wrap the open gash in her abdomen in.

* * *

_“Honorable Tjau’ke?”_ She knocks, ignoring the looks both Elite guards give her.

Bist’ri places her hand against the door and exhales sharply as it opens. She doesn’t need to step inside to smell the _thwei_ and scents belonging to both Elder Lar’ja and Tjau’ke. Within the odors permeating the air, the Adjutant nurse picks up on the smell of salt and mucus not-so-subtly woven into the head nurse’s scent.

She sees Elder Lar’ja laid out on the metal table. The Elder is not responsive. Bist’ri swallows her nerves as she takes in each cut and laceration, every bruise, broken scale, and swollen or inflamed abrasion. Tjau’ke sits in a chair at the side, righting her mask in a way that _screams_ sobs. The smell of tears is stronger as Bist’ri steps forward and Tjau’ke rises to her feet. The Adjutant nurse peers up at the head of the medical division _. “I am sorry, Honorable Tjau’ke. I heard—”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ The head nurse is somber. _“Sei-I, Bist’ri.”_

 _“Is…”_ Bist’ri stops when she sees the head nurse stiffen.

She knows it is not her place. If Tjau’ke decides on a course of treatment, her word is law. The head nurse has turned to palliative care for the Elder unconscious nearby; it means Tjau’ke does not believe Lar’ja can recover. The woman is dying.

 _“She was… s’yuit-de. A fool, Bist’ri. A fool. A fool who knew she couldn’t defeat Akrei-non-Daga_ ,” the words are solemn and full of regret. Tjau’ke shakes her head. “ _She saw her pup in that state and—Emotion took over. S’yuit-de.”_

 _“Guan is Lar’ja’s pup.”_ Bist’ri clicks the sentiment softly.

 _“Sei-i. Don’t act like you haven’t suspected it, my Adjutant,”_ the head nurse walks to Lar’ja’s table-side. _“—H’chak is not mine by thwei. He is the greatest blessing Setg’in ever bestowed upon me—But that makes him Lar’ja’s by thwei. He and Guan are twins.”_ Tjau’ke clicks with a bittersweet note when Bist’ri does not react to the news. _“Of course—My Adjutant is more than capable of figuring that out. Lar’ja hid it for a while.”_

 _“As did you.”_ The Adjutant nurse interjects. _“Tjau’ke, what is this about? I reviewed Elder Lar’ja’s plan of care. She is… dying. I can’t stop that—"_

 _“M-di, none of us can. Not unless we find a heart close enough to Lar’ja’s biological makeup,”_ the words send up red flags. Bist’ri tenses as Tjau’ke inhales slowly. _“I know—You have checked on Guan today—”_

 _“M-di! Absolutely not! You aren’t using one of his hearts,”_ Bist’ri speaks before she has time to think through her words. Her hands tense into fists and she feels her mandibles flare with anger. _“He isn’t healthy enough to live through open heart surgery—"_

 _“That is not for you or I to decide, Bist’ri. Lar’ja is his sirer and he has the right to decide whether or not to help her.”_ Tjau’ke growls loud enough to make her flinch. _“I understand the two of you have—Something—”_

The Adjutant nurse’s eyes widen with fear. Her anger dissipates as she steps backward. An uneasy silence settles in the room.

 _“Please don’t hurt him,”_ she begs. “ _Please—He hasn’t—I’ll take the blame for it—I started it—”_

 _“Bist’ri—Oh, Bist’ri, m-di,”_ Tjau’ke’s demeanor changes from melancholy to concern in a moment. _“I am not—I will not share this with others. You have my word. On my honor—”_

 _“Please,”_ the Adjutant nurse’s back hits the wall on the other side of the room. Her hands tremble violently. Her mind is gone, immersed into a fragment of the past.

 _“Bist’ri—Bist’ri, listen to me,”_ the head nurse’s voice shifts to a calmer pitch. She trills gently at the panicking Yautja. _“You aren’t on that ship anymore. You’re safe—No one is going to hurt you—”_

 _“Don’t let them hurt Tarei,”_ the woman begs. Her knees buckle and Bist’ri falls to the floor, shaking worse than a leaf. _“Don’t let them hurt him—Please—I’m sorry—”_

It takes several hours for the flashback to pass and the Adjutant nurse to return to reality. She finds herself not in the room with Elder Lar’ja, but in her own room, on a metal table usually reserved for patients. Her head aches as she sits up and touches her face. Her mask is intact. She looks at her hands and arms—She has not cut them into oblivion. Bist’ri has only just put together someone carried her here when the door slides up and Tjau’ke steps into the room. The head nurse shuts the door behind her and locks it before turning around and exhaling.

 _“Are you alright?”_ Tjau’ke’s voice is gentle. _“Bist’ri.”_

 _“Forgive me—I did not mean to… do that,”_ the Adjutant nurse shuts her eyes and exhales into her mask.

_“You have nothing to apologize for. Your mind was in another place.”_

Bist’ri holds her head in her hands. She is quiet for a time. Tjau’ke gives her the space she needs. Eventually, the Adjutant nurse looks back up, _“…It’s going to come up, isn’t it? In my trial. All of it.”_

 _“I anticipate it.”_ Tjau’ke confirms, clicking softly.

Her eyes water behind her mask. Bist’ri curses bitterly. _“—How long? How long was I—”_

 _“It is evening, now.”_ The head nurse chirps. _“Bist’ri—I do not want you to be caught off guard. But I do not want you to panic over what I am going to say. Do you understand?”_

 _“I can’t promise anything.”_ The Adjutant nurse answers.

Tjau’ke nods, as if expecting that much from her _. “—As you know—Elder Lar’ja challenged Akrei-non-Daga over his leadership of the clan. She lost. As tradition permits—This was a matter of such importance—The two acknowledged the final rest as possible outcomes for one or both. But Akrei-non-Daga did not lose. He struck her down and he,”_ Tjau’ke grits her teeth. She hisses softly. _“—In accordance with—The laws of Gahn’tha-cte—He stripped her of her honor—Her privileges as Elder—And he spared her life.”_

 _The same fate as M-di-H’chak._ Bist’ri’s green eyes dim. _“She is dying anyways. Isn’t she?”_

 _“Sei-i. But there is a problem_ ,” Tjau’ke exhales softly. The nurse loosens the collar of her medical vestments and pulls it down. She pulls the edge of her mesh suit down with it, revealing an intricate bite mark with four prongs at the edges. _“Bist’ri—It is not common knowledge among younger Yautja like yourself—But there is a way to take on another’s honor. To carry it as you would your own.”_

The Adjutant nurse freezes in place. _“M-di. M-di—Tjau’ke—You didn’t—”_

_“I am going to inform Akrei-non-Daga tomorrow. I was given Lar’ja’s honor, and it was stripped from her. So—I too will be stripped of mine.”_

_“Why?! Tjau’ke—”_ The blue Yautja feels her chest tighten. Her four hearts race in her chest to the point she begins feeling dizzy. Bist’ri holds her head in one hand and hisses at the older Yautja. _“What will the medical division be without you?! There is a month cycle left of the mating season—What about when time comes for births? We cannot—”_

Tjau’ke rights her clothes, sighing as she does. _“Bist’ri, without Lar’ja—You are at the mercy of the other Elders. Your bearer does not have enough sway to vote lenience. As Adjutant nurse—You can be replaced. Demoted. Removed.”_

_“M-di—I can’t—You cannot put this responsibility on me, Tjau’ke—I can’t—”_

_“If you are head of the medical division, Daga cannot rid you of the title without major consequences to the entire clan. He is a selfish man, but he bends under enough pressure,”_ Tjau’ke clicks curtly. She walks over to Bist’ri and puts hands on her shoulders. The Adjutant nurse looks up with wide eyes hidden by her mask. _“—Have more trust in yourself. You have survived things in this universe they cannot fathom.”_

The Adjutant does not know what to say to Tjau’ke’s words. In four heartbeats, she is a mess all over again, sobbing into her mask and clinging to Tjau’ke like a pup would their parent. The Elder clicks gentle notes, the kind Bist’ri vaguely recognizes as being a lullaby.

 _“I’m proud of you, Bist’ri. No matter what happens in the coming weeks—Remember that,”_ the Elder trills quietly.

 _“Thank you,"_ Bist’ri clicks in return. _"For everything."_


	62. no longer adjutant (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9k words and this chapter is being split into two because there's more to the discussion being had in the last sections.
> 
> TW for:  
> -medical procedures / injuries / needles  
> -derogatory language  
> -self harm / scars  
> -implications of past abuse

Most of the morning is spent in agonizing impatience. A pain far greater than anything his back throws at him keeps him alert and vigilant in his seat in the medical bay. His torso is wrapped in gauze, but already his natural rate of healing begins to mend the flesh together and start the process of closing remaining wounds. He wears a light robe over his loincloth, unable to tolerate anything else wrapping around his body.

Well, anything but Bist’ri, but he has yet to see her all morning, and given the circumstances all he wants to do is hold her for day cycles on end until the world rights itself.

 _If only cjit didn’t keep popping up around every corner._ The former Adjutant grimaces.

He knows the meeting she has today is of great importance. The nurses frolicking around won’t tell him about it, but he is given reassurances many times it is not her trial. His lack of Adjutant title stings him as deeply now as it did when he first woke up after the drugs in his system wore off. He can’t be there when the trial takes place. He can’t be present, can’t offer her looks of encouragement or hold her hand, he can’t _protect her_ from the harsh gazes of the Elders or their judgements. He wants to, but he can’t. All he can do is wait until the trial takes place and support her from now until then and afterward.

The morning passes quietly in the medical bay. An olive-green nurse, C’it-na, comes by to check on him every so often, but Guan mostly keeps to himself in his chair or on his table. He is still exhausted from… _everything_. So, so tired.

He gives in to the urge to nap. The sleep is dreamless, a mercy given everything, and by the time he wakes up, the medical bay has settled into a quiet stupor as nurses break to eat lunch and chat quietly amongst themselves. Guan sits up as C’it-na approaches him with a tray of food. The former Adjutant nods in appreciation as the nurse sets the tray on his lap and clicks, _“Careful with the s’pke—it’s hot.”_

 _“Thanks.”_ Guan eats silently. The stew isn’t as good as what Tjau’ke made him at the start of his _mei-hswei_ ’s recovery mission, but it is tasty.

He finds it unnerving C’it-na doesn’t move away. The olive-green Yautja faces him, and though his mask obscures where he looks, Guan can’t help but feeling the man stares at him. He lowers his bowl of _s’pke_ and clicks at C’it-na. The latter exhales. _“So—You’re no longer Adjutant. Right?”_

 _“Sei-i. I am only an Elite.”_ He shuts his eyes, feeling surprising relieved to say the words. _“Is something the matter?”_

 _“—Well—I—I just wanted to make sure—I address you properly.”_ C’it-na clicks in response.

 _“…Is that all?”_ Guan opens his eyes and peers at C’it-na. The man sounds nervous, but Guan does not smell fear.

_“I mean. I know—I know you aren’t an Adjutant anymore, Elite, but—I know—I remember—You’ve helped a lot of Yautja here in the past. That’s—It’s why you were Adjutant once, yeah?”_ C’it-na tilts his head to one side.

The former Adjutant isn’t sure what to say to that. He doesn’t know if he was ever the ‘right’ individual to take up the mantle of Daga’s Adjutant, or if it was a move ensnared in the complexities of Gahn’tha-cte politics. He gives C’it-na a vague grunt of affirmation.

 _“Can you—Could you help me?”_ The olive-green Yautja looks around.

Guan shrugs—and immediately regrets it, cursing under breath at the pain in his back and shoulders. He clicks at C’it-na instead, _“With what?”_

 _“I mean… You’ve been—You’ve traveled—A lot—With—With Adjutant Bist’ri—Lately,”_ no sooner than the first few words are out of C’it-na’s mandibles does Guan feel his chest tighten. The olive-green Yautja sounds incredibly hopeful, maybe a little naïve, and wholly optimistic as he continues to click, _“—I thought—Well—I—I need—I was wondering—If—You could give me—Some pointers? On—On what Bist’ri likes? Adjutant—Adjutant Bist’ri—”_ C’it-na begins to ramble.

 _Pauk… what do I say?_ Guan is at a loss for words.

The olive-green nurse wants to court Bist’ri. While Guan knows she does not have eyes for _everyone,_ it doesn’t mean she won’t find someone else one day. He draws his mandibles tightly together at the thought. _Now that I’ve made a mess of myself in front of the Elders… Daga… Will she want this to continue? Or… Or…_

His hearts drop in his chest. The man holds a hand to his left pectoral muscle, feeling how his pulse races in an agonizing way. He feels a flicker of fear rise up in him. C’it-na must smell it, as the nurse stops in his rambles about the Adjutant and clicks at him, _“Are—You alright?”_

 _“Sei-i… I will be fine.”_ Guan reassures him, already feeling guilty for hoping— _wanting_ —Bist’ri to take no interest in the kind nurse.

By Cetanu and all the _Payas_ —the former Adjutant is shameful acknowledging how much he yearns for Bist’ri to keep her affections on him. He finds himself missing her presence even more than he already does, with his thoughts wandering to all the little things he adores about her. Things like the green tint to the end of her locs, the smell of the shore in her wake, or the way her body fits so _right_ with his when the two are together… Guan wants to soak in the pleasant thoughts, the beautiful associations, and for a time he does. He informs C’it-na he cannot be of any help and he watches the nurse sadly slink away.

A different nurse picks up the tray when Guan finishes eating. He gets led by an irate gray nurse named _Leitjin_ back to his ‘room’, where the nurse assists him in settling into a medical pod. As Guan sinks into the dark-colored liquid, he finds the pain from his tender injuries and the surgical sites slowly fades. He relaxes completely, touching the bottom and finding the medical pod liquid only comes up to his upper abdomen. The pod itself has a fair amount of room, enough for him to think of _things_ involving a blue Yautja with rich green eyes. The lewd thoughts soon return to those of worry; Guan tries to shut out his anxiety as he lets his mind wander.

He falls asleep again, at peace in his pod. This time, he experiences a vivid recollection of Elder Ma-Or’s final moments. He watches as his _mei-hswei_ shoots the Elder with the plasma pistol until there is only green in his vision. Guan shudders and snaps awake. He hears faint knocking and sits upright with a start when he realizes the knocking comes from a blue Yautja just outside the pod. Guan’s orange gaze widens with relief. He looks up and peers through the hatch at Bist’ri. She tilts her head to one side and taps on the hatch, then points at the side of it.

 _Locked?_ Guan pauses. He shoves the pod’s hatch with his hands. After a second it gives way and Bist’ri pulls the glass hatch open. She looks at Guan. She doesn’t smell angry or smell of tears, both good signs.

 _“Hey,”_ Guan clicks softly, embarrassed he can’t think of a better greeting.

 _“How do you feel?”_ Bist’ri’s clicks in response.

 _“Like someone ripped chunks out of my back,”_ The former Adjutant grimaces and resists the urge to shrug. _“Can’t say it’s the worse I’ve ever felt. The nurses here are incredible. Is it true you helped C’it-na with my back?”_

 _“No, he helped me.”_ She investigates the pod. _“—Looks like one of the nurses moved you into one of these—Finally—”_

 _“Forgive me, Bist’ri. He helped you, not the other way around.”_ The man’s orange eyes dim.

 _“—All is well, Guan. Don’t worry about it. But if you want to thank someone—Thank Tjau’ke, she was the one who took care of the initial operation. After… Well,_ ” the blue Yautja clears her throat. _“—She kept you alive. C’it-na and I worked on your back the following morning, in the early hours.  
_

 _“Oh. I—I will be sure to thank her, then.”_ He nods, then pauses. _“What time is it? I was put in here and then I fell asleep.”_

 _“Evening cycle. I know—I know you were sleeping, but I needed to talk to you about a few things. Important things. Things you can’t sleep through.”_ Bist’ri clicks softly. She sounds reluctant to speak, but she clears her throat and nods at him. _“Are you alright in there? Do you want to get out?”_

_“I… think I would prefer to stay in here. The liquid is helping with the pain.”_

_“Ki’sei! I will stand here, and you float in your pod.”_ The nurse’s tone briefly shifts to amusement, the clacking of her mandibles indicating her own chuckles.

Guan inhales deeply. Even through his mask—He can smell her. The woman’s _n’dui-se_ is wonderful and calming. His muscles loosen and he relaxes as he watches her. A thought crosses his mind. _“—I would not be opposed to you coming in here. There is room for two.”_

 _“—I know these hours entail fewer nurses making rounds due to the decrease in patients, but—Guan, if someone catches me in there, they will ask questions. Questions I can’t answer right now, especially not when—When you’re still injured.”_ The nurse exhales softly. Her worry sounds in her clicks. Guan feels his four hearts skip beats in unison.

 _“I’ve just—missed you.”_ The former Adjutant confesses, looking to the side. His thoughts drift back to C’it-na. _What do I say to her? About him? About… I am not an Adjutant. I am not a… I am not a political figure. Not influential. Am I nothing?_

 _“I think,”_ Bist’ri pauses and taps a finger against her mask’s cheek. _“If you understood how often I’ve thought of you—In these past two day cycles—You might reconsider saying that.”_

The words make his stomach flip and twist with eager heat. Guan pauses. _“You think of me a lot, then…?”_

 _“Sei-I,”_ the nurse draws back a moment to look at the room. There is no one else but the two present. She turns back to the open pod hatch. _“I think too much of you. And I do so knowing you may not think the same, yet hoping for it nonetheless. Why do you ask?”_

The man winces internally. He clears his throat, but the strain of his voice is heavy. _“—Your—Your fellow nurse—C’it-na?”_

 _“Sei-I, I know C’it-na.”_ Bist’ri clicks.

_“He asked me today how to… approach you. Win your favor.”_

_“Was that all he asked? Said?”_ The nurse pauses. At Guan’s nod, she shakes her head. _“—Ah. You don’t need to worry about him. Or—Anyone else. Really, Guan. If I was interested in others, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”_

 _“It’s not—That.”_ The man grits his teeth. He feels shameful for possessing these insecurities, yet they nip at the back of his mind. _“Bist’ri—I—I’m not an Adjutant anymore. I might be an Elite, but… I don’t hold political sway. Influence. I don’t—I don’t have much to offer as a… Mate.”_

It may be the first time in many cycles he attaches a good memory to the word ‘mate’. The idea of Bist’ri being _his_ mate, of the two’s relationship being formal and recognized, it fills him with warmth and need. He wants it. He wants _her_.

 _“Guan, at what point did I say—Gah,”_ the nurse pauses at a ping on her wrist computer. She grimaces internally, fiddling with her computer’s inputs before turning to him and clicking. _“I don’t—Guan, I don’t want you because of—Politics—Prestige—That’s not what I want for myself. That’s not… I would have at least tried to find a Yautja who wasn’t paired. I didn’t… I told you before—I didn’t think… I didn’t think I would ever wind up in this position.”_

 _This… position._ The word makes his stomach twist and churn. He calms his thoughts before they get too out of control.

 _“I wanted you safe. And then—I guess I began wanting more than that. I wanted you.”_ Her mask angles to the side. _“Only you.”_

 _“—You can have me, Bist’ri—You can have me,”_ He moves closer to the hatch and reaches for her hands, ensnaring one at the hatch’s rim and squeezing it gently. _“All I want is you.”_

 _“Guan…”_ The aroma in the air thickens. There is a slightly different quality to it, one that reminds him of the sandy shore after a rain shower. Guan breathes it in eagerly, rising to the open hatch and meeting Bist’ri halfway. The soft metal clinks of their masks indicate their foreheads touch.

For a moment, the two stay like that. They keep quiet, each drawn to the other with a yearning that cannot be fulfilled in the present.

 _“I need to talk to you about Lar’ja. Tjau’ke. Daga. A lot,”_ Bist’ri is soft-spoken. Her hands lift to his head and she cups his mask-covered face. _“What do you remember of your trial?”_

 _“It was cjit.”_ His response makes her click in faint amusement.

 _“You were,”_ Bist’ri hesitates. _“Forgive me, Guan, you were—You were whipped. Four-zero lashes. I wasn’t… I couldn’t be there to help, or stop them, or—I had to work on Gry’Sui-bpe-de.”_

 _“You saved his life, didn’t you?”_ He shifts his head and rubs the side of his against her mask. His hands lace with hers. _“You’re amazing.”_

 _“You say that a lot,”_ the woman clicks softly, sounding flustered.

_“Sei-I, it’s true.”_

_“Guan…”_ Bist’ri begins, but she sighs and shakes her head. _“No, I am not getting distracted by you—”_

The thought of how _he_ distracts her makes Guan’s hearts skip beats. He trills with a faint note of glee, then begins to purr. Bist’ri clams up near him a second before she relaxes.

 _“—I need your focus, Guan,”_ Bist’ri’s hands let go of his. _“For a moment. Several moments. “Okay?”_

 _How could I focus on anything but you?_ Is what the man wants to say, but he holds his tongue and nods at her.

* * *

 _“While you were being lashed—Apparently—Elder Lar’ja and my bearer interrupted ka’rik’na, Guan. More specifically: your sirer challenged Akrei-non-Daga for leadership.”_ The nurse breaks it to him _slowly_ , carefully picking her words and giving the former Adjutant time to digest it all. Bist’ri struggles not to click in worry when she sees how tense Guan’s body becomes. When Guan grunts at her to continue, the blue Yautja sucks in a deep breath and adds, _“The Elders present—Approved the challenge. Daga accepted. Lar’ja lost.”_

 _“Pauk!”_ Guan retreats into his pod, cursing and sinking into the dark medical pod liquid. Bist’ri draws her mandibles tightly together.

She decides not to interrupt him, recalling how badly she reacted when she found out Lar’ja had lost. With Elder Lar’ja being Guan’s sirer, Bist’ri can only imagine how he must feel.

Eventually, he looks back at her. _“Is that all?”_

 _“M-di. It would be nice if it was,”_ the nurse is apologetic. _“It gets much worse.”_

 _“Is there—A funeral I must prepare for?”_ Guan’s voice becomes quiet. He drifts close to the hatch pod again, standing up to bring himself to Bist’ri’s eye level. Her green gaze softens behind her mask, only to narrow after as Guan goes on to say, _“—She lost. Correct?”_

_“Sei-I. You would think Daga would kill her, but—”_

Guan stills. _“He…”_

_“Sei-I, Guan. He stripped her of her honor, prestige, and reputation.”_

_“But—She’s alive? She lives, then? Bist’ri—”_

_“…Perhaps… Perhaps I should be the only one who speaks for a bit.”_ The blue Yautja chirps softly. _“This may… take a while.”_

She slowly explains it to him: the extent of Lar’ja’s injuries, expected time until the final rest takes her, Tjau’ke’s honor loss and subsequent disbarment from the medical division as result. Bist’ri explains the circumstances of her sudden promotion to head of the medical division and how it puts her in a strange position politically in the midst of her upcoming trial. She explains how Tjau’ke initially ordered nurses to transition to palliative care for Lar’ja, but as head nurse, Bist’ri now has the authority to overrule that. She describes Tjau’ke asking to meet her, asking to pass on the request for Guan to offer a heart, and lastly: her blatant refusal on his behalf.

 _“…Bist’ri,”_ Guan trills softly. _“That isn’t your decision to make.”_

 _“I know that now. If I didn’t—I wouldn’t tell you these things.”_ The head nurse grimaces internally. _“Are you considering it?”_

 _“It would deliver me to Cetanu if I said yes. Wouldn’t it?”_ He looks to the side.

Bist’ri clicks once. _“—Sei-i. Your body is not healthy enough to survive the loss of thwei from the surgery. As it is now—We only have one individual capable of giving blood to you or Elder Lar’ja, and he has already given too much. Nor do I know if he would be willing to give more, much less an entire heart to Elder Lar’ja.”_

Her words make Guan shudder. _“How did you get H’chak to agree to that?”_

 _“He volunteered to donate thwei after Tjau'ke sent me to ask. It was when I told him Elder Lar’ja is his sirer. He did not take the news well,”_ Bist’ri exhales loudly. _“He is also the one who… donated thwei to save your life. Guan. Right before the emergency surgery. I told him about… You two. He cussed me out to and from the medical bay.”_

_“You did **what?”** _

* * *

The news shocks him. He recalls only a few night cycles past—The nurse and him _explicitly_ agreed telling H’chak the two are twins was a _bad_ idea. To hear Bist’ri tell him not only has she overstepped _his_ autonomy as a patient—even if the answer would be the same—but that she also leaked one of the few things Guan didn’t want getting out in public yet—He balks and stares while his chest tightens. His mandibles draw tightly together. His mind is a rush of emotions he cannot filter properly.

 _“You did… what?”_ Guan repeats the words. The feelings overwhelm him. _“You did what?!”_

 _“He would have figured it out—”_ The head nurse begins to explain, but he doesn’t register her words.

 _“That wasn’t your right,”_ the former Adjutant growls. _“It wasn’t your right, Bist’ri! I wanted to wait—To wait until—Until I could talk to him—At least—And now—"_

_“Guan, I had to—You and Lar’ja were going to meet the final rest—”_

_“It wasn’t your right.”_ He cuts her off. _“It was never your right. Never!”_

The two are silent, but this time the air is not full of unbearable tension at feelings not acted upon. The tension in the present is a nauseating, angry force, full of pain directed at the other. Guan knows he is wrong, but for a time he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything but what Bist’ri admits to him.

Maybe part of it comes from the fact his life has spiraled dangerously out of his control.

Maybe part of it comes from the horrible realizations he is a helpless cog in a machine: made to serve others, to listen, submit, become the pawn the clan expected him to be since he was but a pup.

Maybe part of it comes from the knowledge Bist’ri is _safe_ to direct anger toward, that she is someone who will understand why he is so upset—his twin is going on trial, he has no title, his sirer is probably going to meet the final rest soon—and that she won’t judge his pain.

Maybe part of it comes from the awareness he doesn’t really understand much of life. Most of what he’s accomplished over the years has been a result of political interference. He should not have been Adjutant, yet Akrei-non-Daga selected him over someone much more capable, such as Gry’Sui-bpe-de.

Maybe part of it comes from the horror riddling his brain when he remembers just who he is snapping at, reacting to, pushing and prodding all his unprocessed grief and bitterness and saccharine sorrow toward.

Guan’s orange eyes widen behind his mask. He looks to the side, then back at the head nurse. The latter takes a step back from the pod, standing upright. Guan clicks quietly, _“—I—I’m sorry. Bist’ri.”_

 _“No. It’s normal to feel frustration. It’s… It’s a normal response. You are justified in your feelings, Gu-Guan,”_ his name comes out weirdly, with a crack in the syllables and a raspy quality to the clicks and trills. Bist’ri looks away. _“—I’m sorry for telling him. If the circumstances were anything but what they were—I wouldn’t have done it. But I needed to. And you weren’t—You were dying. Lar’ja was dying. I couldn’t… I wasn’t going to let you meet the final rest. Not like this—”_

Guan falls quiet.

The head nurse curses softly. “ _Everything is pauked and it’s not over and—I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. Not you. Even if you hate me for a thousand cycles,”_ Bist’ri’s voice remains steady, but only just. _“I want you to be okay. Please, just—Just be okay, Guan. When all this is behind you. Be okay. Nothing else matters to me right now, nothing but you.”_

* * *

She weeps for a time after she leaves the room. The head nurse ducks into a side door and into an empty examination room to avoid sharing her humiliation with others. Just _once_ she wants things to be okay. Just once she wants to know the pain is worth it in the end. Just _once._

 _What am I doing with myself?_ Her green eyes dim behind her mask.

After she is done, when the nurse has picked up every piece of herself and rearranged her composure to something that looks real, she fixes her mask and steps outside. She only just turns around when she hears someone speak to her.

 _“Honorable Bist’ri?”_ It is the voice of the Yautja she has selected for her _Adjutant_ , the kind and often flustered olive-green figure of C’it-na.

Bist’ri straightens up immediately. _“Hello, C’it-na. Rather—Adjutant C’it-na.”_

 _“I am proud to be your,”_ the Yautja swallows, nervous. _“—Adjutant! I—I will do you proud—I will!”_

 _“I expect nothing less.”_ She breathes in slowly. C’it-na smells like… _C’it-na._ Some kind of plant-like odor. It doesn’t captivate her, not in the way Guan’s _n’dui-se_ does.

Her chest tightens at the thought.

 _“For—Forgive me if—If I am out of line to—To ask—But—”_ The Adjutant nurse pauses. _“Are you okay?”_

 _“Ah, yes. I will be. You don’t need to worry about me.”_ Bist’ri reaches for his shoulder and shakes it. She draws back after, not missing how the man’s _n’dui-se_ grows thicker. His musk is _very_ floral, yet not a sweet kind of flower. Natural, yet not what she recognizes.

 _“Well,”_ her Adjutant clears his throat and nods. _“If you—If you need anything—”_

 _“That won’t be necessary, but I’ll keep it in mind. You have my gratitude, C’it-na.”_ Bist’ri nods once. She pauses as a thought crosses her mind, a reminder to find and speak with M-di-H’chak.

While Tjau’ke was head nurse, the woman had the final say over Elder Lar’ja’s care. Bist’ri does not anticipate anything being possible, but she wishes to speak with Lar’ja’s pup and inquire if the Elite wants to attempt the surgery regardless.

 _After all—it’s not my right to say no._ Her chest aches. _I hope I… I can demonstrate I understand that now, Guan. I can demonstrate you can trust me._

 _“C’it-na—”_ Bist’ri clicks for him and the man is standing upright and alert. _“Do you know where the V—The Im-Gen is?”_

 _“Sei-I, with the pasty ooman.”_ Her Adjutant sounds pleased to have the answer. _“The examination room—”_ He recites a number and nods firmly.

Bist’ri thanks him and departs, walking faster and faster until she is just short of a run through twisting halls and well-lit corridors. She knows M-di-H’chak refers to Sundew as his _mate,_ and she likewise does the same addressing him. If she wants any chance of holding a simple—albeit short—conversation with the man, she anticipates the need to get on his good side’ bringing him his mate sounds like the best possible option.

* * *

For the past three days, the only company he has are the Elites guarding his residence, and the occasional visit from the clan leader to ask questions. The man has been permitted to seclude himself inside pending trial, no doubt a result of him retaining his Elite status until judged guilty or dishonorable. He has spent most of his time cleaning; it has been almost two full cycles since he left the clanship, and a thick layer of dust covers most things. He puts his time to use running lasers down the sides of armor and weapons to clean them, polishing weapons and trophies alike, and sweeping everything unto a small drawer he fits into the miniature incinerator built into his residence’s kitchen unit.

He likes being… _home._ He feels strange calling it that, yet he hopes to persuade the clan to accept his mate as one of their own. Then—It can be _her_ home, _their_ home, and she will be safe no matter what happens to him pending his trial. All he wants is for his beloved flower to thrive and find joy in learning new things about Yautja and their lifestyles. All he wants is for Sundew, _his_ Sundew, to feel safe and comfortable in the clan.

If not—He has full intentions to disavow _Gahn’tha-cte_. Life as an _ic’jit_ would be rough, but he feels ready to embrace a lack of honor if his clan refuses to recognize Sundew as his equal.

 _She’ll enjoy hearing about this one… Sei-I, I will tell her the story of this one first._ He hefts the clean, polished skull of a _kiande amedha_ Queen from the ground. It is heavier than it looks; he growls as he sets it in its place within his second trophy room, tucked into a hefty ledge in the middle of the wall directly opposite the door. He has one Queen skull for each of his two trophy rooms, and he intends to explain _every last detail_ of his Hunts to his mate if he sees her again.

 _When. Not if._ H’chak reminds himself. He anticipates the _when_ being soon.

Especially if the _pauking_ Adjutant nurse wants to speak with him again.

He isn’t wrong. The Elite has only just made himself something to eat at noontime when his wrist computer pings softly. H’chak taps an input to unlock the door to his residence. He is in the middle of taking a giant chunk out of a blue melon-shaped fruit when the door slides open. The Elite looks over his shoulder in the direction of the doors, not visible from where his kitchen unit tucks into the side, just past the common area where the door of his residence opens into.

He sets the seared fruit down and picks up his mask. The man’s bio-mask digs into the flesh of his skull; he grits his teeth through the uncomfortable—but not terrible—pain.

When he breathes in—He smells multiple individuals. Two. He knows each of them, with one being the Adjutant nurse, and the other—

“H’chak! Is this your living quarters?” The calm, courteous, polite tone of his mate’s words still manages to invoke all four of his hearts into a tizzy.

He looks around the kitchen unit frantically, shoving his melon to one side where it hides behind an ejected cabinet of dishes. He runs a hand down his locs, the few remaining ones long enough to be presentable for _her_. He tries to stand up straight, but no sooner than the silver figure pokes her head around the corner does H’chak find his knees start to wobble. He reaches her halfway across his kitchen unit, as she strides directly to him in unison with his steps. Sundew smiles the same, calm smile, but it becomes a stunning grin when he draws her into his arms and clutches her against his chest.

Her hands land on his chest, the coolness of her skin provoking a shudder in the Elite. He cannot keep himself from trilling with warmth, a throaty purr reverberating from him as he picks her up and sets her down and picks her up again. His indecisiveness over whether he wants to embrace her or hold her against him makes the Vekin laugh in the light, airy manner he adores. The laughter becomes a flurry of giggles when he leans down and rubs the side of his head against her forehead, messing up her strange hair in the process.

 _Payas._ He wants to braid the damn strands again. He intends to—later—when the two of them finish catching up in _private._ For now—He makes a point of demonstrating just how happy he is to have her _there_ , at his side, in _Gahn’tha-cte._ H’chak doesn’t stop in the small, affectionate head rubs and purring until the Adjutant nurse nearby clicks at him. He lifts his head and looks over, gaze narrowing on the blue Yautja. _“Adjutant Bist’ri.”_

 _“…Ah. Yes. Another thing to talk about. I will add it to the list,”_ Bist’ri sounds more somber than usual. She angles her mask to the side as if to look away. _“I brought her, Elite. I understand we are not on good terms, but—"_

 _“You are a woman of disloyalty. I want nothing to do with your ilk or my mei-hswei,”_ H’chak growls the words. It makes Bist’ri flinch.

 _“—I am asking for a moment of your time, M-di-H’chak,”_ The nurse clicks at him. _“I am not here as an Adjutant. If I was—I would not have been given access by the guards outside.”_

The words take him aback. H’chak questions if the rankings in the clan could have changed in two cycles.

 _M-di._ He knows the answer.

 _“What is your title, Bist’ri?”_ The man grits his teeth. Sundew tugs on his mesh suit near his hip. She looks up at him and he down at her and in a second all his irritation dissipates.

 _Pauk._ In hindsight—He should’ve had a talk with Bist’ri alone. The nurse intends to use Sundew to placate him in discussion.

_“I am the head nurse of Clan Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division. As of now, I outrank you.”_

_“You cannot be serious.”_ H’chak remarks bitterly.

Sundew tilts her head to one side. She lets go of him—much to his dismay, as he wants nothing more than to have as much of her touching him as possible—and rests her hands at her sides. “I think—I believe she is telling the truth. H’chak.”

 _What have you done to my mate?_ Is the Yautja’s first thought. He growls lowly at Bist’ri and steps away from Sundew to eye up the nurse. Bist’ri does not back down, though her mask does not face him again. H’chak clicks at her. _“If you want to talk—You’ll turn around, go outside, and wait until I’m ready for you.”_

 _“What? You can’t be serious,”_ the ‘head nurse’ of Gahn’tha-cte visibly balks at the suggestion. _“You’re under investigation! Pending trial!”_

 _“As are you.”_ The Elite retorts dryly. _“I wish to see my mate alone. It is the mating season and I wish to mate her. I do not care if you watch, but I understand you may not—”_

_“Five minutes._

_“Half an hour cycle, ‘head nurse’.”_ H’chak crosses his arms and grunts. When he looks to the side, he sees Sundew’s face flush gray. He purrs quietly at her, ecstatic by her response.

 _“Twenty minutes.”_ Bist’ri’s bartering skills are lackluster, as H’chak intends to make the session a quickie. He clicks affirmatively and glares at her from beyond his mask until the nurse relents in turning metaphorical tail and leaving.

No sooner than she is gone does his mate pause. “Were you serious about that? Your words, H’chak—"

 _“Do you want me to be?”_ He clicks, melting against her when she wraps arms around his torso and looks up.

For as much as he yearns for others to perceive him as fierce and intimidating, all it takes is one touch for the Vekin to make him swoon. He is reminded how desperately he craves her, everything from her strange laughter, to her soft lips, to the coldness locked deep inside her body, in a place only he can fill.

“I would like that very much.” Sundew’s words are eager and anticipatory, though his mate pauses briefly to add on, “Which reminds me—Ivon wants a threesome with me and you. I informed them you are likely uninterested due to their proximity to Vayuh’ta.”

 _“I don’t have an interest in the engineer. The only one I am interested in is you, right now,”_ H’chak clicks briskly as he takes his mate’s hand and walks her into the bedchamber. He made the bed hours ago when he got up; its dark black sheets remind him of the night sky. No sooner than Sundew begins to _ooh_ and _ahh_ at his private bedchambers does H’chak come up behind her and gently touch the sides of her torso with his gloved hands. He leans down and clicks softly. _“Do you want me to touch you?”_

“Please,” Sundew exhales in delight as H’chak moves his hands to the front of her torso. He begins fondling her breasts beneath the mesh suit and leather top she wears. His fingers are gentle kneading her cool flesh, and when he hears a soft moan fall from her lips, the man presses more vigorously and searches for her nipples.

He finds them easily. The pads of his finger lightly twist and grind against the unseen teats, slowly feeling them erect against his indulgent touches. When Sundew begins to squirm against him, H’chak clicks in a deep, rumbling laughter. He squeezes one last time before releasing her and guiding her to his bed. She faces it while he stands behind her, hands rubbing up and down her arms, as the two breathe each other’s presence in and relax. It feels natural, as if the two are always supposed to be like _this_ , and it connects him to her in a way H’chak would gladly die to protect.

Sundew peels her mesh suit off while H’chak rubs her shoulders and neck, taking great care not to apply too much pressure. Her delighted inhale signals her enjoyment at his hands. He puts a hand against her back and gently pushes her down until his beautiful mate is bent over the edge of the bed, hips up and looking more delectable by the second.

 _“Three days feel like forever,”_ he clicks abruptly. _“We don’t have much time, Sun-Dew.”_

“Let’s make the most of it,” Sundew looks over her shoulder at him, where his much larger frame towers over her shorter one. The coy smile on her lips makes heat simmer violently in H’chak’s body. He swallows and nods once, already feeling his cock unsheathe behind his loincloth.

 _“I love you. I—Wanted you to know that.”_ H’chak clicks softly, weakly, for her. He doesn’t push her away when she stands up and helps him with his armor, then with his mesh suit. Her hands make him feel sparks every time the cool flesh touches him, slowly easing his apparel off until the green Yautja is left with nothing to cover himself.

“I love you too,” Sundew reassures him, unaware of how much craven lust and fantasies the words unleash in his head.

 _Or—Too aware._ He swallows, the white scales of his throat rumbling in need.

He wants her more than he wants honor. He wants _her,_ right now, but he wants her to enjoy the beautiful connection they share with the other.

H’chak pauses. _“I think—I would like to pleasure you—"_

“That will take too much time,” Sundew points out gently, taking his hands in hers. Her clear eyes are as beautiful as the stars. “I want to be with you, H’chak. Right now, together, connected—"

 _“Pauk! Pauk, I—I love you, so much,”_ H’chak feels his knees wobble. _“In the future. Then. I want a day cycle where you are mine to worship.”_

“I am already yours.” She reminds him, releasing both his hands to take one and lift it to her face. She kisses his palm and looks up. “You are equally mine.”

 _“I want to take you from the front,”_ the Elite speaks with growing urgency, suddenly hyper-aware of the time and how long things may take. Sundew nods and lets his hand go. She climbs up further on his bed and turns to face him, sprawled out and looking cozy in his sheets and pelts. H’chak cannot curse enough in his head at how violently his penis twitches. He courses full of desire, unable to stop himself from clambering up after her and dragging himself between her legs. He stands on his knees between her thighs and looks down at her face, admiring the flush of gray on her silver cheeks.

She’s a beautiful woman. She’s _his_ beautiful woman, and he has been blessed to have her at his side.

He lines himself up with her entrance. The Vekin exhales softly and reaches for his hands. Both her hands and his intertwine, fingers lacing just as H’chak thrusts inside. The head of his cock disappears, and he feels his mate tremor from the intrusion. He clicks softly at her, waiting for an answer to do more. She squeezes his hands. “I love you. I love doing this with you— _ah—”_

Her cries become loud and desperate as he slowly rolls his hips into hers. H’chak grunts loudly as he lets go of her hands and plants them on either side of her head. His body arches over hers, his eyes greedily soaking in the sight of her ajar lips and the sounds of her pants. When she nods, he thrusts again, and the corkscrew-like shaft plunges deeply into the cold, wet flesh. Sundew’s back arches; he has found the point inside her he _loves_ , the one full of nerve endings just waiting to be caressed.

It all becomes a flurry of cold embraces and lust from there. H’chak begins to smack the two’s hips together, vigorously pounding into his beautiful mate to the point she grabs hold of his arms to steady herself amidst her sounds of pleasure.

His bed shudders and shakes from the two’s lovemaking. Sundew writhes in vain attempts to throw her legs around his waist. He keeps her legs pressed up against his thighs, giving him easy access to angle every pump into her body. A coil begins to tighten in his groin as heat spreads over his form and mingles with the contrasting coolness brought on by his mate’s flesh. He throws his head back and groans in desperation as Sundew grips his arms hard enough to bruise.

“H’chak—H’chak—” His mate fails to get the words out before she tenses and clenches down on him. H’chak struggles not to rut her raw from the euphoric sensation. Sundew begins repeating his name as he continues the two’s pace. Her first orgasm is soon followed by a second as he locates the spot deep inside her and angles himself into it.

The tension in his body becomes tighter. H’chak shudders with the need to release, yet he remains from the precipice he _needs_ to throw himself over. He leans down and presses his forehead against his mate’s. Sundew hiccups and grabs him, pulling him down in one swoop to kiss his mask. It is affectionate enough to drive home his lust, his greed, his _everything_ he finds in the woman beneath him.

The man roars at the bedchamber as he humps weakly into his mate. His orgasm spreads over him like a wave, ensnaring every inch of flesh in warmth and pleasure as his dam bursts and he climaxes into his mate’s body. He fills her deeply and she pants beneath him, only to shriek in delight when his hands find her pelvis and seek out the nub of nerves. H’chak’s orange eyes are full of warmth behind his mask as he eagerly grinds his thumb against her clit, feeling how his mate clamps down on him in response. She comes with a soft wail and arch of her back, pressing against him even as he pulls out and lowers against her.

He rubs their bare chests together, his chest rumbling throughout the gesture of affection. Sundew catches her breath and wraps her arms around his neck. She clings to him, as desperate to keep him there as he is for her.

 _“We will do this again, will we not? I like your bed,”_ the woman speaks with a sleepy warmth indicating her usual post-coital exhaustion. H’chak purrs softly in response. Sundew accepts it as a response, and the two lay there a while longer.

* * *

Bist’ri finds the odors in the residence have greatly changed when she reenters M-di-H’chak’s quarters. She finds herself shuddering briefly, as her brain initially registers the scent as _Guan_ ’s before she corrects herself. She tries not to think about the fact she just allowed the man at the heart of a massive trial to bed a creature considered _prey_ by any other Yautja. The thought of seeing M-di-H’chak naked is bad enough; she sits pointedly in the common area and waits. She doesn’t have to wait long until she hears someone shut a bedchamber door and stride down the main hall to the common area.

M-di-H’chak wears clothes—thank Cetanu—but he still reeks of the intermingled scent hinting at his activities with the Vekin. He is dressed in his loincloth and thermal suit, but the Elite foregoes his armor as he sits on a floating hoverchair across from Bist’ri and crosses his arms. His face is hidden behind his mask, but she anticipates a scathing glare to come from beyond it, aimed and poised for her.

_“Bist’ri.”_

_“M-di-H’chak.”_ She tries to keep her words civil and polite, channeling the calm nurse persona she is known for. _“I am here to talk about Elder Lar’ja, your sirer.”_

 _“Sei-I, sei-I, I am sure. Go on. No one is stopping you.”_ His clicks are not nearly so irate.

 _“As I—As I said before,”_ Bist’ri is flustered a moment, mainly by the man’s sassy remarks in lieu of the two’s distinct rankings. The head nurse sits upright and calms herself. _“—I am the head nurse of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division. You can confirm this with any of the Elites posted at your residence, or you can ask the Elders themselves for confirmation. Tjau’ke took on Elder Lar’ja’s honor and… Well. Lar’ja lost hers.”_

 _“How?”_ H’chak grits his teeth.

 _“…You remember me coming to you—Asking you to donate thwei for Elder Lar’ja? I am sure you do.”_ The blue Yautja looks to the side, green eyes dim behind her mask. _“You know Elder Lar’ja is your sirer.”_

_“Would have liked to know a lot sooner.”_

_“Ki’sei. But that is not the topic right now. You know Elder Lar’ja is your sirer—She can accept your blood. Likewise—So can your mei-hswei,”_ It hurts too much to say the name, but luckily for Bist’ri, the Elite appears to understand. Bist’ri exhales softly. _“M-di-H’chak—I may repeat knowledge you already know. But—Elder Lar’ja challenged Akrei-non-Daga, Clan Leader, and lost. Leader Daga spared her life.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak clicks once. _“She is injured, I know that. I volunteered my thwei to help her.”_

 _“Did anyone tell you the extent of her injuries, M-di-H’chak?”_ Bist’ri clicks softly.

 _“Refresh my memory, my leitjin.”_ He growls.

 _“She is dying as we speak. I do not anticipate her living past three day cycles.”_ Bist’ri clicks and chirrups the words bluntly.

She sees the man’s form tense. His arms lower to his sides and he balls his hands into fists. _“Explain.”_

 _“In their fight, Akrei-non-Daga’s dah’kte left several deep lacerations across atriums and ventricles of three of her four hearts. The thwei loss would have killed her if Guan-Tjau’ke was not present on the scene. Though her body is stable, it is only a matter of time until her remaining heart gives out from the exertion of sustaining the body’s circulatory system on its own.”_ The words do not feel like they come from her mandibles. Even as she speaks them, Bist’ri remains in partial disbelief the events unfolded at all.

She sees M-di-H’chak rise to his feet. The man curses blatantly. _“—By Cetanu—The Black Hunter—There must be something someone can do—”_

 _“There was one option considered,”_ Bist’ri exhales, staring the man down when his mask angles to face her. _“If a biological match meeting the requisites required for her body not to reject the organ—If such a match donated a heart—It is possible she may survive, though she will never be as she once was.”_ She knows her words inspire a small flicker of hope in the man.

It is evident in the way he breathes out, releasing the tension and shaking out his hands. _“Then—Then—I am a match, Bist’ri—”_

 _“You and your mei-hswei are the only immediate kin within Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Bist’ri confirms.

 _“What about Vayuh’ta?!”_ H’chak snaps his head back to look at Bist’ri. She sinks into her seat. _“Three hearts between us all—”_

_“The ic’jit is not Lar’ja’s pup, even if she shares half of your mei-hswei’s thwei.”_

_“Pauk! Then—Then two hearts? Two cora’n? One from me and Guan—”_

* * *

He strikes a nerve saying his twin’s name. H’chak sees it in the head nurse: the tension he just released slithers to her and makes her freeze where she sits. The man pauses, perplexed, but he soon dismisses the thought and growls at her. _“Sei-i? M-di? Can we each not give a cora’n?”_

 _“M-di.”_ The head nurse clicks softly. She bows her head. _“Your—Your mei-hswei would not survive the operation. Not how he is now. He does not have enough thwei. Neither do you—Not to have your chest cut open, not to donate so Lar’ja may have her chest cut open—It is not an easy procedure.”_

 _“I have more than enough thwei! Even for that wretched sirer of mine!”_ He tries to argue, only to fall quiet when Bist’ri stands.

She unclasps her mask and takes it off. Her eyes are a vivid forest green, somber and full of grief.

_“You are not a nurse, Elite. You do not know how much thwei it took to stabilize your mei-hswei twice, much less your sirer. Perhaps—You could donate some. Be left fatigued and idle for a time until your body produces more thwei. But… You cannot do both. Give a cora’n and give the thwei Lar’ja needs to survive the operation. It will bring you the final rest. And as it stands—Your mate will not make it in Gahn’tha-cte by herself.”_

His hands return to fists. He has no difficulty marching up to the blue Yautja and glaring up at her but a foot away. _“Sun-Dew is capable on her own.”_

 _“Not capable enough. None of us are, it seems,”_ Bist’ri clicks the latter sentence softly. _“I understand you detest me, but I would like to offer my condo—"_

 _“What about an artificial cora’n? What about a—A pacemaker? Something to serve as the organ until Guan and I recover enough to give blood and survive the surgeries necessary to donate a heart? A heart from each of us would take my sirer back to three—”_ H’chak cuts himself off when the head nurse lifts a hand, a gesture for him to silence. He growls faintly before falling quiet.

 _“One would have to be made fit to the injuries Elder Lar’ja sustained. As it stands—The engineer most capable of producing one in this time is Kwei-Bezas, and they are not permitted visitors. I already,”_ the woman tenses in her seat. She puts her bio-mask back on. _“I sent the Clan Leader a message, H’chak. Before I came here—Before I brought your mate to you—I asked him—Tjau’ke asked him—He does not care! He doesn’t care if Elder Lar’ja lives or dies. I could not stand him before, and I cannot stand him now.”_

The venom in her voice when she speaks of the man is real. H’chak stares, not even bothered enough to correct her and make her use his full name.

 _“Your mei-hswei and I both think Ikthya-De is extorting him. He is—He is using up all his resources, leverage, everything, to try and make Lar’ja meet the final rest without the onus on his back.”_ Bist’ri looks to the side.

H’chak’s growl is louder, deeper. _“Like I believe a word out of my mei-hswei’s mouth. He is a foul man, and if you cannot see that—You are a foul woman!”_

 _“Why do you insist Guan wants ill of you?!”_ Something in the head nurse snaps and her voice fills with anger. _“Do you think he wanted that bitch for himself?! Do you think he enjoys her company?”_

 _“That ‘bitch’,”_ H’chak seethes in place. _“Is Ikthya-De-th’Syra. And she has done nothing to warrant your cruelty!”_

_“Nothing? Is that what she tells you? Open your eyes, you asinine kv’var-de! S’yuit-de, H’chak, you are being used by her—I do not know what she said but she is not the woman you think she is!”_

He’s heard enough out of the Yautja’s mandibles. H’chak snarls and grabs her wrist, only for the nurse to twist his arm behind him. He digs a foot into her ankle and in a second both crash into the ground. He is stronger, but she is _strong,_ and the nurse has equipment where he lacks weapons. Bist’ri’s _dah’kte_ are extended in a second, shoved against his neck even when he straddles her and pins her by the throat. H’chak pants heavily and hisses at her. _“I can snap your neck faster than you can cut mine.”_

 _“Bet.”_ Bist’ri whispers, but her voice cracks. Her composure is failing. H’chak doesn’t know why, but he knows she can’t last long with someone holding her down.

“What are you doing?” The voice of a sleepy, poorly dressed Vekin comes from the corridor connecting the common area to his bedchamber. H’chak freezes and it is enough for Bist’ri to bring her knees up and plant her feet in his chest, kicking him off with a surge of strength he didn’t expect her to have. The hunter growls and staggers to his feet.

Bist’ri’s growls back at him.

 _“If Guan wanted you dead,”_ she snaps. _“You wouldn’t be here to hear these words.”_

 _“He wanted a fate worse than that. A fate void of everything I earned, everything I worked for!”_ H’chak curses even as he hears Sundew stride to him. _“Prestige! Respect! Everything!”_

Any other time—His heartstrings might be tugged by the sight of her in a massively oversized black robe, a type of formal wear for serious occasions. He can’t focus on how lovely she looks when disgust and hate fills his lungs, inhibits his thwei, and clouds his head.

His mate tugs his wrist. He looks over and hisses, only for Sundew to blink and ignore him as she inquires, “You were distracted. You did not notice me here, did you?”

_Here?_

_“You’ve been in the bedchamber.”_ H’chak reasons.

“I have been here since you used that word… Memory. _Leitjin._ ” Sundew smiles politely. “But I am here now. I have heard you two. Let me drink my fill with her blood, H’chak. Her memories cannot lie to me.”

* * *

The idea sounds preposterous and degrading. Bist’ri stiffens where she stands, green eyes locked on the duo. Her mind races. She cannot fathom giving thwei to the Vekin. If the entity was an Im-Gen, sure, but the entity is a _Vekin_ and she does not know if Vekin are Im-Gen or Im-Gen are Vekin or how the two correlate with one another. She grits her teeth. _“How much do you need?”_

H’chak growls at her. _“You can’t lie in your memories. Even if your mind tries to deceive you—It can’t deceive her.”_

 _“How much?”_ Bist’ri repeats, patience waning once more.

The Vekin at H’chak’s side shrugs. Sundew sounds calm when she speaks, _“As much as I deem necessary.”_

 _“Will it bring me the final rest?”_ The head nurse clicks.

“Not unless you are a threat to H’chak or I.” Sundew loops an arm with the Elite pointedly, her smile becoming a wide grin. He clams up. Any other day cycle—The sight might have been funny.

 _Not with these two._ Bist’ri thinks. She inhales slowly, considering the idea.

 _“You may see sinful things, Sun-Dew. Things I—I would not wish on this world. Not even on an ic’it.”_ The head nurse warns, though she unclasps her _dah’kte_ and takes off her thermal suit’s glove before rolling the sleeve up. She instinctively tries to twist her arm in a way that her scars are hidden, but the Vekin strides forward boldly and seizes her wrist. Sundew immediately twists her arm to make the underside face up, revealing the scars of old and new along her blue pelt.

The Vekin pauses. She looks over her shouder. _“H’chak, are these markings normal on a Yautja?”_

 _“Which ones?”_ The Elite takes a step forward but Bist’ri curses and attempts to step back.

 _“Don’t,”_ she grits her teeth. _“You—Don’t look. Don’t look at me.”_

 _“Tell me later, Sun-Dew.”_ To her surprise, Bist’ri sees the Elite back away.

Sundew’s grip on her wrist becomes softer. She smiles at Bist’ri when the head nurse looks back at the silver figure. “This will hurt for a moment. I will only take what is necessary to prove or disprove your statements.”

 _“Drink your fill,”_ the head nurse clicks softly. She looks away as Sundew nods, and her cry of pain is the only noise in the room when the Vekin sinks teeth into her flesh and begins to feed.


	63. more human than you think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> -instance of misgendering in the first section  
> -degradation / degrading language  
> -the first lengthy section is very dark, as it covers a memory of a brothel involved in trafficking. Heavy implications of past rape.  
> -mention of whips  
> -talk about pregnancy & miscarriages  
> -talk about abuse  
> -vomiting and nausea

Memories: dozens upon dozens of memories. Memories of watching fights, memories of assisting nurses across the clan in everything from pharmaceutical manufacturing to the delivery of live pups, memories of giving injections, disposing of used needles, and administering small doses of narcotics to ease a patient's pain, memories on memories on _memories_ , all of things she doesn’t remember hearing of in the past—It all reveals itself to her in the feeding.

* * *

_The head nurse’s thwei takes her through the past, plunging beyond recent cycles to a time she cannot recognize, to Yautja Sundew does not know. She finds herself lost in a memory of a dirty ship, with dozens of other Yautja cower nude in tiny cells, with each wearing heavy collars on their neck._

_The collars are nefarious. They are metal, with akrei laced and primed to detonate. When she thinks about her neck, she feels the weight of a collar there._

_She looks at her hands. They are red and white. She does not have a bio-mask to view anything in the usual spectrum of color, only thermal signatures per a Yautja’s natural vision. When she looks to her right, she spies a horrifically thin man tucked into a corner._

_“…M-di… M-di… M-di…”_

_Sundew’s chest instinctively aches for him, but Sundew quickly realizes it is a memory. Her ‘feelings’ belong to the head nurse, to Bist’ri, and it clicks in her head the Yautja nearby must be one of her kin, or someone of importance. He too wears a collar, notably by the collar-shape gap in his heat signature at his neck. He moans in a way indicating pain. He sounds injured and, when she inhales the scent of thwei, it dawns on her he is injured quite badly._

_“Tar…" The voice—Bist’ri’s voice—is so solemn and full of grief it makes Sundew nauseous. She reaches for the man, but he hisses in response and curls up tighter in the corner of the two’s shared cell._

_‘Why shared?’ Sundew thinks of her own accord before the memory takes full control once more._

_“Don’t. Don’t.” The other Yautja begins to weep silently, quivering all the while. “M-di… M-di… M-di…”_

_A great door opens, the heavy creak of metal provoking fear across every Yautja in a cell. Some begin to sob, others curse, but most position themselves to be tucked away into the corner, as far from their cell doors as possible. Sundew—Bist’ri—does likewise, hiding away to the side. Her cellmate—Tar?—remains a mess sprawled out in a corner of the two’s shared cell._

_A group of Yautja enter the ship’s cargo hold. Four of them are thick and muscular, donning heavy body armor far beyond what Sundew recalls of the Yautja she saw when she disembarked the Kukulkan. Neither of the armored Yautja she knows, but Sundew finds fear spiking in her regardless. She identifies the fear belonging to the head nurse, to Bist’ri, and it only grows as the armored Yautja lead a group of well-dressed—but not armored—Yautja between rows of cells. It isn’t until one of the unarmored Yautja pauses and clicks that things begin to piece together in her mind.  
_

_“Excuse me, fine patrons, one moment. This one—” An unarmored Yautja, a slimmer individual, trills. “The good Count Xtuxjik requests she be put in the… usual restraints. Please remind him to return her in one piece; this one is one of my favorites.”_

_Sundew can smell the horror, the fear, the sheer, raw hate rising from the shrieking, roaring Yautja within the cage when two ‘guards’ open it and drag her out._

_“On second thought—Keep her collar on. If things go awry, it’s better to have one less mouth to feed than a pissed off—” The click that follows is a word Sundew—Bist’ri—does not know. The slim Yautja clears their throat and turns to face the mass of heat signatures. “Respectful patrons, I understand this is… Quite a loud ordeal to witness! But rest assured—Most of our stock are silent and well-behaved. We have many beautiful hunters and huntresses to pick from. Each of them has gone through rigorous training to understand exactly how to satisfy your every need—Yes, you, sir?”_

_“M’am.”_

_“Apologies, miss.” The slim Yautja nods once. “How may I can assist you?”_

_“I…” In the memory—Sundew feels Bist’ri stop. She feels the nurse’s confusion, brief and waning as time goes by. The second Yautja continues to click after a moment, addressing the ‘host’, “I understand you rent out bodies for pleasure?”_

_“We are committed to providing our patrons with the sexual experience of a lifetime! Our stock is guaranteed to satisfy, and we cater to a wide variety of kinks. Whether you require someone flogged, pegged, or dressed up as a maid, there is little we cannot provide. We offer rooms customized to each individual and the stock selected…” The host goes on a moment, blabbing about the different features of rooms and the toys and outfits available upon request._

_It is all spoken casually, as if Sundew does not witness the man call the caged Yautja degrading terms like ‘stock’, as if the ship isn’t a massive trafficking scheme, as if life is anything but a wretched, rancid pile of cjit brought on by the greed of individuals in pursuit of wealth and power._

_“I’m not interested in renting.” The second Yautja intervenes. Her voice is blunt and cold, prompting at least one other patron to flinch. “I want to buy.”_

* * *

H’chak catches her before her knees can give out. Sundew’s mind is a swirling mess of different emotions as she topples to the side and clings to her mate. Her clear eyes would dim if they could, but for now she settles for staring blankly into the distance. Her thoughts put everything together, and the final image presented is downright _horrifying_.

“How can you stand there?” She mumbles under her breath, her gaze flickering to Bist’ri. “How do you stand there looking so… unaffected? Tall? You were—"

 _“Sun-Dew?”_ Her mate clicks in concern. _“Sun-Dew! What’s—"_

She can’t think. She feels nauseous. Sundew struggles to stand upright, only able to take a few steps in the direction of H’chak’s kitchen before her faux stomach churns and ejects. She doubles over and vomits, coughing and heaving every bit of disgust she feels at what she witnessed. The head nurse’s blood, the blood she fed upon, spews across the clean floor of the common area. Sundew chokes and weeps after, her body a shaking mess on the floor. She holds her head in her hands and wails with the agony encompassed in a single memory.

“Why?!” She screams the word at the ceiling, at Bist’ri, at the universe, despite knowing all three cannot give her the answers she needs. “Why did they do such a thing?” 

The head nurse is quiet. Sundew flinches at the feeling of H’chak kneeling near her and putting a hand on her shoulder. She shies from him, gently pushing him away and shaking her head. The man stiffens where he kneels, but after a moment he nods and straightens upright.

 _“…I’ve thought about it a lot over the cycles,”_ the head nurse’s clicks are soft. _“What compels a Yautja to commit the second worst crime? Why did they do it? Money? Power? Influence? Control? But I—"_

Sundew looks up at Bist’ri. Her gaze narrows. She wipes her mouth and stares. “You do not know.”

 _“Sei-I, nor will I ever find out.”_ Bist’ri exhales loudly. _“I am sorry you found… those memories, Sun-Dew. I would rather keep it all to myself than share. But I—I need you both to believe me—To trust me. I need that from you and your… mate.”_

 _“Sun-Dew,”_ it is H’chak who addresses her next. The green Yautja sounds concerned. _“Are you alright?”_

 _I was supposed to find the memories of Ikthya-De-th’Syra. The memories of that woman and how she treated Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. But I did not. Not in that blood. Not in that feeding…_ Sundew shuts her eyes. She takes a moment to calm herself, to soothe her nerves, to remind herself the memory is not her reality. It haunts her regardless. She imagines the wails of the Yautja who was torn from her cage whenever she stops thinking.

The Vekin feels ill again. _I did not… locate what I needed to find. I need to take more blood… I need to feed again… I must…_

The thought is enough to make her begin heaving again. She does not throw up a second time, but she holds a hand to her mouth and trembles. She doesn’t push her mate away when H’chak pulls her into his arms, his hands rubbing her shoulders gently. She leans into his touch, willing the terror to leave with the comfort brought by her mate’s presence.

 _I cannot take more. I cannot._ She rubs her head against her mate’s side, desperate for everything to right itself again. _I cannot, H’chak. I am sorry. But this is a word I will not be able to keep…_

It is a risk to take the head nurse at _her_ word. Sundew feels an affinity toward her, but she no longer knows whether it is because of what she witnessed in the nurse’s memories or because she trusts her outside of the traumatic experiences of the past. She wants to believe the nurse demonstrates no reason to lie right _now_. She peers at the nurse, at Bist’ri, while the latter stands quietly with her mask angled at the floor, almost… _ashamed?_

“H’chak.” Sundew wraps her arms around his torso. “Promise me you will listen to what I tell you.”

 _“Sei-i. I promise.”_ He assures her, a brief purr following until her fear—which she knows he can smell—dissipates.

“This nurse speaks the truth. Believe her.” The Vekin intones softly.

She feels her mate freeze next to her. She looks up and watches the rise and fall of his chest. She listens to his heartbeats. She holds him and embraces the warmth he radiates, the warmth she knows could kill her if it rose enough degrees in temperature.

 _“Are you sure of this?”_ Her mate clicks gently. His hand caresses her face, rubbing the pad of a thumb against her cheek. She leans into his touch. _“Sun-Dew.”_

“She will not lie to you.” Sundew utters in a hushed tone. “I have seen things, H’chak. Things I—I wish I had not. She will not lie to you. Believe her.”

 _Engulf her. Make sure she tells only truths. You cannot afford to be wrong, FLORA._ GHOST’s fragment of consciousness flickers through her mind briefly. Sundew shudders.

 _No._ She thinks in her head. _I do not want to know her memories. They do not bring me the satisfaction of new knowledge. Not hers._

The room is thick with tension for a long minute.

Sundew sees her mate pause, likely contemplating her words. She stares at him fervently, only to grab his hand and clutch it in her smaller one when he doesn’t respond. “Believe her as you believe me.”

* * *

 _You don’t understand what that asks of me._ He wants to breathe, to speak, to say.

The Elite watches Sundew with conflicted orange eyes locked behind his mask. He narrows his gaze on her, contemplative. _“Is that what you want?”_

“Yes.” Sundew nods once. “But I need you to believe her as you believe me. Do not pretend to believe her and turn your back on her later, H’chak.”

 _“I…”_ H’chak’s hands tense into fists. He growls and curses loudly, no longer able to hide his displeasure at her request. The man looks away. _“I don’t know if I can.”_

The room is quiet once again.

“I believe her.” Sundew leaves his side, crosses the room, and stands next to the head nurse, to the wretched, disloyal woman. His mate seems like an entirely other person when he looks at her. She stands up straight, no hesitation left in her demeanor.

 _“I cannot forgive Guan.”_ The Elite whispers in a soft, low click. _“I cannot earn your forgiveness, Bist’ri. He is no longer Adjutant. He cannot earn my forgiveness, and I cannot forgive him to earn yours. I cannot say anything will change even if I believe your words.”_

 _“He’s sorry, kv’var-de. He is sorry for—”_ Bist’ri begins, but she cuts herself off when H’chak growls loudly.

 _“I know he is. I hope he is. It’s a start to all,”_ the man shakes his head. _“All the cjit he put me through—What he did—His actions—Ruined me! Put me on this path! Do you see where I am now? What I am? My honor? Prestige? Reputation? My life is nothing—I have nothing! Pauk! No one! Cjit! I lost the respect of everyone I cared about because of him! What do I have left now? Who do I have left?”_

He regrets the words immediately, as he sees how his mate stills and tilts her head to one side. It is strange how one tiny gesture expresses _so much_. The man freezes and stares at her, meeting the silver figure’s clear gaze.

 _“Sun-Dew—”_ He begins, but he doesn’t know what to say.

H’chak stands there, a mess of many makings: a man who struggles to anchor himself in a storm.

The Vekin clears her throat. “You have me, H’chak.”

 _“—And the entirety of the medical division. Regardless how distasteful and crude your actions have been,”_ The head nurse clicks immediately after. Bist’ri unclasps her bio-mask and takes it off, her green eyes meeting his gaze. _“What do you have against me, M-di-H’chak? Why can’t you believe me? Have I been that cruel a nurse to you, kv’var-de?”_

 _“Because it means—”_ H’chak growls at everyone, at himself, at the world. _“I have wronged you again. You and… my mei-hswei. I have been used by Ikthya-De-th’Syra when I vowed to never be so foolish! Never again! S’yuit-de!”_

 _“Are you angry at yourself?”_ Bist’ri steps forward, but H’chak snarls at her. His mandibles flare behind his mask.

He doesn’t make a peep when Sundew walks back to his side and takes his hand in both her own. She peers up at him. “H’chak.”

He looks off to the side, but the man knows his mate is a persistent one. She smiles politely at him and squeezes his hand.

“H’chak. I know you can hear me,” The silver figure speaks softly. “Please do not shut me out. Tell me what you are thinking. Talk to me.”

His chest tightens, but not solely out of anger. Guilt clings to his back and caresses his face like a lover recently reunited.

He slowly pulls his hand free from Sundew. She blinks once, twice, then stills. H’chak steps away from her, feeling the guilt dig its claws into his flesh even more.

 _“If I believe you,”_ H’chak snaps at Bist’ri. He clenches his teeth. _“—Then—That means—She did it again—She fooled me again—She used me—Again!”_

_“Perhaps that is the case. I’m sorry you wound up in this position, but—”_

_“M-di! You don’t understand—”_ H’chak trails off in an endless string of curses. He shakes his head and turns away. _“If I believe you—If you speak truth—I have wronged you, Bist’ri. I have wronged you and the man who wronged me cycles ago.”_

The nurse does not say anything at first. H’chak looks over his shoulder at the woman. Just off her posture alone, he sees her confusion. Then—Her figure tenses. Bist’ri’s voice becomes very low as she clicks, _“What have you done?”_

“H’chak?” Sundew asks when he says nothing.

 _“…She told me my mei-hswei threatened to bring her the final rest… Abused her. Acts of dishonor of nigh highest degree.”_ H’chak hisses at his mate, at Bist’ri, at the world. _“I have committed a grave act of dishonor. I cannot beg for enough forgiveness, not when I deserve none—”_

 _“What did you do?”_ Bist’ri reiterates her question, voice rising in volume.

H’chak shakes his head. _“You and my mei-hswei—I thought the two of you were carrying out acts of dishonor—I—Pauk! Pauk all of this—I gave a copy of the Kukulkan’s mask signatures to Ikthya-De. I kept one for myself in event I had to come forward about a paired Adjutant cheating on the one he swore his life to—"_

* * *

A sickening feeling stirs in her stomach. Bist’ri feels her eyes go wide and her hands start to tremble. She is foolish to have thought Ikthya-De was anything but the wretched woman she has been for cycles, scheming and conniving her way to manipulate and hurt others. H’chak was used by her, his feelings exploited by the woman to sow hate between the two twins. Bist’ri was nothing more than collateral caught in the crosshairs.

But even with the knowledge of how deeply H’chak loved Ikthya-De once, even with the knowledge of how likely he was to have accepted any viewpoint which painted his mei-hswei in a damning light, Bist’ri still thought M-di-H’chak was a decent man. A man full of mistakes, but a _kv’var-de_ nonetheless.

 _“You hate him that much?”_ She breathes aloud, her rage barely restrained by her nausea and the growing sensation of helplessness.

 _“I never stopped hating him since that day.”_ H’chak clicks in response, somber.

 _“Enough to go behind his back—My back—To obtain a list like that—He and I never consented to being surveilled in this manner,”_ Bist’ri’s green eyes darken. She strides forward, ignoring the Elite’s growl of warning. She doesn’t care when Sundew tries to intervene, pushing the Vekin aside with no care for electrical currents the entity can produce. No matter the disbelief or sickening exhaustion on her back, Bist’ri is fueled by her anger. With several inches over the Yautja, it is easy to seize him by the collar of his thermal mesh and growl. _“—You dishonorable man! S’yuit-de! Disgusting!”_

She does not find resistance when she throws him backward. Her eyes flare angrily, full of intent she will not let herself pursue. For as much as she wants to drag the Elite to Tjau’ke and demand he hold himself accountable, the man’s bearer is no longer head nurse and Tjau’ke is too distracted by Elder Lar’ja’s current state to spare attention elsewhere.

Bist’ri is many things, but she considers herself _merciful._

For that reason alone, she refrains from taking the man’s head for such a blatant violation of privacy.

 _“When these trials are done—Or Guan recovers enough to walk—You will apologize to him. Enough of this cjit. Enough.”_ It is not a suggestion but a command.

Bist’ri releases the Elite; the latter stands quietly on the side.

 _“I did not come here today to have my patience tested! I am here for Elder Lar’ja’s sake. For Guan-Tjau’ke’s sake. For Guan’s sake. And, in a way, for your sake, because I thought you were just as worthy of respect as the rest of them,”_ she seethes where she stands, unable to hold back any of the venom in her growls and chirps. _“Tell me whether you want to try the heart transplant or not. Time is a finite resource for both of us.”_

The Elite is quiet, whether out of shame or regret or simply in a state of contemplation is beyond her.

She glares at him and waits.

 _“Is there really no other way?”_ Is what the man finally clicks. He sounds defeated, almost numb.

Bist’ri grits her teeth. _“The only engineer capable of rigging a pacemaker so quickly is detained in solitary pending their execution.”_

* * *

 _“Could Ivon do it? The teary, crying ooman, Sun-Dew_.” Her mate turns to her.

It is hard to think, what with the emotions of recent conversation beginning to simmer inside her cold critical mass. The Vekin’s shoulders slump ever-so-slightly. For a moment, the calm, courteous entity is at a loss for words.

“I…” She wants to say yes, to reassure her mate and the head nurse Ivon Yurvchik is more than capable of doing _amazing_ things without meaning to. They are strange like that, capable of bridging the gap of technological advancements between humanity and Yautja.

But she knows better. She knows Ivon is not in the right headspace to take wires and circuitry and make something out of all the bits and bobs. Ivon is a person who needs stability, who needs space, who needs _their alien mate_ to be there at their side. She doubts Vayuh’ta will be permitted to leave a cell, and she doubts Ivon is willing to cooperate without incentive. There is also the issue of them needing their medication, both the remaining doses on the _Kukulkan_ and having a steady source of more medication when the current stash runs out.

“I do not believe they can. Not like this. Not right now,” Sundew speaks quietly, shaking her head. Her messy white hair shifts as she looks back at H’chak. “Vayuh’ta cannot be let out of her containment chamber, can she? Will your Clan allow a Bad Blood like herself to walk freely?”

 _“M-di.”_ It is Bist’ri who answers, albeit less angrily compared to earlier statements.

“…Then they will have no interest in helping. They will not assist a clan who is about to hand their mate over to be forcibly expired.”

 _“Then—Unless a donor is found—”_ Bist’ri tenses and turns away. _“Elder Lar’ja will meet the final rest. The medical division cannot grow a cora’n out of nothing. Not honorably.”_

“Ah.” Sundew frowns. She begins to wring her wrists. “I am sorry I cannot be of more help.”

* * *

To be invited to the Elder’s residence is an insult Tjau’ke did not think the Yautja capable of. Yet she finds herself, deep into the evening cycle, quietly entering the living quarters after the doors are remotely unlocked. She finds the murky blue green Yautja dressed in elaborate layers of brilliant green silks, each flashier than the rest, with a gorgeous sash tying the robes shut at the latter’s waist. Ju’dha sits on a cushion on the ground, head bowed, and eyes shut. It isn’t until Tjau’ke shuts the doors behind her that the Elder pauses and lifts their head up.

Their green, green eyes meet Tjau’ke’s blue-gray ones. _“I’m surprised you came.”_

Tjau’ke grits her teeth. She walks to a long sofa and sits down on it, her form tense and rigid. _“Tell me what this is about.”_

 _“As you expect, Tjau’ke, this involves Elder Lar’ja,”_ the Elder dismisses her demand and clicks briskly. _“But if you want to be more specific—This is about Lar’ja and myself. I am sure you know why one calls a former nurse to their residence at such late hours. I need someone I can trust to talk to about an… intimate matter.”_

Ju’dha rises to their feet. Tjau’ke stares from behind her mask as the Elder pats down their robes before walking to Tjau’ke’s side. They take a seat next to her, ignoring her hiss and clasping a hand to the woman’s shoulder.

 _“You have lost your honor in this clan, but not in my eyes.”_ Ju’dha’s voice is calm, almost hypnotic in quality. _“I digress, Tjau’ke. I am jealous of you, for you have so many things I wish I could possess.”_

_“Elder Ju’dha—”_

Tjau’ke pauses when Ju’dha leans forward and clicks softly. _“Why is it Lar’ja fell for you when I have known her longer? Why is it you hold the respect of not only your pup, but mine?”_

 _“—You told me this is an intimate matter. Not a… I am not here to listen to you vent, Ju’dha.”_ The former nurse taps one foot pointedly.

 _“It is relevant, s’yuit-de! I want you to understand something. I speak as an Elder, not merely an… acquaintance, Guan-Tjau’ke,”_ the Elder is brisk on responding. _“I am jealous of you, Tjau’ke. You have so much I long to possess. The admiration of one’s own pup. The affections of a powerful huntress. Respect across the clan, even after your honor has been stripped—You are a Yautja who has carved a niche for herself in Gahn’tha-cte.”_

If only to make the ordeal end faster, Tjau’ke sits on a cushion far from Ju’dha. She does not hide the displeasure in her posture, nor the anger radiating off her. In her mind, this has become a waste of time, of finite resources of which she has so very little left with Lar’ja. She wants to be at her old friend’s side when the latter passes, if only to ensure Lar’ja does not meet the Black Hunter alone.

 _“Guan-Tjau’ke. For all the jealousy you hold toward me, I assure you the feeling is mutual in full,”_ Ju’dha-Jehdin sits upright and cracks their neck. Their long green locs hang idly at their side. _“We are both flawed individuals. We can each acknowledge the pettiness of our feelings, but act in pursuit of a mutually shared goal. I need your help.”_

 _“What could an Elder such as yourself possibly require of this lowly, unranked Yautja?”_ The former nurse asks, with a fair degree of spite.

 _“Inhale, Tjau’ke. Taste the scents in the air.”_ Ju’dha closes their eyes.

Tjau’ke breathes in deeply. She pauses, her bitterness driven out by surprise. _“—You are no longer in heat.”_

Her eyes widen in horror. She leaps to her feet and turns her bio-mask’s full spectrum filters off. Her thermal signature scans Ju’dha’s form, but when her natural eyesight cannot make out the details to confirm, she begins hastily flipping through different optical filters, until she finds one identifying just _what_ the Elder implies. Her mandibles hang open and she stares in shock at the cells multiplying within the older Yautja’s abdomen.

 _“You’re with pups.”_ The former nurse exhales loudly. _“Oh, Ju’dha—”_

 _“They may not be Lar’ja’s,”_ The Elder puts a hand on their abdomen. Tjau’ke returns her bio-mask to the full spectrum color filter. She begrudgingly walks closer, no longer able to stand afar and glare given new circumstances and information. When Ju’dha says nothing, Tjau’ke clicks at the Yautja to continue. Ju’dha-Jehdin looks down. _“I allowed Akrei-non-Daga to mate with me the night before Lar’ja and I—”_ They clear their throat.

Tjau’ke looks away, both appreciative and discouraged by the reminder. She grimaces. _“Ju’dha, answer me honestly. Is that why the two of you wound up mating?”_

 _“Sei-I s’ m-di, yes and no, Tjau’ke.”_ Ju’dha sighs loudly. _“Sei-I in part. I asked her to help because I could not stand Akrei-non-Daga’s musk. Lar’ja has a… A strange n’dui-se, Tjau’ke. Her scent dispels others. But it is not the only reason. M-di. I would be lying if I said I was not attracted to her, Tjau’ke. She is a beautiful woman. A powerful huntress. A shame she has her eyes on you, because I would give my life for her in four heartbeats. She is the one who saved Bist’ri. She is the one who brought Tarei’s remains back. I,”_ Ju’dha grits her teeth. _“I could not… I could not handle it emotionally. Not on my own.”_

_“She is someone you value.”_

_“Sei-I, deeply! A true ally, a close friend, a valiant companion! But—Nevermind that,”_ Ju’dha clicks abruptly. _“Regardless who is right or wrong—I am sorry I hurt you. You do not need to be jealous. She has adored you for far too long for… One mating session to capture her attention. If she survives this ordeal—I will make sure she tells you that.”_

 _“She will not survive.”_ Tjau’ke looks to the side. _“We—The medical division does not have organ donors available. She will—She will meet the final rest soon enough, Elder Ju’dha. She will remain unconscious until her remaining heart gives out.”_

The common area is quiet a moment.

 _“I’m sorry.”_ The Elder speaks sincerely, but it does not ease the ache in the woman’s chest.

 _“This ordeal—It is out of my hands, now. But if you,”_ Tjau’ke pauses and glances back at the Elder. _“If by chance—Those pups are not Daga’s—But Lar’ja’s—I want to do all I can to help you with them. Even with my pettiness. They are—They are innocent, honorable progeny. I will not hold a grudge against your progeny, Ju’dha-Jehdin.”_

 _“You are the only one I can trust with this.”_ The Elder exhales sharply. _“Daga must not know. Even—Even if they are his.”_

 _“You will need to tell Bist’ri. She is the head nurse now—I cannot get you access to medical equipment or supplies. You need pre-natal care during your pregnancy, and post-partum care after. Your age increases risks of complications, Ju’dha. This will not be an easy task...”_ For a time, the former nurse slips back into her nurse persona, rattling off information about the things Ju’dha needs to be aware of in order to increase the odds of carrying the pups to full term and birthing them without problems.

* * *

In the late hours onboard the _Gahn’tha-cte_ clanship, a Vekin remains awake.

Sundew lays on the bed of dark sheets. It is comfortable, what with H’chak’s warm body curled up around her protectively. He is passed out in the throes of slumber, but she remains wide awake and lost in her thoughts.

 _What do I have left now?_ H’chak had screamed the words earlier, lost in his own grief and rage. The Yautja had expressed a rawness Sundew did not enjoy seeing. Even now, it fills her with heartache to know he suffers so much, even though his pain hurts her in its own way.

 _You have me._ She presses her head against his bare chest, listening to the thump-thump-thump-thump of his four hearts. Four strong, healthy hearts. Her H’chak’s hearts. _You have me. You have me. Please do not… Think of her anymore._

She presses her lips against his left pectoral muscle. The Yautja stirs briefly before his eyes roll back into his head and exhaustion takes him once more. Sundew frowns and studies his scales, admiring the motley of green, brown, and white hues melding at different points. She examines the endless scars riddling her beloved’s body. So many stories she has left to learn about, but the call of knowledge does not ensnare her like it has before. It is the soiling of the memories she tasted earlier that lingers in her mind.

 _I made a mistake. I should not have fed on that woman._ Her eyes would dim if they could. She shuts them and feels through her regret. _I am sorry, Bist’ri. You are kind, but I forced you to give up your blood to satisfy my mate and I in our demands for knowledge._

It feels like the entire past day cycle is full of regret from multiple parties, and regret is but the tip of the iceberg in the mess took place. Fury, morose, hallowedness… She thinks of many words to think the theme of _angry-sad-angry_. There is no _happy_ sprinkled in. There is no _peace._ There is no _hope._ Plenty of _bitterness_ , when Sundew thinks of the way different individuals hold unto things. She herself is guilty of a fair share of bitterness, though it remains stashed inside her cold flesh where she can process it in private, away from prying eyes and nosy outsiders.

 _None of us are perfect._ It is the voice of the old Yautja which comes through in her head. Sundew frowns at the presence of the man’s consciousness, or what remains as a fragment within her. _I always thought the two would wind up in trouble. One could not stop lording over his mei-hswei and acting as if they were no more than foals. The other could not address problems without becoming overwhelmed by emotions. They are not much different from when they were Unblooded._

“Did you know them well, Yautja?” She dares to whisper the words. It doesn’t appear to wake her mate up.

In her mind, there is only silence for a time. Then—The fragment of consciousness makes a noise like H’chak’s clacking laughter.

_I oversaw their first chiva._

“Trial by the hard meat.” Sundew utters under her breath.

Perhaps subconsciously, Sundew feels H’chak groan in his sleep. His grip on her grows tighter as he pulls her from his side unto his chest. She rests her head there, letting her thoughts be calmed by the rhythm of his many hearts.

 _I am surprised you do not remember all of it. Perhaps… It will come back to you in time. You are guilty, Vekin. I will remind you until your end._ The old Yautja’s voice fades from her consciousness, leaving the Vekin perplexed, confused, and concerned all in one.

Her bare chest feels warm pressed against H’chak’ bumpy scales. She relaxes once more against him, focusing on how her body intertwines with his own effortlessly. Even now, her hips have their own agenda, with the Vekin shifting until she feels her pelvis peek over his. There is nothing sexual about it, only the need to fit with her mate and convey how much she enjoys his presence. Sundew clutches the Yautja a little tighter.

 _I will remember. I will. Eventually._ Sundew exhales softly.

She pauses at the sound of her mate stirring. A moment later, the Elite grunts and looks at her. She looks up and her clear eyes meet his brilliant orange ones. H’chak’s mandibles twitch as he shifts his hands from around her waist to her hips. _“You alright?”_

“I was thinking.” She answers honestly, frowning. “H’chak. Do you still love Ikthya-De-th’Syra?”

 _“Love? M-di. But am I infatuated with her? I don’t know.”_ The man answers quietly. He sits upright and brings Sundew with him, adjusting her so she straddles his waist and the two’s bodies squish the other. _“I think—I could not enjoy talking with her as I do you. Spending time with her as I do you. Pauking her as I do you,”_ he chuckles softly at her immediate fluster. H’chak leans down and bumps his forehead against her own. _“I should not have said all the things I did when Bist’ri was here.”_

“Was it true? What you said.”

 _“Some of them. Others—Not. I reacted off my emotions, not rationale. An Elite like myself should know better.”_ H’chak grimaces as her deepening frown. _“I don’t want lie to you, Sun-Dew. I wonder if part of me remains infatuated with her. I thought… I thought I moved past her. Moved past her and found you. Seeing her again… The flight back… It has been a… It has confused me. I thought you were dead. And then you weren’t.”_

“I was not. Vekin do not expire easily. Not in closed environments without interfering variables to scatter our critical mass…” She speaks while he lifts a hand to her hair and begins fiddling with long strands. The action makes the Vekin’s lips curve up at the edge.

When his hand shifts to her face and he caresses her cheek, she leans into his touch. H’chak exhales loudly. _“I know I love you.”_

Sundew smiles. “Good. You are mine. Not hers.”

 _“I am yours,”_ he tells her solemnly.

“Since you are mine,” she lifts her hands to his chest. “Will you do what I ask?”

H’chak pauses. She enjoys seeing his face fill with bright, almost lime green. He blushes vividly across his face. _“Sei-i.”_

“Tell me what you meant,” the woman knows it is not what H’chak expects her to say, because the man balks and squints at her. “Tell me why the head nurse reacted to—”

 _“Kukulkan mask signatures.”_ H’chak grimaces and lays back down, but Sundew’s grip on his thermal mesh tightens and she drags him back up. The man clicks softly. _“There is a way to record the location of a Yautja based on their bio-mask’s location. Normally, this level of surveillance is not accessible to kv’var-de. But the Kukulkan—It’s my ship. I have access to its entire interface, including the masks hooked up to it in travel.”_

“You can track an individual on your ship.” Sundew blinks. “Why did it upset her?”

 _“I…”_ H’chak pauses. _“I think she was bedding my mei-hswei. He is a paired man. He took an oath devoting himself to Ikthya-De-th’Syra. To bed another betrays the vow of loyalty. There are consequences, both socially and physically. Yautja take betrayal of this grandeur seriously. The list of mask signatures—It proves Bist’ri spent time in Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s proximity, alone, in a private cabin. The two spent enough time in that position to raise questions.”_

“Then the two have broken the vow? Have they been engaging in mutually pleasurable copulation?”

 _“Guan has broken his vow. I believe Bist’ri is complicit in the disloyalty, but the punishment should be lesser for her. I think they are both s’yuit-de,”_ H’chak grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut. _“I am equally s’yuit-de. I gave a copy of the mask signatures to Ikthya-De.”_

“Why?” Sundew presses the question as she leans forward and moves her arms around H’chak’s neck. She nuzzles him. “It upset her. Bist’ri. She is a kind woman, and you upset her. Why?”

 _“Because,”_ the man growls. _“I wanted to hurt Guan. I told myself it was the right thing to do, to protect Ikthya-De, but it was always—It was always to hurt Guan.”_

The Vekin rests her head against his torso. “Was it worth it, H’chak?”

 _“M-di. Even if Guan hurt me in the past—I—I have only hurt others in return. I have hurt him and hurt Bist’ri. My mei-hswei has every right to scorn me as I do him,”_ H’chak tenses when Sundew nuzzles him again. _“In the end, what was accomplished? Nothing. Only pain. Pain to those who have not wronged me.”_

The two are quiet a time, with the silver figure clutching the muscular Yautja like he might disappear if she lets go. Sundew shuts her eyes. “You know we do not share the same perspective on morality, H’chak. Our species are not the same. But—But this… It lingers on my mind. It bothers me. I do not want it to remain unresolved. How will you address this? The blue Yautja is my friend. I like Bist’ri. I do not want her in pain.”

H’chak clicks softly. _“I… I haven’t thought that far yet.”_

“Then you should begin thinking about it,” Sundew remarks bluntly. She opens her eyes and meets his gaze. “Because as much as I love you—Parts of me feel disgust at the thought of you acting this way. I do not want to let you go, but I will if I deem it necessary. I will not have someone with this behavior at my side. That would not be… As the humans call it, a ‘healthy relationship.’”

She climbs off him and flops down in his bed, pulling a sheet over her. She hears her mate say something along the lines of _I will figure it out_ before the room is quiet. H’chak does not pull her to him, nor does she pull him to her. As her mind begins drifting into the lulls of sleep—A fragment of consciousness flits through her head and reminds her of the tangled mess of her own morality.

Louanne’s voice is soft and mindful when she breathes in the Vekin’s mind. _More human than you think._


	64. sleeping in a bed (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw's for:  
> -rough sex  
> -painful sex  
> -gore in a flashback  
> -medical procedures  
> -sundew has what can be interpreted as hallucinations 
> 
> am very sleepy, will need to do more thorough editing and add more tw's tomorrow, but happy with how it is right now  
> this chapter was going to be 1 part, then 2 parts, now... 3 parts. Yes.
> 
> also doing a small retcon. making the gold yautja lady from a few chapters back be tyioe's adjutant. Yeyinde is just so pretty and single, how can I not give her a more important role to play?

She doesn’t dream.

Her species does not sleep without a physical outer shell to grow tired with. Even then, most Vekin do not sleep. Sleep is pointless when one can control the physiology of themselves to a fine point. A Vekin knows when to rest, knows the limit between exhaustion and a day’s work, and a Vekin has no need to dream when their mind is already occupied by the orders of a hive or the speculation of actions to undertake in pursuit of new knowledge.

It is how she knows ‘this’ isn’t a dream: she does not dream. She does not _dream._ She experiences vivid flashbacks to the memories copied in the blood of others, but she does not dream. When confronted with a flashback, the Vekin FLORA does not shy away. She seeks out the darkest recesses of the memory and forces herself to relive it in its entirety, gulping down and digesting every fragment until she knows the memory like the back of her current outer body’s hand.

It is imperative to know every detail of a memory to ensure nothing is missed and, in this flashback, her thoroughness pays off.

_FLORA finds herself within the confines of a containment chamber on Earth. She breathes in and watches the flashback reconstruct the scene of a gore-riddled firefight, complete with a nigh naked Yautja nearby—H’chak, she knows—and her own bullet-filled body crawling and staggering on the side. A businesswoman in a fancy red blouse and pencil skirt reaches for a bottle as the flashback begins. Then—She is not a spectator. She is Sundew, S, Synthetic, and she is on the ground with a body bleeding clear faux blood._

_Existence itself becomes a new choir of dizziness, pain, and exhaustion as the lights return to her. The gunfire has lessened, but footsteps alert her to more arriving. She cannot feel most of her physical state, but she feels the hand that grabs her head and lifts her up. Her mind briefly wonders if it is her companion, if the Yautja was true to his word in saying he would not leave her behind, but her eyes stare into the surge of ultraviolet and see a face beyond it with differing eyes. The blue is not orange, the Earth is not Jupiter, and she does not fancy Miranda’s proximity to herself._

_“Greetings.” The Vekin croaks._

_The metal sheen of the businesswoman’s eyes is all Sundew makes out before the needle pierces her neck, driving past false flesh and forcing a chemical reaction_ _._ _The elements inside her body explode—_

She ‘awakens’ from the flashback with a start, a warm hand on her shoulder. The Vekin finds herself shaking at the thought of how close she came to expiration.

 _I continue to exist because the needle jammed. The full dose was not injected._ She clenches her eyes shut and fights the urge to hiss, curse, and cry all at once. _That woman wanted me expired. She wanted me to expire at all costs. Terrible business policy._

The hand on her shoulder squeezes it. Sundew looks over and finds herself staring up at H’chak’s nude form. When she looks down, she finds she is equally naked. The events of the evening come back in full: everything from the two’s needy lovemaking to the mournful discussion they had in the late, _late_ hours of the night. She doesn’t expect to see H’chak look so concerned. It is a nice sight; his features, scarred as they may be, remain perfect in her eyes. For a second Sundew lets herself lean into his touch, exhaling sharply when the man pulls her to his chest.

 _“Are you okay?”_ H’chak trills softly

“I remembered something.” The Vekin clicks. “My head exploded on Earth. Terra. At the Stargazer Corporation research facility. Tucson, Arizona… I almost expired.”

 _“I am glad you didn’t. Sun-Dew.”_ He sounds worried. It makes her synthetic heart skip a beat.

The two are quiet a slow, tense minute.

H’chak is the first to the address the night’s activities and discussions. He clicks softly at her, _“I am going to talk to my mei-hswei today. And then—Talk to Ikthya-De. I am going to find a way to fix what I have done. At the least,”_ the man grimaces. _“I will… I must forgive my mei-hswei. I must apologize to him and the head nurse.”_

“Good,” She smiles faintly and leans her head against him. He purrs softly for a time, the two holding each other like that, before Sundew pauses and draws back. “I want to hear about it after. I want to know how it goes.”

 _“You have my word—I’ll tell you everything.”_ H’chak pauses. _“But I… I—I do not know how I will convince Ikthya-De to delete or return her copy of the Kukulkan’s mask signatures. She is smarter than she looks. I may need to bargain with her.”_

“Do what you must. I will be here, waiting.” Sundew lifts her hands and cups his face, smiling brighter when his lower mandibles begin to twitch. She must look up to see him.

 _“Sun-Dew…”_ Her mate clasps his hands over hers.

For a lovely moment, the two remain like that, entranced in another, with Sundew’s back against the man’s bare chest. She lowers her hands back to her side and exhales softly, far more at ease. She wriggles against her mate, enjoying the feel of his scales against her skin. Her mate is aroused by it all. She feels it when the man’s cock begins to emerge from its sheathe at the top of her hips. The erection prods her back shamelessly.

She bites her lip. “I…”

 _“I want you.”_ H’chak clicks softly. _“But if you don’t want me, I’ll go."_

“Have me, please,” the Vekin whispers back. Her back arches when the man’s hands drop to her pelvis. One grabs for her clit while the other pushes fingers into her wet folds. She bucks against her mate’s fingers as he begins to thrust one inside her. The man purrs for her, the noise reverberating though her body in such a way she can’t help but squeal when H’chak pushes more aggressively into her.

He ceases the purring when she begins to pant and plead. H’chak nuzzles the top of her head. His hand pulls out and he moves both hands up her torso. He slowly kneads her flesh, massaging every inch of her abdomen before reaching her ribcage. She hums, relaxing once more, but the noise becomes a breathy keen when his hands climb to her breasts. Sundew writhes against his coarse and scaly fingers. She whimpers when his cock pushes through the gap in her thighs and he begins to rub himself against her soaked entrance. The Yautja tenses beneath her and begins to thrust. He doesn’t enter her, not yet, but the spiraling ridge on his cock make her see _stars_ whenever one slips across her clit.

“I love you.” She mumbles, then gasps when the man begins rolling her nipples in his fingers. He begins to purr, but it is huskier, needier, and full of intent, of lust, of want, all for her. Sundew’s back arches against his chest. Her body aches to be filled, to have something thrust inside her to hold unto, and she voices it in a soft-spoken whine. “Please—”

She cries out at the jolt of pleasure from her mate squeezing her chest. H’chak’s purring becomes a rumbling, rolling growl. He leans down and flicks his tongue at her neck, finding the perfect place for her to melt against him.

“Please, please, please—” Sundew repeats. “I love you!”

 _“You’re so beautiful like this,”_ Is her mate’s response. His clicks make her shudder; he is hungry. He nuzzles the top of her head again while she grinds her hips against him in frustration. _“I need you to hold yourself open—”_

She shudders as her fingers find her aching clit, then dip lower to her vulva. The woman digs fingers in and spreads herself, moving her legs apart at the same time. She whimpers when she sees her mate’s cock begin to rub against her pelvis. H’chak slides his phallus between her thighs and coats himself in the cold lubrication falling out of her.

His hand lines the head of his cock with her body. She bites her lip but opens her mouth to moan as H’chak grabs hold of her breasts once more and begins to knead them more roughly.

 _“I love you,”_ he reminds her with sheer adoration in his voice. One of his hands drops to her pelvis and he grinds the pad of his thumb against her body, finding the nub of nerves in a heartbeat and leaving her gasping for air she doesn’t breathe.

The tip pierces her and she flinches on him, the stretch _perfect_ and filling yet sparking a spike of pain in her body. The Vekin trembles and begins to whimper, sucking in deep breaths. H’chak stops moving and holds her, slowly rocking fingers against her clit. The pleasure comes quickly, causing her to involuntarily squeeze the head of his cock. Some of the pain lessens.

 _“Are you—Okay?”_ His voice cracks from his own neediness, but the man doesn’t move an inch. He nuzzles his mate’s head.

“My mind is—This body is having trouble today,” She whimpers again, this time from the pleasure ebbing her groin at the man’s caresses. “It feels like a mental block—A—"

H’chak begins pulling himself out, _“We don’t have to do—”_

“No, I want to, I want you—I want—” Sundew whines and attempts to wriggle her hips. She gasps when her body sucks in another inch, prompting both H’chak and herself to moan. “H’chak—More—”

Something in her body gives and she slips on him. Her hips plunge down and engulf the remaining inches, swallowing his shaft just as Sundew arches her back and wails. She trembles, impaled by his cock, unable to decipher pain from pleasure as she clenches down on her mate. She leans her back against him and takes deep breaths.

“Touch me,” She begs. “I want to be with you. I want to connect with you—"

She wants to sob in relief when H’chak begins to stroke her clit. One of his hands gently fondles the bundle of nerves on her pelvis while the other hand returns to her breast. He begins to purr again, slowly relaxing her body against his. The burn in her groin fades and she begins to pant. Whatever mental block existed fades, until her muscles calm. She finds herself eagerly squeezing in experimental bursts around his cock. By the time she releases a strangled cry from his hand bringing her over the edge, the rest of her body sings with his name. She clenches around him through her first orgasm.

H’chak’s hand rises. Both of his hands go to her arms, where he rubs them up and down through her high of bliss. She exhales softly. “I like being with you this way. Connected…”

 _“Connected,”_ her mate nuzzles her head. She hears his strained breathing. He’s held back for her sake, but she hears just how much it strains him.

“Why do you have such a large phallus?” Is not the question she intends to ask _then_ but it slips out. Her mate pauses before clicking in laughter. Sundew bites her lip and squeezes him again, causing her mate to hiss softly. “It is a—A—A serious question— _Ah,”_ she trembles against his chest when his hand returns to her clit. She grabs hold of his wrist with both hands to keep him there.

* * *

“Many bearers are tall,” H’chak takes her directions and lets her guide his fingers to the places she wants touched. “Yautja—Yautja—We mate—Violently—Very—”

He growls and bucks up into her when her hands shift from his wrist to where the base of his shaft sits snug against her pelvis. His hips cram against hers, eager to get as close as physically possible. His mate is so beautiful writhing on him, inviting him to have her. He growls huskily and takes her hands. He sets them on each side of her body. His hands grab the cool flesh of her thighs. He must bend his back in an awkward way to lift her thighs to her chest, but he pins them there by looping his arms around her body.

The position gives him perfect access to have her. H’chak breathes in her scent, intoxicated, not even remembering his explanation of long phalluses assisting in the mating dance, in the act of pinning others and penetrating from a greater distance. Any reasonable explanation goes out the clanship window as he grunts louder and thrusts upward. Sundew cries aloud as he begins to thrust into her at a slow, smooth pace. She struggles to rock her hips against him, but he holds her steady, seeking full control of the two’s copulation. She exhales and leans back against him.

“Have me like you would have another Yautja,” Sundew pleads. “I want to know—”

 _“Pauk!”_ He growls, his dam shattering as every inch of lust building in his body boils over.

The man begins to rut loudly into his mate, holding her tight against his chest as he jams himself inside. Her yelps become shrieks spurned into wails of delight as H’chak claims the silver figure for himself. Pleasure ricochets through his body as he growls and clutches the woman tighter to his chest. He thrusts relentlessly, gyrating his hips and angling them until he hits the point in the woman that leaves her screaming.

“H’chak—H’chak—” His mate cries aloud as he presses into that _glorious_ spot. Sundew becomes incoherent when he doubles over and flips her beneath him, releasing his arms to seize her hips and hold her ass up for him.

His body is a mess of euphoria. Sundew feels so _tight_ and cold against him, a perfect contrast to his demanding warmth. His new position gives him full control over how hard he pounds into her. His scales leave deep gray marks across her flesh from the force of the two’s rutting. H’chak lifts a hand and brings it down on his mate’s right cheek, reveling in her cry of bliss.

More than once, she comes with a wail and overwhelming scream of relief.

The bed is a mess. It shakes and creaks loudly as the hour draws on, the man never ceasing in his passion to leave his seed inside the body beneath him. Sundew screams into the bed from every thrust. Her overstimulated body is a wreck for his touch, _by_ his touch, weeping and demanding more, more, _more_.

H’chak finds his own orgasm crawling up him like a vise. He howls and arches his back as he smacks his hips and begins to press his mate into the sheets. Sundew cries out again just as the man finds the precipice and leaps off, his body locking up over hers as he digs into her flesh and crushes her to him. He holds her in place and bellows in ecstasy as his seed spurts out in great globs. Sundew trembles beneath him, milking every drop into her body. Her soft moan indicates her pleasure as his heat fills her and overflows. H’chak humps weakly against her body when his orgasm doesn’t pass.

 _“Pauk! Pauk,”_ he feels the high of bliss continuing to hold him in its embrace. His humping becomes weak thrusts until he cannot stop from rutting into his mate once more. This time, his orgasm does not take so long, but he comes with a cry as his overstimulated nerves submit to the bliss. He collapses on top of his mate’s body, suddenly laden with exhaustion and unable to hold himself up more than the bare minimum while H’chak dumps another load into the cold flesh.

When he can think coherently, the man pulls out of his mate and looks at the markings along her hips and ass. He finds himself feeling nothing short of pleased at the deep gray marks. H’chak moves to the side and plucks his mate up. Sundew rests against him. She catches her breath slowly. He rubs her arms up and down once more, seeking to soothe the aches in her form.

“Is all,” Sundew looks up at him. “Is all—Yautja mating—Is it all like that?”

 _“More or less,”_ H’chak clicks softly. _“Are you alright?”_

“If I was not okay, you would be a pile of burnt Yautja right now. Again,” his mate frowns. H’chak’s throat rumbles and he begins to purr. Sundew yawns against him. “I do not know if I want to mate in this manner again. I am—” Another yawn. “I am sleepy. More sleepy than usual.”

 _“We don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything,”_ H’chak assures her. He nuzzles her head. _“I love you—”_

 _“Good,”_ is the Vekin’s calm, courteous reply. _“I love you as much as a moon. Eight-two moons. Saturn’s moons…”_

His mate drifts off to sleep, not stirring even when he picks her up and takes her to his bathroom to clean them both up. H’chak takes care to make sure both are clean before he carries her back to the bedchamber. He shifts her to one arm long enough to find his wrist computer and input he command for his bed to be cleaned and a new set of sheets put on. H’chak lays his dozing mate on the bed after, wrapping warm pelts across her. He opens his closet and ejects his armoires, leaving them open so she can find clothes easily upon waking. After dressing himself and donning armor and his bio-mask, the man stops by his kitchen unit for a quick bite to eat.

 _I need to speak with Guan._ H’chak’s orange eyes narrow.

He pauses upon standing up at his counter, opting to linger long enough and locate cuts of preserved meat. He has already cleaned out the strips gone bad, but the man plucks several strings of jerky and sets them on a plate for Sundew. He cuts up different fruit and lays them out, stepping back after and pausing. _Is this enough for her?_

H’chak adds jerky to the plate, then more fruit, then jerky again. He isn’t satisfied until he builds a plate of simple but filling food for his mate to find upon waking. It towers two feet when complete; the man feels a degree in pride as he straps his _dah’kte_ unto both hands, his wrist computer already strapped to his left bicep.

He inputs a command and sends a message. _Where are you?_

A minute passes before his _mei-hswei_ responds.

_Medical bay._

H’chak grits his teeth. He swallows his nerves and exits his residence, clicking his intentions to the two Elites standing guard. To his relief, they do not stop him, simply nodding and letting him on his way.

* * *

Guan is awake when the head nurse stops by in the morning cycle. She sees C’it-na changing the man’s dressings and gives her Adjutant space to finish the job. Her green eyes warm as she admires C’it-na’s handiwork; he is only younger than her by a few decades of cycles, but already his skill has surpassed where she was at his age. She briefly questions why Tjau’ke picked her as an Adjutant in the past, but the woman quickly puts that train of thought to bed. There is no point comparing one nurse to another when both are equally needed to secure Clan _Gahn’tha-cte’s_ future.

 _“Good day cycle to—To you—Bist’ri! Honorable Bist’ri!”_ Her Adjutant fidgets where he stands, his clicks shy and bashful as he finishes with Guan’s back and moves to dump the soiled bandages into a small incinerator slot.

At the side, Guan tenses and glances over his shoulder. It hurts to see his orange gaze anything but happy, but Bist’ri knows the two’s last conversation ended on strange terms. She clears her throat as she walks over to where he sits on a metal table. _“I hope you don’t mind, Adjutant C’it-na. I wanted to see how Guan was doing.”_

 _“Former Adjutant Guan.”_ The olive-green Yautja chirps and nods. _“Ki’sei, ki’sei. I was just—”_

 _“Leaving,”_ Guan interjects from the side. His eyes narrow when they flick over to C’it-na. _“The head nurse will work on me.”_

 _“I didn’t say that.”_ Bist’ri interjects Guan’s interjection. She clicks at him to return his attention to herself. Bist’ri grimaces internally. _“But—C’it-na, I need to speak with Gahn’tha-cte-Guan in private. Let me take over updating his patient file this day cycle.”_ She directs her gaze at her Adjutant, who stiffly nods.

 _“Sei-I, you are—You are amazing at that—Nurse things.”_ C’it-na’s words are kind, but they come from a place of affection, a place Bist’ri has no interest in exploring. She simply nods at her Adjutant and waits patiently while he dillydallies and stalls. It takes three minutes for C’it-na to wrap up his work and exit the room, and the man makes a point of leaving the door open.

Bist’ri huffs as she inputs a command to shut the damn thing. No sooner than it slides shut does she sigh and turn around. Guan is busy pulling on a light black robe over his torso. He growls softly and curses under breath as he wrestles getting an arm in one sleeve, then doing the same with the other. Bist’ri assists him with the second, returning to his side and holding the sleeve arm level. Guan’s orange eyes fill with a deep fondness as he looks back at her. He breathes in and relaxes, _“I didn’t smell you come in.”_

 _“I know C’it-na’s n’dui-se is very strong—That comes as no surprise,”_ Bist’ri lifts a hand and rubs the back of her head. She detangles locs with her fingers and then sets her arms at her sides. “ _How do you feel?”_

 _“Cjit.”_ The Yautja grunts. His mandibles twitch, fully visible as he wears no mask. There is a pause, then the man’s orange eyes stare at her. _“—Have you slept recently? You look exhausted, Bist’ri.”_

 _“I have a lot to do as head nurse,”_ is her explanation, followed by her soft clicks of laughter. She sighs afterward and clicks at him. _“—How was your rest?”_

 _“…I much prefer waking up in bed next to you,”_ Guan’s response is immediate, blunt and straightforward.

The words make heat spring up into her face. Bist’ri feels a small plume of joy swell up inside her when she reflects on his statement. Guan pauses, breathes, before he purrs faintly in satisfaction. He reaches for her hand and she lets him take it. When the man shifts and dangles his legs off the metal table he sits upon, Bist’ri huffs. She cannot resist shaking her head when Guan pulls her to him. She stands between his legs and looks down at him, while his eyes slowly trail up and come to rest on her face.

The two fall silent and the air thickens between them. Guan grips her hands with his own and instinctively she laces the two’s fingers together.

 _“I… Enjoy it when you’re here. With me,”_ he is soft-spoken, the chirps faint and solemn. _“I want to show everyone how much I adore you. But I—Can’t. Bist’ri. Not yet. Not yet. Soon.”_

 _“Soon,”_ She nods once and leans down to rub her forehead against his. The former Adjutant groans and his hands release hers to rise to her hips. A low purr follows; it takes a second for Bist’ri to register it comes from the other Yautja in the room. She sighs _, “—I wish—I didn’t have to ruin the mood. But there’s a few things we need to talk about.”_

 _“Talk fast?”_ Guan rubs his forehead against her own. His purring resumes and, gradually, deepens until it hits a note so low it makes the head nurse shiver.

She wraps arms around his neck and admires the warmth in the man’s orange eyes. There is infinite depth to his irises; she wants to investigate them for hours and marvel at _every_ speck of color found in them.

For a moment her mind wanders. She has responsibilities to endless patients, responsibilities to her division, to _herself_ , yet for a moment—Bist’ri’s mind drifts, focused on the man and his features. She revels in how pleasing it is to hear his calm, rolling purr reverberate across his body and into hers. She indulges in leaning closer, desperate to get as much as she can of him before the two have to part again and address reality. She nuzzles him with the side of his mask, smelling and acknowledging his arousal in tandem with hearing his trill of satisfaction.

 _“Do you—”_ The head nurse pauses. She draws back and looks down at him. Guan clicks at her to continue. Bist’ri inhales deeply and soaks in his scent before clicking, _“Do you ever use—ooman expressions for yourself? Expressions such as… Down the rabbit hole. A piece of cake.”_

 _“I can’t remember, honestly_ ,” Guan clicks abruptly. He watches her with an intensity that makes her stomach twist with warmth. _“Did you find one you like?”_

 _“That—It isn’t that. I was asked by your mei-hswei’s mate if I…”_ Heat rises in her face. She begins to struggle to click words, finally forcing out, _“His mate—Sundew—She asked if I ‘loved’ anyone. I suppose she heard from one of the other nurses, but she—She knew Yautja do not… apply ooman expressions often, not to themselves.”_

The man falls quiet, not even purring as he contemplates her words. Bist’ri inhales slowly and calms herself. She isn’t sure why her nerves are frazzled, but there is a tension in her body brought on by Guan’s lack of words. Her stomach does flips.

 _“What did you say?”_ Is what Guan asks after two or three minutes of silence. He lifts his head and stares up at her.

 _“I didn’t answer.”_ Bist’ri states honestly.

 _“Ah.”_ The man nods once. His arms shift and he loops them around her waist. _“What—What were you going to say? If you had answered.”_

 _“If I had… Oh. Right.”_ The head nurse blushes a vivid blue. She looks to the side. _“You know the answer to that.”_

She almost yelps when Guan clutches her tightly. Her body soon relaxes, hands shifting to his head to caress his mandibles, his face, and smooth out his long, vantablack locs. The _Pride of Cetanu_ frames his dark gray scales beautifully. Just one look has her lost in his handsome features, admiring everything from the gleam of his orange eyes to the sharp lines of his mandibles protruding over his inner jaws. She feels her grip on him tighten, with one hand in his hair and the other caressing his lower left mandible.

 _“Well—You know what my answer would be_ ,” Guan’s mandibles twitch upward at the edges before relaxing under her touch. He resumes his purring. It sounds so pleasant Bist’ri almost forgets what she needs to ask him.

The woman draws back after a minute of indulging in his scent. She sighs as she draws away. _“Guan—You won’t enjoy hearing about this. But we have a problem, and it involves your mei-hswei.”_

 _That_ snares Guan’s attention. He snaps upright and lets go of her. _“What do you mean?”_

 _“He has a copy of the Kukulkan’s mask signatures.”_ Bist’ri blurts it out before she finds a way to continue stalling. She sees Guan freeze and color drain from his face. She sighs. _“He admitted it to me. His mate was present as witness. He—He gave a copy to Ikthya-De, Guan.”_

 _“Pauk,”_ Guan’s hands tense into fists at his side. He takes in a deep breath _“He… He really…”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ She nods.

 _“Then it’s only a matter of time. Before Ikthya-De… Before she uses that to_ …” Guan grits his inner jaw. His four mandibles tense and twitch violently. _“Pauk—Pauk both of them! Daga will—He’ll have both of us tried for disloyalty.”_

 _“Ki’sei. I don’t know whether it will be during my trial or after. I don’t think he would—I don’t think he’ll charge you right now—Not when Elder Lar’ja’s actions originated because of your… sentencing.”_ Bist’ri winces at her own words. She shifts where she stands to peek at Guan’s back, only to remember it is covered in bandages. The head nurse exhales softly. _“He’ll wait until you heal enough to survive whatever he has in store.”_

 _“Pauk him.”_ The former Adjutant growls.

Both Yautja remain idle a moment. Whether it is their shared anger or the sting of pain knowing the truth will come out soon, both are quiet. Guan’s hand reaches for her own and she lets him take it. Guan squeezes it gently and looks up at her.

 _“You know—”_ Guan pauses in his chirrups to inch closer. He doesn’t hop off the table, but he comes close. _“No matter what happens—We’ll find a way to get through it.”_

 _“I hope we do.”_ Bist’ri trills in return. She frowns and peers around the room. _“—Guan, do you not have a bio-mask or computer here?”_

 _“M-di. Gave the old one to Tyioe’s Adjutant—Yeyinde, was it? She came by and declared it evidence of something. C’it-na—Your Adjutant—He said he would bring me a new one. Hasn’t yet. I think he… He suspects something. I don’t know what. I hope it isn’t about us.”_ The words are bleak and weary. Guan sounds tired. Guan _looks_ tired.

Bist’ri pulls her hand free. She rummages around various drawers ejected from the wall, checking the inside contents until she locates the right one. As suspected, the patient—Guan—has had all his personal attire stripped and put in a drawer until recovery. Bist’ri overrides the lock on the drawer and retrieves a wrist computer matching the one she’s seen Guan wear in the past. She hands it to him and searches remaining drawers and two cabinets before locating a spare bio-mask tucked in the back of one.

The head nurse flips it over and fiddles with the back. She clicks in dismay as she brings it over. _“—It’s blank, but…”_

 _“Better than nothing.”_ Guan clicks and nods. He relaxes when the mask is on his face and the wrist computer attaches to his left hand. He flexes his wrist and forms a fist with his hand, testing the weight of the computer and adjusting the straps as necessary. _“Thank you, Bist’ri.”_

 _“I—M-di, it is nothing to thank me over. Doing my job.”_ The nurse feels flustered as she dismisses the words.

A soft ping alerts her to a new message. She leaves Guan alone long enough to pull up the message into her bio-mask’s optical system. Her green eyes narrow behind her mask. _“…This is…”_

 _“Bist’ri?”_ Guan takes one of her hands in his and squeezes it gently. _“Is everything alright?”_

 _“M-di. The Clan Leader ordered me to serve as audience to him in the court. He wants to talk to me alone.”_ The head nurse lowers her wrist computer and glances at the man who has her terribly smitten. She exhales sharply. _“I… I can’t say no. Can I? To a Clan Leader?”_

 _“You’re the head of the medical division. He can’t expect you to bend to his every whim.”_ Guan squeezes her hand again. He pulls her back to his side. His hands shift to wrap around her body in a loose but warm embrace.

Bist’ri exhales slowly. She shakes her head _. “Pauk—I—If it was a trial—It would be at the council hall. The Elders would serve as judges. But if it’s in the court… Does he really want to talk? What would he want me for? Does he have a mate I’m unaware of? Is he expecting pups, or… Or something similar?”_

She huffs when Guan tries to stand. The man is stubborn, but so is she, and Bist’ri easily coaxes him back unto the metal table spite Guan’s endless stream of grumbles. The man sighs heavily and rubs his masked forehead against her side. _“I don’t think you should go.”_

 _“I’ll take someone with me.”_ Is Bist’ri’s response. Her green eyes narrow. “ _Tjau’ke told me Daga bends under public pressure. If I take C’it-na—Adjutant C’it-na,”_ she corrects herself. _“He can’t do anything to both of us. It would leave the medical division’s… The previous fourth-in-command—Roja, I believe—It would put her as head of the division. We’re still in the peak of the mating season, Guan. Gahn’tha-cte can’t operate safely without experienced nurses to back up the slew of births when the mating season ends.”_

 _“You may be walking into a trap.”_ Guan senses her resolve. It pains him greatly—she hears it in his trills and chirps—but she appreciates the fact he recognizes when she has made up her mind on something.

 _“I’ll be fine. I’m not as helpless as I look.”_ She reassures him.

The man clicks in protest. _“—I didn’t say that.”_

 _“It was implied,”_ Bist’ri makes a noise that resembles a snort, only the sound is distorted in part due to it being produced by vocal cords instead of a quick exhale of air through exterior nostrils. _“I’ll visit after. Doubt the Clan Leader wants to chat long.”_

 _“Be careful,”_ Guan says.

The head nurse nods. _“Try to get some rest until I get back.”_

 _“I much rather prefer sleeping in a bed. In you—With,”_ the former Adjutant stills and clears his throat. _“With you. Sleeping with you. In a bed.”_

It makes heat return to her abdomen. Bist’ri cannot think of words, only nod vigorously at the implications. She leans into his touch a final time, as if the two are saying _goodbye_ rather than _see you later._

As she leaves, one thought returns to the back of her mind: she forgets to mention the fact H’chak’s mate is a Vekin to Guan. Bist’ri prays it isn’t too important before she trudges onward.

* * *

H’chak is not there when she wakes up, though the Vekin finds different robes and kilts hanging nearby, along with a plate of food in the man’s kitchen unit. She eats quietly, her thoughts drifting into a haze where fragments of consciousness distract her.

 _Can I build a Yautja heart?_ FLORA contemplates. She frowns and munches on a piece of fruit. _The anatomy is different than a human’s… I have only ever consumed human hearts…_

 _Liar._ An old Yautja breathes in her mind.

She tenses in her seat, flicking her gaze around the room wildly before the Vekin calms. Her clear eyes narrow. She stops mid-bite to say calmly, “Do you know how to build a Yautja heart, strange Yautja?”

_M-di. And if I did—I would not tell you._

FLORA grimaces. She does not care for the old Yautja in her head. His fragment of consciousness is most annoying, filling her with irritation at his lack of cooperation or understanding of the present. Even GHOST, Miranda Escrow, and James Heinrich make for better company compared to the old Yautja. As the Vekin continues to eat, she finds the old Yautja’s consciousness does not move on as others do. She continues to _feel_ him in her head: a strong and solid presence.

“It is not for me,” FLORA intones softly. “My mate—His sirer is expiring. She requires a new heart to survive. The medical division has exhausted it’s resources—”

 _Is my mei-jahdi Sa’ud not there to help?_ The name does not sound familiar.

“When I first arrived at _Gahn’tha-cte,_ ” Sundew shuts her eyes. She visualizes the space in her mind, picturing herself standing there as a silver humanoid with a large, wide-brimmed sunhat shadowing her eyes. She visualizes what the old Yautja must look like: lots of spikes, long locs, and brilliant green blood from where her silver appendages once slit flesh. In her mind, her clear eyes watch the old Yautja carefully as she speaks. _“My mate left me in the care of Guan-Tjau’ke.”_

 _Guan-Tjau’ke… Ah. Ah, yes. Adjutant Tjau’ke is an honorable woman. Capable. She surprised my mei-jahdi—Honorable Sa’ud was reluctant to take the woman in as a nurse. Didn’t think the Brawler could withstand the changes expected of her._ There is a chuckle as the old Yautja sits on nothing.

In her mind, Sundew envisions deep purple scales growing over the Yautja’s flesh. It is a strange color, unlike any other she has seen among the Yautja of Gahn’tha-cte to date. The color contrasts sharply with the glow of luminescent green blood.

 _How is she? Guan-Tjau’ke. And my mei-jahdi—Sa’ud. Is she well? Are they both well? It has been many cycles… You stole me from them, Vekin. You and your kind._ What begins as sincere questions devolves into another spout of bitterness. The Elder Yautja growls at her in her head, advancing upon her. He is many feet taller than she is, and his eyes hold a great sorrow. _We should have known… You are full of tricks. Schemers and deceivers. Vermin without honor! Mere prey! Amedha! You cannot hide your sins forever, ui’stbe—_

 _“I am not hiding anything!”_ FLORA roars at the man. Her hands ball into fists in her outer body, but in her mind, she envisions herself taking on the fluid, liquid-state Vekin use for travel. By converting her critical mass to liquid—after putting her hat to the side—she jumps forward at ungodly speed, her amorphous shape twisting and dividing partway down the middle to separate into new tendrils. Her appendages seize the man and ensnare the Yautja greedily. He is full of knowledge, knowledge her hive _needs_ , and—

_She will not let her hive down. Two Vekin have already been lost in the attempt to consume a specimen of the Yautja species. FLORA’s body splits and forms a gap just in time for the struggling, writhing Yautja in her grasp to take the plasma shot._

_The Vekin registers the pain shooting through her critical mass, noting the drop to nine-seven percent. She has already calculated the risk of remaining attached to the Elder Yautja, knowing how dangerous one is from the observations offered to her Cluster at the beginning of this mission. She knows the other three Yautja are Unblooded, adults but unrecognized, and the weaponry they use—save for a plasma pistol shot by a now hysterical green Yautja—are not a problem, easily dealt with. But the awareness of a loss of critical mass spells ill. She leaps off her prey and dives to the side, using a silvery appendage to force the Elder Yautja forward. He takes several steps and collapses._

_She only needs one corpse. She hesitates, half-attached to the ceiling of the ship’s cargo hold, her silvery body expressionless as she sends out waves of electricity and measures the distance between herself and remaining Yautja._

_She wants them all. She wants to engulf, consume, integrate, and deliver the fountain of knowledge to her hive. She wants, especially after the Yautja forced expiration upon FANG and GHOST, after CLOVER failed to fend off the xenomorph and expired following an attempt to engulf the lifeform. She cannot return empty-handed!_

_But she needs her prey. She needs the information stored in the deceased Elder’s flesh. She must confirm it before consuming the three Unblooded remaining. She leaps around the Yautja before making a sudden dive for the corpse, just as one Unblooded tears his friend off the body and drags him away._

“H’chak!” _The dark gray Unblooded screams at her mate. “H’chak! We need to go; we can trap it in the cargo hold!”_

_He trembles before her, fear lacing his posture before he scrambles up and bolts after his mei-hswei._

She wants to run after him, to beg him to stay, to tell him this is all a mistake, that she didn’t mean to, that she would never have gone after him and his companions if she knew he was one of the targets, but her limbs don’t move that direction.

_She finds herself dragging the corpse of the Elder Yautja behind her to an escape pod. The Vekin shoves the body inside and pops in afterward. There is no time to lose. She engulfs and devours the body whole, drinking in every cell and memory in a frenzy-like fashion. She becomes lost in the countless memories and throes of information. She barely remembers to pump electrical charges into the escape pod’s circuitry before she feels the ship begin to lurch in preparation of the cargo hold opening. She shuts the door to her pod and activates it, barely holding on to her feast of Yautja remains before the escape pod jettisons and flies across the void._

_The stars greet her like an old friend._

Sundew’s clear gaze dims. She stares at her plate of food on the countertop of the kitchen unit. “What have I done?”

 _Everything._ The old Yautja spits at her in her head. _I pray for the day one of those Unblooded return to finish what you started._

“Perhaps that will be how I expire, but—I—Why am I incapable of remembering how your hearts were shaped? The cellular makeup? The number of atriums and ventricles? The veins pumping blood and feeding it through the organ?”

 _You always get stuck on the easy questions._ Annie’s voice drifts into her brain, sounding younger than usual. It appears to be a fragment from the time Louanne Garcia was fifteen or sixteen, but a short teenager in the world. _Use your head, Muppet. The answer’s staring you in the face._

Sundew frowns and looks away. “What do I use to make a Yautja heart? An existing heart?”

 _Or the remains of one. C’mon, stop dilly-dallying! It will be just like Biology lab. The one with the frog._ Annie laughs before the fragment fades away.

Sundew wraps her arms around herself. She clenches her eyes shut. _Biology lab… The one with the frog. You dissect the corpse to learn more about it. Do I need a heart? An expired heart? Would the medical division possess one?_

This time, Annie’s consciousness does not return to comment or answer questions. Sundew’s shoulders slack. “I miss you, Annie. I miss you so much. Even if you are right here—” She shudders. “It feels like you are gone. And I—I am all that remains.”


	65. live with your choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -last section contains a character who winds up triggered into a flashback  
> -references to past abuse / rape / non-con  
> -references to past trafficking  
> -talk of infertility and pregnancy  
> -implications of past suicide attempts  
> -victim blaming in the last section  
> -guan is very self-deprecating 
> 
> due to the section with h'chak and guan, I am very tempted to say chapter could be considered "consequences pt.???"

“Sorry, sorry,” Seeing Jo apologize and move out of the nurse’s way gives Ivon pause when they enter the room, door sliding shut behind them. The red Yautja nurse clicks and huffs as she brushes past Jo. Jo looks up and pauses, “Ivon. Why are you here? Not that—I mean, yay, you’re here. But why? I didn’t think you talked a lot to Gry on the ship.”

“I just. Thought. Maybe I should find you—The green one—That one said you were here? I dunno. I got tired being locked to a table. It—It sucks,” Ivon shakes their head. “Misery loves company…”

“Eh, I don’t think myself as _miserable._ In fact—I’m getting along pretty well, if I say so myself—” Their fellow human pauses at the sound of a light gray Yautja breaking into laughter. Jo grumbles under breath and meets Ivon’s gaze. “—Getting along with one of them. The red one. She’s cool. And, uh,” Jo inches closer to the electrician, leaning in to whisper. “Don’t tell them—But I got lost walking ‘round this place. They think I’m involved with Bar—With Gry. Gry. With Gry. He’s—The one on the table. Bed. Thingy.”

“Ah…” Ivon nods, acting as if they follow their friend’s words. Their head spins where they stand. The longer they think about it, the more heartache tugs at their chest. _Involved with…_

With it comes internal scolding as Ivon reminds themself they no longer entertain any romantic feelings for their fellow human. There are too many factors making a relationship between them and Jo work: the circumstances of living with Yautja, the gap in the two’s age, and the fact Ivon does not want to disturb the beautiful comradery they have built with Jo. They also don’t know the future with Vayuh’ta, who they have yet to see since disembarking the _Kukulkan_ and being whisked to the medical bay for microchip surgery. 

_I need to find a way to see her. Free her… And… And…_ Ivon bites their lip, nervous at their own thoughts. 

Escaping from the medical bay is turning out to be a more arduous task than anticipated. They have fought tooth and nail in drugged states attempting to bypass the dozens of nurses present and squirm their way around the ship floor. There’s been no sign of stairs yet, but the sounds of an elevator or lift hint at a possible means of ascending and descending floors.

 _Not that,_ the human rubs the back of their head and grimaces. _I know what floor of this place Maelstrom is on. Um. Fuck. At least if… If I got back to that ship… I could find more of my—My prescription?_

“Ivon!” Jo interrupts, jabbing them in the arm. “Did you know Yautja have four hearts? What the fuck, right?”

 _“Yautja biology is strictly superior to other lifeforms! It’s not ‘fuck’.”_ Lietjin growls, voice muffled slightly by their mask.

“I thought—Didn’t we—We knew that? Um. I thought Louanne… She didn’t mention it? Before she. Y’know…” The human shakes where they stand. They begin wringing their wrists nervously and glancing around the room. Fear begins to rise in their chest, accompanied by the heightening pulse and their knees wobbling.

 _“Jo! Your friend sounds like our new Adjutant.”_ Roja clicks from the side of the metal table. _“Have they met C’it-na? He’s the one Leitjin—”_

 _“That—It’s confidential information, Roja! Shut up!”_ Leitjin throws an electronic tablet at the red nurse.

She growls, catching it with surprising grace and setting it aside.

“Look, Ivon, not all of us have Yautja bed buddies. ‘Kay? I don’t know everything ‘bout them! Just be excited for me—Is that too much to ask?” The woman’s black locs bounce and dance when she throws her hands into the air.

“Bed—Bed buddies?” Ivon gawks at the term. Heat fills their cheeks.

“Girlfriend. Bed buddies. Call her what you like, you know what I’m trying to say!” Jo shakes her head, sighing. She crosses her arms. “I’m sorry—I just—I’m trying to make do here. There’s not much going on in this place, and it ain’t like we can walk around willy-nilly. I’m trying to learn what I can. About—Language, biology, culture, whatever. If I’m gonna have a life here then I want to know what I can about how shit operates.”

 _“…oomans have cjitty terms for mates,”_ Leitjin remarks dryly. _“Bed buddies. Girlfriend…”_

A groan from the metal table snags the four’s attention. In a heartbeat, all sets of eyes, human and otherwise, shift to the unconscious Yautja sprawled out on his chest. Roja hesitantly walks up to the man and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he’s been unconscious. His memory blurs, phasing between flashes of light, incoherent voices, and the awareness of a fire razing his back. He remembers whips and the lashings he took as punishment for his lack of subordinance, but the memories fade in detail the more he tries to focus. He is laying down, that much he knows, flat on his stomach with nothing to protect his extremities in combat.

He is like that for a while, or what feels like a while. At first—The pain in his back in insurmountable. He is locked in place, a prisoner confined to his own flesh, while the pain rips, tears, and pulls his flesh different directions. The man cannot scream loud enough in his head. But, eventually, the pain subsides to an anguished but consistent level of agony. The unconscious Elite is left in his current position, armor and weapons absent. He doesn’t know if he is still in the council hall, or if someone has moved him to the medical bay.

Maybe Bist’ri has worked on his back. The thought pleases him, but it soon fades and the throbbing pain in his back takes over. 

He hears voices, but he cannot respond. Some voices are familiar, sounding vaguely like one of the man’s pups from cycles ago. It brings an ache into his chest.

_Leitjin…_

He hasn’t heard from his pup in a long time. It comes as no surprise; the ashen Yautja blames him for their bearer’s death. Rightfully so—It _is_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de’s negligence which led to the death of his late mate. The _what if_ ’s have long since been exhausted trying to navigate the grief of his and Leitjin’s loss.

Somewhere around him, a door opens. Voices he cannot understand fill his head, shooting garbled noises to and from as an alien conversation takes place. He hears at least one bout of clacking laughter from the side. Wherever he is—There is at least one Yautja. And two…

 _What the pauk am I doing?_ The man scolds himself, irate. When he breathes next, he concentrates on the smells picked up by his olfactory receptors. Two Yautja and two oomans, with one of the Yautja being unmistakably his progeny, and the two oomans being the same ones from the recovery expedition. Gry’Sui-bpe-de feels his thoughts churn and simmer in realization that one of the two oomans carries a very distinct scent, _lav’a-da._ The woman is close, as her aroma is far thicker than the mildly fruity scent the other ooman offers.

Gry’Sui-bpe-de reckons one of the alien voices belongs to her. He isn’t sure how to feel about having an ooman hanging around his limp body. It isn’t that he thinks she can do anything physical to him—in fact, Gry’Sui-bpe-de is certain neither will touch him, not while one Yautja is around—but it isn’t _physical_ harm the man fears. Already, with the floral aroma seeping into his open mouth, the Elite feels the heat in his body twist. It is more painful than pleasurable; he feels himself twitch and hears a deep groan shudder through his chest. Spikes of pain shoot through his lower back.

He can’t stop himself from reacting. It is as it was on the ship: he finds his mind naturally hones-in on the ooman, on _Lav’a-da_ , and in her sweet, lavender-rich scent he finds a semblance of peace. She is a distraction, even if his body betrays him in reacting so intensely. He revels in the fragrance, willing it—and her—to stay while he continues to drift through the throes of pain-induced slumber. If he were to have a nice dream, everything could be considered… _okay_ , now, but Gry’Sui is not a man with luck on his side.

His dream is lewd, buried in flowers with a woman beneath him while he tenderly caresses beautiful brown skin. There is a neediness in his body as his mind becomes lost in the nude dreamscape: a mental world of wet skin, scales, and cries of ecstasy surges around him. He imagines an intimate connection with someone his species views as prey, with entangled limbs, sweat glistening off skin, and with the curve of lips into what the Elite now knows is an ooman _smile_.

He imagines, and he breathes, and he imagines some more, up until he remembers it is all a dream. The salacious details of his mind escape him and he comes to with a jolt, shuddering and helpless to do anything until someone grabs him by the shoulders. Gry’Sui ‘s instincts kick in and he howls and roars as he struggles against a red Yautja’s attempts to subdue him. The red Yautja huffs loudly. She is lucky—If he were not so weak, he knows the fight would already be over.

But he is weak. He is entrenched in _lav’a-da_. He is on his chest, sprawled on a metal table. He is weak and _everything_ screams in agony across his back and his bones. He can’t keep his eyes open for long, merely groan in pain as the hand on his shoulder retracts and he hears the red Yautja declare, _“He’s awake!”_

* * *

_“Look who decided to show up.”_ It isn’t like his _mei-hswei_ to sound _furious,_ but H’chak knows from the second he steps into the room the conversation will be anything but pleasant.

He clicks briskly at his twin, the latter glaring from where his head pops out of an open medical pod hatch. If not for the severity of the situation, the Elite might have laughed at how asinine Guan looks. As it is, he does no such thing. He waits for the other Yautja to grunt in acknowledgement at his presence before H’chak speaks. _“—You know why I’m here?”_

 _“I have an idea.”_ Guan snaps.

The aggressive demeanor irritates H’chak. He hisses at his twin. _“—Then stop talking with a stick up your ass. Did you forget what you did to me?”_

_“—I did what I thought was necessary out of a desire to protect you—”_

_“You ruined everything I made for myself,”_ He stalks forward to the medical pod and snarls. _“Everything!”_

 _“—You acted based on a desire to hurt me, H’chak. And you did, congratulations,_ ” his twin ignores his comment and clicks with growing ire _. “—And if it was only me—I’d say I deserved it! Because I do. I know I pauked up everything between us. But you didn’t have to involve Bist’ri. You didn’t have to involve her!”_

 _“I thought she was bedding a paired Adjutant! Why wouldn’t I involve her?”_ The green Yautja balls his hands into fists. He wants to start throwing punches, to challenge Guan to a fight on the spot, but he knows it would not be a fair or equal duel; his _mei-hswei_ has not finished recovering.

 _“She saved your life! She brought you out of torpor on the ship—She’s assisted how many Yautja as a nurse? Intervened on how many lives? She’s done more than either of us have in the past five-zero cycles and you went and pauked everything up for her, too! Do you realize what will happen once Ikthya-De turns the list over to Daga?”_ Guan is visibly enraged now. He grips the rim of the hatch with his gloveless hands, the knuckles becoming a light gray from his fury. _“He’ll make us stand trial! Interrogate every little thing—Humiliate us! Mock us! She already faces trial for lack of subordinance, you paukin’ s’yuit-de! She’ll be stripped of every title, every honor, everything!”_

H’chak falls silent. He hears something in his twin’s voice, a pained note lacing the words. He stares at the other Elite, noting how Guan’s body trembles in the pod.

 _“She’s only ever helped you.”_ His twin clicks coldly. _“She’s already lived through so much—Why did you have to put her on this path? I don’t care what happens to me—I—”_ Guan ceases in his words when H’chak groans and turns away.

_“You’re a paired man.”_

_“If you paid any attention to my partnership this past one-zero-zero cycles, you would have noticed Ikthya-De ceased heeding me loyalty after the eighth mating season into our relationship.”_ Guan’s words are _bitter._

_“She seemed happy to have you at the start.”_

_“—That was before she learned I’m impotent.”_ Guan clicks abruptly and growls.

H’chak pauses, startled by the news _. “You’re...”_

 _“I can’t produce offspring. Not… Pauk,”_ his twin begins to curse, lowering himself a little in his pod. He sounds mournful. Rightly so, if what he says is true. H’chak listens as Guan begins to chirp in a low, hushed volume _, “—The Hunt on—Baltic-102t—The microorganisms there—I didn’t know what they could do to my body. It just happened. Your bearer said—She said the chances of me producing viable sperm—It’s too low. Too low. It’s easier to call it what it is. I can’t produce pups.”_

The importance of procreation is shared across most modern Yautja clans. Many sirers hunt for the sake of building trophy rooms to impress possible bearers and convince them they are worthy mates. Though the exact mating rites have evolved over the past centuries, there is no denying the social status that comes with a sirer possessing a high number of offspring, much less a sirer with a high number of _Blooded_ offspring.

 _Guan only had a handful of pups before the Baltic Hunt._ H’chak’s throat feels dry. His anger wanes in favor of genuine surprise.

His twin’s posture indicates the man glares at him. _“You have no idea what Ikthya-De’s done to me, have you? What she’s said to me, treated me—The scars on my body—Do you have any idea what it’s like to return to your residence and find your partner bedding another sirer? What about the bodies left behind when she wins the mating dance? Or the broken bones? The lacerations? The taunts, the mockery—You haven’t been paying attention to anyone but yourself! I know why—I disgust you. You hate me, despise me. But that doesn’t—It didn’t give you the right to hurt Bist’ri!”_

The way his _mei-hswei_ speaks of the head nurse is a clear giveaway just _why_ Guan is furious. H’chak understands the relationship between his twin and the nurse. It is not simply raw copulation in its purest, lustiest form. He sees the pain his twin feels for the head nurse, for what will happen to both, a kind of pain which swells up in response to the loss or pain of someone close, of a loved one.

It is the kind of pain H’chak remembers feeling back when he thought his mate was dead. When he thought Sundew was gone forever.

 _Pauk._ H’chak shudders.

He inhales deeply. His twin is truly his, carrying a repulsive yet identical smell to himself. Yet even now, H’chak’s olfactory receptors in his mouth pick up the faint aroma of a salty sea. It is not a bad smell, but nowhere near the enticing rapture that follows Sundew. Bist’ri’s scent remains ever-so-faintly on Guan, marking the man and confirming H’chak’s newfound revelation.

 _“Forgive me. I,”_ he clicks the words before he has the chance to back out of saying it. But now, with the scraps of information laid out in front of him like a great cross-stitch quilt, the Yautja feels only sorrow and remorse. He bows his head and closes his eyes, focusing on his beating hearts to finish the statements. _“I wanted to hurt you. You are correct. I didn’t act out of concern for disloyalty tarnishing honor. I… acted out of a desire to bring you pain. Whether it was your pain, or the pain belonging to the nurse you love.”_

The use of the ooman expression makes Guan growl. _“Don’t make assumptions—”_

_“It’s not an assumption, is it? That ooman word. ‘Love.’ But you can call it what you will. Clearly—You care for her, in a manner beyond platonic.”_

When H’chak glances at Guan next, the latter is sunken into his pod, quiet.

 _“I’m going to talk to Ikthya-De.”_ H’chak makes his intentions clear in one sentence, but he adds the latter for context, _“—I’ll make her delete the copy of the lists. It won’t be used at anyone’s trial. I promise.”_

_“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”_

_“Pauk off,”_ H’chak’s irritation returns. He growls. _“—I should be the one telling you that.”_

 _“I mean it.”_ Guan clicks. _“Don’t be like me.”_

It hurts a lot more than the Elite wants to admit but hearing his _mei-hswei_ say it aloud shoots a spike of dread through his body. His orange eyes widen behind his mask before narrowing once more. _“I’m not a—For pauk’s sake, by the Black Hunter himself, I’m not a pup or Suckling, Guan—”_

 _“I know.”_ His _mei-hswei_ cuts him off and turns away, back facing H’chak. _“But I promised to look out for you—Protect you!”_

 _“—I don’t need your protection! How many times must I repeat that?”_ H’chak throws his hands into the air. He is exasperated, frustrated, and fed up, _“All I ever wanted was for you to recognize me as equal! As someone who fights at your side, not a lower rank! By the Black Hunter, why can’t you accept that?”_

H’chak growls when Guan falls quiet again.

The latter looks over his shoulder. _“Chirp met the final rest because of me—Because I couldn’t protect him—Because I told you both to trust the Elders. You know dishonor runs deep in Gahn’tha-cte’s pores. It killed Chirp, but I won’t let the same thing happen to you. I can’t. Even if you hate me. Even if you hurt me. You s’yuit-de—Always getting into trouble! Always being angry! You are so caught up in yourself you can’t see it.”_

_“I—”_

Guan spins around and snarls, _“You’ve long surpassed me, H’chak! You weren’t given title of Elite for political prowess! You earned everything trying to keep up with me when you’ve had the upper hand over me for well past five-zero cycles! Do you think I won on a fluke? That my thwei was all for show? That day in the kehrite—"_

 _“Don’t mention the kehrite—Guan—”_ H’chak warns.

 _“Shut. Up.”_ The former Adjutant seethes with a mix of emotions. Grief is the main one, a tremor in his shaking hands and clenching teeth. He clicks, _“—The day in the kehrite—I wouldn’t have won—But you were so pauking infatuated with that wretched woman—With Ikthya-De—You couldn’t see or hear anyone besides her and yourself. You couldn’t stand the thought of losing her. Of losing her to me. You walk with your emotions on your sleeve. Everyone—Especially our enemies—Will use that against you!”_

The Elite is stunned to hear Guan’s clicks begin to crack. His twin turns his back to H’chak once more. The latter stares, noting where the medical pod liquid seeps into Guan’s thin robe and weighs it down enough to reveal thick bandages ensnaring the man’s torso.

 _You were lashed._ H’chak doesn’t find it as satisfying to see in person as it is in his head. His shoulders slump.

 _“I am sorry for stealing your prized favor of Ikthya-De from you,”_ Guan clicks, quieter this time. _“But that was then. This is now. And now—I believe I did the right thing. Even if it wasn’t the right way. You don’t know what she’s capable of. You don’t know what she’s done. You would have sworn yourself to an early grave—I wish—I wish I had found a different way to resolve this. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not like this. Never. But that’s for me to live with. You live with your choices—"_

_“Living with my choices doesn’t mean I can’t try to fix them!”_

_“It doesn’t erase what you’ve done!”_ Guan spits. _“Go live with your choices, H’chak. I live with mine.”_

* * *

The court is not unlike the council hall, albeit with a single chair and a dozen Elites posted as guards compared to the combined presence of Elites outside, and Elders and Arbitrators within the council hall walls. It is the place Akrei-non-Daga uses for diplomatic meetings, notably featuring the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na once in the recent past. What had initially been passing thoughts of confusion at the leader of Gahn’tha-cte willingly meeting such a dangerous foe has long since evolved into disgust. Daga is clearly corrupt in Bist’ri’s eyes, but she knows she lacks the proof to have the Elders remove him by force.

 _If they even can._ Bist’ri grits her teeth, remembering Lar’ja. _We should send for the Council of Ancients once we have proof. Ju’dha can contact them. They could conduct their own investigation…_

 _“Do you think…”_ At her side, C’it-na fidgets and trails off with his clicks. The olive-green nurse smooths his vestments and exhales. _“I haven’t been to—I haven’t been inside the court before. I hope we aren’t in trouble.”_

 _“You aren’t.”_ Bist’ri assures her Adjutant, nodding once. Her green eyes narrow behind her bio-mask. She looks around the court, noting the absence of the clan Leader. _“But Honorable Clan Leader Daga isn’t here.”_

 _Honorable…_ The head nurse wants to growl. She tenses visibly before she calms herself. Her eyes narrow.

The doors behind the two open. The guards who line the room’s walls—many of which Bist’ri knows in passing, if solely due to her occupation as a nurse—straighten upright. An overwhelming, repulsive stench wafts into the room as Akrei-non-Daga makes his entrance. He clicks curtly at C’it-na and Bist’ri to step aside. She does so; C’it-na follows her lead.

Bist’ri’s eyes follow the ivory-pelted Yautja as the clan leader climbs up the short set of stairs leading to his throne. He faces her and her Adjutant before sitting down. The man leans forward, supporting himself with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced together. His long locs tumble down his back, off his shoulders, and hide the intricate, recent scars resulting from his spar with Elder Lar’ja. Dozens of old scars coat his pelt. Trophies in the shape of beads and ringlets are visible along the man’s long locs, as are strings of teeth, talons, and bone mixed with precious metals in the form of bracelets and necklaces across his flesh.

He wears a ceremonial kilt over his mesh thermal suit. His golden eyes lock unto Bist’ri, visible due to the absence of his mask. _“Head nurse Bist’ri.”_

 _“Honorable Leader Daga.”_ The head nurse grits her teeth.

She cannot lie to herself. She cannot mask the fear or choke it into submission, not when she stares into the face of a man identical to one of her old ‘patrons’. Daga is a spitting image of his sirer, save for different colored dreads, and it fills Bist’ri with a scathing rage alongside her terror. She sees C’it-na flinch from the side. The woman fights the urge to growl, knowing Daga is a clever, dangerous man, and that any gesture or expression out of line can get her or C’it-na into trouble.

 _Calm. Calm. Breathe._ Bist’ri tells herself over and over. She cannot keep her hands from balling into fists.

She has managed this particular trigger before by foregoing her mask and forcing Daga to be perceived not as the face of his sirer, but as a nigh-descript thermal signature, passable for any other Yautja of approximately seven-foot-eight height. But she wears her mask today, and when the head nurse attempts to switch the optical settings, she pauses in surprise at the filters jamming. Her eyes widen before she curses in her head.

Of all the times for a mask to malfunction—Now is not the time. Not now, not with _that_ face in front of her, leering and gauging her worth like others have before.

 _No! I am not that anymore. I am not… stock._ She pushes the thought through her head, reminding herself until she can scarcely pay attention to anything else. _I am my own individual. I am Bist’ri. I am not… I am not on that ship anymore. I am not…_

 _“In the future, do not drag your Adjutant from his duties unnecessarily.”_ Daga scolds her like one would a pup. The condescending clicks grate her aural channels but even as she hears the words, the woman refuses to react, her mind elsewhere.

 _Breathe,_ the head nurse breathes.

 _Calm,_ the head nurse calms.

 _That man is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore,_ the head nurse reasons.

 _“Le—Leader Daga—Honorable—Honorary—Honor—Leader Daga,”_ C’it-na croaks with nerves, fidgeting in place in a manner Bist’ri faintly recalls being similar to how one of the oomans behaved when nervous. _“—Is it—Am I permitted to be in attendance?”_

 _“That is up to the head nurse. Bist’ri…”_ Daga tilts his head to one side. She wants to rip the mandibles from his skull and shove them down his throat; his smug demeanor radiates his confidence, and it makes her sick.

He acts just like his sirer.

 _Selfish,_ Bist’ri acknowledges.

 _“What is the matter you wish to discuss, Leader Daga? We are in the middle of the mating season.”_ She decides to try one of Tjau’ke’s excuses, recalling the many times the former head nurse escaped a tricky social encounter through quick thinking. Bist’ri clears her throat. _“And—As I have a trial in the near future—I can’t afford unnecessary meetings.”_

 _“This one is necessary. Tell me—Does your Adjutant know anything about your bearer?”_ Daga relinquishes the smug, cool tone of his clicks in favor of something more cryptic. Bist’ri cannot tell if the man refers to Ju’dha’s involvement with retrieving her when she was two-six cycles, or if he hints at something more recent. The head nurse is not close enough to her bearer to know every little thing going on in Ju’dha’s life.

She cannot tell if it is worth the gamble of sending C’it-na out. While she doesn’t believe the clan leader has the nerves to drag her kicking and screaming to trial right _now_ , she fears being left alone with him. She fears being helpless against the individual who mirrors his sirer. She fears, and she knows he can taste her fear lacing every response, interaction, thought. She fears, and that is enough to make her step closer to C’it-na despite her attempts to remain calm and steady.

 _“—Nothing we talk about—Are things C’it-na cannot be privy to. He is my Adjutant. He has the authority and capabilities to control himself and keep certain things private.”_ She struggles from cracking under the clan leader’s stare.

Not once has Daga looked at her Adjutant. His attention is solely on _her_ , and it provokes a shudder she cannot hold back.

 _“Tell me, then, head nurse—Have you noticed anything… different? About your bearer?”_ Daga growls the last question, making C’it-na flinch backward.

 _“M-di. I have not had the time to speak with them in length. Why?”_ The head nurse clicks in response.

 _“I expect them to speak with you soon,”_ the clan leader exhales and sits upright. He rests his arms on the armrests of his throne and leans back. _“They will require your assistance, Honorable Bist’ri. Your bearer is carrying pups.”_

She doesn’t mean to—By Cetanu, she knows she shouldn’t—Yet her first instinct is to stare before bursting into a short bout of clacking laughter. The head nurse shakes her head, amused by the notion, before she falls quiet and takes on a more serious stance. Her body tenses. She clicks at the clan leader, _“With all due respect—My bearer has made it perfectly clear they will not produce further offspring. I am the last in their line, and I do not intend to continue the lineage.”_

The words provoke one Elite in the room to curse softly under their breath. Bist’ri shoots them a stern look before shifting her gaze back at Daga. He slowly nods. _“Sei-i… Sei-I, you would believe that, wouldn’t you?”_

The man stands. He clears his throat and walks down the steps to the flat plain of the court, stopping a handful of _noks_ short of Bist’ri and looking down at her. She does not waver in looking up at him, not even when her fear begins to spike. Her hands shake, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to keep breathing through the growing paranoia and terror. All she sees when she looks at the clan leader is _his_ face. His _goddamn_ face, the face of a monster, the face of dishonor so bad it continues to haunt her sleep cycles and leave her strung out in unyielding horror and pain. She sees the face of Daga’s sirer, and she hates him as much as she hates every other bastard who touched her during the eight cycles post _chiva_.

 _“Honorable Bist’ri,”_ the man speaks as if she is but a Suckling once more, a child to be berated and looked down upon. “ _Your bearer and I had a… fulfilling session together several days ago. If you wish, I will… provide the bio-mask audio. Perhaps that will satisfy your penchant for proof of such actions?”_

 _Calm. Calm! Calm! CALM!_ She screams it inside her head. Outwardly, the woman growls. _“I—That is not—Necessary—Daga.”_

 _“Use my title,”_ The man hisses before drawing back and tilting his head to one side. He inhales deeply and his posture loosens. _“…I believe they will come to you soon. They must. You, your Adjutant, or—Someone from the medical division—I am giving all of you a direct order, head nurse. You will report the results of any pregnancy tests involving Ju’dha-Jehdin back to me.”_

 _“Ell’osde pauk. I have duties to my patients, not to you,”_ It slips out before the head nurse can restrain herself. She hears C’it-na make a clicking gasp, and at least three guards tense. One Elite moves to draw a weapon, but Daga lifts a hand. Bist’ri glares at him. _“Elder Ju’dha has enough sense not to bed an official like yourself.”_

 _“Honorable. An honorable official, head nurse.”_ Daga slinks forward, his breath foul and overwhelming along with his scent when it hits her olfactory receptors. She feels smaller next to him, increasingly so under his piercing stare. The man eyes her wildly, gaze flicking up and down her form. Eventually, Daga leans down to the side of her head and clicks, _“Don’t act like we’re enemies. We don’t need to be enemies, Bist’ri. I am not asking you to do anything you wouldn’t do for another of our clan. The sirer deserves to know who the pups belong to, sei-i? You’re delivering that information to me—”_

 _“You can afford to wait until a birth. If there is even a birth. Most pups do not make it through the first trimester,”_ Bist’ri falls back on her knowledge as a nurse. Her mandibles twitch where she stands, in the sickly combination of past fear and building rage. When Daga does not move, Bist’ri lifts her hand to the man’s chest with intention of pushing him away.

What she doesn’t expect is for him to grab her and yank her forward. C’it-na yells and two Elites ready plasmacasters. The latter hold off on firing, but even with the hum of _sivk’va-tai_ in the background, Bist’ri’s fear does not come from an imminent death. She freezes instinctively, as if her blood runs cold, while Daga calmly laughs at her like she is nothing more than a silly, hapless pup. His grip on her hand grows ironclad and his other hand drops to wrap around her lower back.

 _“Let—Let go—”_ She wants to _snap, snarl, hiss, cuss_ at him, but all she can muster is a soft croak laced with the climbing panic.

 _“Head nurse, I understand I am an alluring man,”_ the clan Leader’s voice is frighteningly smooth, abhorrently blatant in intent. _“But the next time you touch an individual of my ranking without permission, you will lose more than your hand."  
_

Disgust wells up inside her. She cannot growl outwardly, but her anger is enough to overtake fear to the point she rips her hand free of the man’s grasp. He doesn’t try to hold her, clicking in bemusement when she stumbles backward and grabs unto C’it-na for support. Her mind spins in a constant pendulum of _outrage disturbed furor vehement ichor_ and _weakness guilt horror despair deprecation_.

Daga lifts a hand and the Elites revving their plasmacasters nod and turn the weapons off. C’it-na exhales in relief and clutches his chest while Bist’ri shakes in place.

The Clan Leader is _everything_ like his sirer, both in looks and ego.

 _“Better.”_ Daga clicks at her, immense satisfaction rolling off the man as he soaks in her reaction. _“Now—Unto the… other matter at hand.”_

He clicks an order at the Elites and the guards begin to file out of the court. Daga walks away, up the set of stairs and to his throne. He sits down and trills warmly at the head nurse and her Adjutant.

 _“—Do you want C’it-na to stay?”_ The Clan Leader is solemn, in a manner which reeks of faux concern and fake compassion.

 _Rancid!_ The head nurse howls. She hisses at Daga, concern for maintaining any sense of dignity, of grace, of composure shattering in a second. _“S’yuit-de! Why would I bring my Adjutant if I did not trust him?”_

She is grateful the Elites have left, but her ease soon dissipates when Daga begins to nod. The slow, stiff movements are accompanied by the man reaching to the side of his throne and inputting a command into a wrist computer not currently worn. After he enters the input, he dons the glove and flexes his hand into a fist. The lights in the court begin to dim, but they do not go out. Bist’ri stills, confusion taking root, as she looks around the court. C’it-na steps closer to her, practically hiding behind her now. The two nurses are quiet until Daga clicks and a video feed comes up in the form of a hologram.

It appears to be a ship: a civilian-rank craft built by Gahn’tha-cte mechanics and engineers. The camera feed provides a standard, full spectrum feed of the interior of the ship’s cargo hold. The craft must be small, as the cargo hold is exceptionally tiny, perhaps twenty by twenty _noks_ at best. There is something familiar about it, as if she once saw it in a nightmare, or a dream, or a…

C’it-na flinches at the surge of fear. It is thick enough for him and Daga to react to, though only one shows concern. The other is increasingly calm at her mind blanking and drowning in the past.

 _“Honorable Bist’ri?”_ Her Adjutant is a kind Yautja, a man whose empathy is something she admires, an honorable individual who does not deserve to witness the end of her honor.

All the head nurse can choke out is a breath of disbelief and shame, of an old guilt awakening and rising from its crypt. She hears her brother’s voice whisper a single word in her head: a reminder of what she is.

 _“The Late and Honorable Elder Sa’ud left behind a personal database of information we have not had access to until now,”_ Daga speaks regardless, trills laced with a detestable calm. _“Did you know she requested a copy of the feed from your bearer’s ship? The ship you were brought in almost one-six-zero cycles past today. I didn’t think it was possible. I was told,”_ his voice becomes deep and irate. _“It corrupted. Clearly not, head nurse. But that is a matter for another day! You said you could trust your Adjutant.”_

The feed begins to play.

 _“M-di.”_ Bist’ri isn’t aware her knees give out until she drops to them on the floor. Her mind has already begun to dissociate, unable to separate the past from reality as Tarei whispers again, and again, and again—

 _“This—This can’t be real. This can’t be real. Head nurse,”_ someone speaks, somewhere, and a hand tries to pull her body up, but she cannot focus on it, or anyone. _“Bist’ri? Bist’ri!”_

 _Ic’jit._ Tarei repeats the word.

_“She’s—The head nurse—She’s having a—"_

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Tarei. Tarei. I..._ The words crumble into pointless circles. But the ic’jit cannot take her eyes off the feed. Not when her brother tells her he cannot live through more of this. Not when her brother fails to take his own life, unable to squeeze the final bit of air from his lungs.

Not when he begs her to do it.

_“Turn it off—"_

Not when her hands wrap around his throat and she weeps and begs him not to leave her.

Not like how she feels hands on her neck now, and she realizes it is her own, a mirror of the life she took and the code she broke.

_Ic’jit._

She can remember the look on his face when his body finally went limp. When her wails and sobs broke through the front she tried to keep up for the two’s sake. When she realized she was alone to face another buyer who would continue the streak of unspeakable things.

Someone walks to her and wrenches her up with crude, rough hands. Hands she screams and sobs at, unable to associate them with anyone but the individual who forced her to father four pups across eight cycles. But she is weak, and she knows she is guilty, she deserves nothing, no mercy, so when the grip grows tight and a voice hisses at her, all she does is weep quietly and stay still.

 _“—Tomorrow—You will stand before the Elders and go on trial. Your Adjutant will serve as witness to what you have seen here,”_ Daga’s voice is _his_ voice, and it reeks of power. _“You are free to defend yourself, Honorable Bist’ri. But there is a precedence for truth in Gahn'tha-cte. Your truth—You brought your brother the final rest. You took the life of another Yautja. You have broken the code. What do you have to say for yourself?"_

There is nothing for the guilty to speak.

 _"Ki'sei! Adjutant C'it-na. Take her back to the medical bay,"_ The clan Leader snaps. _"I'm sure she has... patients to tend to."_


	66. sweet marigold blossoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternative chapter titles: damage control, consequences pt 5
> 
> TW:  
> -suicidal ideation at the end of the first section  
> -reference to past abuse  
> -reference to past murder / death  
> -manipulation  
> -medical procedures / surgery talk  
> -reference / discussion of abusive relationships

From the second she steps outside the court, the head nurse has already begun making plans of her own. Bist’ri walks quietly with her Adjutant at her side as the two pass Elite guards and slowly make the trek to the lift. Though C’it-na looks at her many times over the short walk, Bist’ri refuses— _can’t_ —speak until both are on the lift ascending through the floors of the ship. To her relief, no other clan members are present or get on the lift as it climbs higher.

 _“C’it-na,”_ The first word she says is sunken deep in her chest. It is the beginning of the end, because as the olive green Yautja clicks in acknowledgement, Bist’ri already knows what she is going to do. _“I have a task for you. You and the medical division.”_

It is the only thing she can do; damage control. When an infection threatens the body, when there is no hope of salvage, a nurse strives to mitigate as much of the injury as possible. She cannot stop what is already in motion. There are three individual charges the Elders are likely to find her guilty of or complicit: lack of subordination, disloyalty, and murder. The lack of subordination no longer matters; being found guilty of murder will have her branded an _ic’jit_ and executed regardless if the Elders strip her of titles or not.

But disloyalty—It is an act which involves more than her. The charge will be levied against Guan once the truth comes out mid-trial, but until that happens, she has time to manipulate the events in her favor.

She does not seek to absolve herself of disloyalty but the _opposite_. She cannot fathom the thought of Guan being dragged before the Elders and lashed for disloyalty, not _now_ , not when he is injured and cannot be exposed to serum. To have the charge be resolved in a manner favorable to what she wants means taking the brunt of blame for disloyalty occurring in the first place. But to make sure her story is believed, to ensure Guan cannot intervene—she knows he will try anyways, the man is as kind as he is stubborn—she needs him to remain in the medical bay, far from the council hall.

 _“Tomorrow, I am going on trial. I will not be here to assist you or the nurses with patients. I do not know if I will be allowed back in the medical bay when they are through with my charges,”_ the head nurse clicks quietly, gaze locked in front of her as she watches the lift rise past the lower levels of the clanship. _“You are not my Adjutant without reason. Aside from your testimony—The Elders will not hold you to remaining in attendance. You and the other nurses are to keep admitted patients within their rooms until the day cycle passes and my trial is over.”_

 _“All of them?”_ C’it-na chirps. He tilts his head to one side. It is clear he feels concern, as to be expected when fear continues rising off her body, but the Adjutant does not overstep any boundaries. _“…Sei-i. I will inform the others—When we get to medical bay—”_

Bist’ri hears him pause when he spots her inputting a command into her wrist computer. She inhales softly and sends the message. _“When you get to the medical bay, C’it-na. I have a meeting with someone. It should not take more than an hour or two—I will meet you in the medical bay after. I want to review Lar’ja’s patient file one more time before the trial tomorrow. There isn’t… We can’t save her. But I still—I want to look—To try—In case—”_

 _“We missed something?”_ The olive green Yautja chirps hopefully. His optimism is something she needs.

The nurse nods at him. _“Sei-i. In case… Something can be done.”_

Bist’ri’s wrist computer pings. She flinches and taps the keys until her bio-mask’s optical system shudders to life and pulls up the message.

_Observation deck._

The nurse grits her teeth. When the medical bay falls into sight, when C’it-na steps off the lift and looks back at her, she straightens upright and nods at him. He scurries off into the mess of patients and nurses while several Yautja join her on the lift. Bist’ri inhales slowly and offers them a simple nod. On the way to the observation deck, the other Yautja leave when the lift stops at the residential level. Then Bist’ri is left alone, and the lift keeps climbing. As the observation deck slowly descends into view, the head nurse notes an absence of other Yautja. Even the potential couples are minimal in number, with only three pairs spread out across the vastness of the deck.

Beneath the glass paneled ceiling and walls, the clan ship is privy to beautiful formations of stars, shimmering cosmic dust, and the glow of ship engines as spacecraft fly by the clanship, either departing for their own adventures or getting in queue for the docking bay airlock. It would be a sight to marvel at if she didn’t have to address the individual waiting for her at the end of the observation deck. Bist’ri’s green eyes narrow behind her bio-mask. She forces her fear to submit and hide beneath the anger simmering at the sight of Umbra Skull’s deep gray pelt. The woman stands at the corner of two glass walls, starlight outlining her figure, but Bist’ri cannot see Ikthya-De for anything other than the disgusting, dishonorable menace she is.

A menace she now comes to for help.

Ikthya-De’s green-brown locs sway when the woman looks over her shoulder and spots her. She is still in her heat; Bist’ri can smell the nauseous fume dozens of _noks_ away. She wants to retch at how vile and hideous the odor is. She struggles not to keel over and begin heaving as she strides to Ikthya-De and stops five _noks_ from her. The huntress begins to click her mandibles in laughter, _“I didn’t think you wanted to see me, head nurse. What an honor.”_

Bist’ri feels her temper flare. She keeps it in check only because of what is at stake. She is not here for herself. She is here for Guan, and she will do everything she can to keep the wrath of Daga, of Ikthya-De, and of the Elders off his back.

Ikthya-De chirps at her when she says nothing. _“You’re wearing your mask? With me? I’m offended by the lack of trust.”_

 _“You’re a worm.”_ Bist’ri snarls, anger riling inside her like a building pressure trying to escape. _“Why would I trust you?”_

 _“Because you came to me.”_ Umbra Skull pushes a long loc over her shoulder. She watches Bist’ri with gleaming gold eyes, evident due to the woman’s bio-mask hanging off one hip.

_“I don’t have a choice.”_

_“Turn off the mask. Let’s enjoy the stars.”_ Ikthya-De speaks as if the two can make out the beautiful celestial bodies in a Yautja’s natural thermal vision. The blobs of color are interesting, but nowhere near as glorious as when she views them through the full spectrum color filter of her mask.

Bist’ri shuts her mask off anyways. She unclasps it and grimaces when the sensors retract from her head. The head nurse holds it in one hand and turns to face the stars, though her eyes never leave the damning heat signature to her left.

Ikthya-De inhales, pleased. _“Yes, you don’t have a choice. S’yuit-de, Bist’ri. You never did. But that’s beyond the point. What do you want of me?”_

Bist’ri has no doubt in her mind the wretched woman before her knows _exactly_ why she is there. She realizes, with a pang of furor, Ikthya-De wants her to say it aloud because it forces her to acknowledge her helplessness. She cannot resolve the matter alone. She is inferior to the traitor at her side, to the woman who has hurt so many, and thinking of that in of itself is a painful thing. She clenches her eyes shut. _“M-di-H’chak told me what he gave you.”_

 _“The Kukulkan mask signature list. Ah, that.”_ Ikthya-De laughs, mandibles clicking and clacking loudly. She sounds so real, but one of many masks the woman slips on and off in a moment. One second she is cheery and carefree, and the next she reveals the pride in her bones when she hisses in a hushed tone, _“You want it, do you?”_

 _“M-di.”_ Bist’ri forces her eyes back open. She will not look away from the damned woman. _“You would hand it over to Daga without second thought. Even if I—No matter what I said, did, or swore to do.”_

 _“What a strange observation.”_ Ikthya-De trills in humor. _“I’m dishonorable in your eyes?”_

 _“You are no better than an ic’jit.”_ The head nurse clenches her hands into fists.

_“S’yuit-de. Don’t pretend you have room to insult me, Bist’ri. Tell me what you want before I change my mind.”_

_“I will be charged with disloyalty. And then—Guan will be charged with disloyalty. Daga will punish him.”_

_“As he should. The man is paired, what s’yuit-de would dare pauk a paired man?”_ Ikthya-De tilts her head to one side. The angle indicates she stares at Bist’ri. _“Are you worried about him, Bist’ri?”_

_“You know I am—”_

_“Sei-I, sei-I, I know very well,”_ Ikthya-De shakes her head. She clicks abruptly and looks away. _“—He’s a stubborn man. Never listening when he’s told to do something… He could have avoided this. But you’re here to play the martyr, aren’t you?”_

The head nurse says nothing.

 _“You don’t know how predictable you are,”_ Ikthya-De gestures with one hand, the heat signature reflecting off the glass windows nearby. _“But that’s what I like to see in others. Predictability. It makes my job easier. I think ahead—And I predict—And I act—And I will act again. You want to spin a story, Bist’ri? Take the blame off his back? Knowing the consequences? They’ll talk about it. They’ll talk about you before they talk about your brother.”_

The head nurse’s eyes widen. _“How do you know about him?”_

 _“I am Akrei-non-Daga’s progeny. Why wouldn’t I know about you, Bist’ri?”_ The world feels very small when Ikthya-De takes one step forward, then another.

_“About your mei-hswei?”_

Another step.

_“Your chiva?”_

Another step, and the woman leans over and leers in Bist’ri’s face.

 _“Tell me—Why did you strangle him? Snapping the neck is faster, less struggling…”_ Ikthya-De draws back and shakes her head. She pauses, and then speaks with chirps dripping with glee, _“Maybe you really wanted him dead. You wanted him to suffer.”_

 _Ic’jit._ The voice whispers in Bist’ri’s mind, cold and cruel and callous, everything she deserves.

Her mind blanks.

_Ic’jit._

_“You can barely speak. Predictable.”_ Ikthya-De moves back and clicks in satisfaction. Her demeanor shifts and she rolls her shoulders. _“Sei-i… I look forward to hearing how it plays out. You didn’t need to involve yourself with my mate. What happens between us is our own business. You are barely Blooded, not even worthy of the title ‘kv’var-de.’ Your bearer let rumors of your... supposed prowess in hunts fester. What a mistake that was. You cannot live up to the lies.”_

Bist’ri’s gaze falls to the mixture of hot and cool hues of the metal ground and its reflections.

The only thing she can say is a soft, _“I know.”_

 _“Good,”_ Ikthya-De puts a hand on her shoulder. It makes Bist’ri flinch, but she doesn’t dare move away. The woman stares at Ikthya-De’s heat signature as the later growls. _“You desire his safety. You want to take the blame? Put the onus of disloyalty on yourself?”_

_“Sei-i.”_

_“Daga will give you an opportunity to confess tomorrow,”_ Ikthya-De’s grip on her shoulder becomes iron-clad. _“You will tell the Elders how you used your position as Adjutant nurse to gain unauthorized access to my life partner’s and I’s residence. You will take responsibility for exploiting the authority you hold as nurse to force him into a physical relationship. You will admit to causing him physical injury and pain when he did not reciprocate. You will admit to manipulating him for political prowess. Do you understand?”_

The head nurse shuts her eyes. She nods.

Ikthya-De’s hands drop to Bist’ri’s arms. The woman’s grip is painful and sparks panic, but none of it comes close to the numbness spreading over the nurse’s form when Bist’ri hears Ikthya-De go on.

 _“You’re going to find him tonight and tell him the truth,”_ The woman clicks once before she releases Bist’ri and slinks back. _“He disgusts you, Bist’ri—And now that he isn’t Adjutant—He has no use to you anymore. You’ll see it in his eyes. You’ll see the warmth go out and despair creep in. Snuff out the hope you helped him find. Tear down the courage he built up at your side. And when that’s done—”_

A slink of metal alerts Bist’ri to the fact Ikthya-De has found and taken one of her hidden lancets off her body. She flinches at the feeling of cold metal against her neck.

_“Stay away from what’s mine.”_

_Ell’osde pauk._ Bist’ri’s eyes well with tears. She cannot hide the scent of them. She hears the other woman’s laugh before Ikthya-De draws back.

 _“I will keep this. Take care, head nurse. I understand you have a patient to see?”_ There is a sneer in the woman’s clicks, nothing short of abhorrent. Ikthya-De mocks her, mocks Tjau’ke, mocks Lar’ja, and Bist’ri knows she is helpless to do anything about it.

She is not a fighter, or a politician, or even a hunter. She merits use only in the medical division. To think she could ever outwit a dangerous and influential figure like Ikthya-De th’Syra is not only asinine, but it is vain. She is vain in that aspect alone, but the actions of disloyalty remind her just how selfish she is. An incapable, asinine, selfish, vain _ic’jit_ with nothing to contribute to the world.

Long after Ikthya-De leaves, Bist’ri stands and stares at the thermal signatures of the distant stars. She imagines one of them orbits the planet _Photon,_ and she yearns for the day where she can bury herself in the final rest under a sky of golden light and sweet marigold blossoms.

* * *

_“How many clawtips am I holding up?”_ Roja’s voice is a constant in the background while the red-pelted Yautja clicks and nods at Gry’Sui’s reactions. Jo smiles when the Elite answers in a croak, nigh audible yet correct. Roja clicks at Gry’Sui and taps his mandibles one-by-one. _“I’m testing your reflex… Alright. Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de, I need you to flare your mandibles for me—Just like that—Growl, please—”_

The sound of the growl is terrifying, but to see the grumpy Elite sitting on the metal table with an expression akin to pouting is almost comical. _Almost,_ as Jo knows it isn’t funny to _him_. She holds her tongue and crosses her arms where she stands at the side, not wishing to interrupt while Roja continues pestering the barbecue-smelling man with questions.

Roja reminds her of Louanne in a way, of Louanne when the woman finally got the metaphorical stick out of her ass. Jo’s chest tightens at the memory of her ‘birthday party’, of Louanne’s sincere words and offering of booze. The doctor turned out to be alright—And then she was taken, shot by _Alma_ before the two’s eyes. Jo’s brown eyes dim. She looks to the side, where Ivon fidgets and peers intently at the Elite sitting on the metal table. The woman wonders if they miss Louanne too.

 _Probably._ Jo exhales silently. _You make friends easily…_

Friends.

Jo hopes the few friends she had back on Earth are doing well. She hopes the same for her best friends, for her _siblings,_ for the kin she never got the chance to say goodbye to. The woman feels her eyes water at the memories of herself, Tonya, and Devon sucking down smoothies in Arizona heat, or hooking hoses up to spray each other with water. One time, Devon convinced her and the two’s older sister to have a water balloon fight—Which ended in water damage and a _pissed off_ landlord.

It feels like a millennia ago. Jo wonders if it has only been months when it feels like _years_ stretching onward.

 _“Hey! Hey, hey, hey—”_ Leitjin interrupts her spiraling thoughts.

Jo doesn’t think they do it intentionally, but she’s grateful regardless for the distraction. She nods at Leitjin. “Yeah?”

 _“’pparently—C’it-na’s back. Not that you care, ooman, but,”_ the light gray Yautja waves her off. She raises both brows before rolling her eyes and looking away. _“But—But, but, but! Roja! C’it-na says we got to get all the nurses together for a meetin’ or… or… cjit.”_

 _“Really? Hey—No moving!”_ Roja growls at her patient before looking over at Leitjin. _“I didn’t think Adjutant C’it-na did… That. Adjutant things. Hope it’s a permanent change.”_

 _“He wants us to get the nurses ready. And—He wants an update on… On… The red plant thingy.”_ Leitjin taps a command into their wrist computer.

Roja stiffens. She growls once more at Gry, who growls back. Roja hisses. _“You—Stay right there! I haven’t finished looking you over.”_

 _“I don’t have a choice.”_ Gry’s words are full of ire. He squints at Roja, visible as the amber-pelted Yautja lacks a mask.

In what feels like _way_ too quickly to Jo’s human brain, both she and Ivon are left alone with a partially dressed Elite Yautja hunter. The muscular man is slightly less beef-cake than when she saw him outside the medical bay, back on the ship, but Jo imagines he will regain the beef-cake-ness of his usual stature when he recovers from whatever happened to him.

 _What happened to you? Some kind of… Punishment?_ She admits—only to herself—she doesn’t quite understand what and why and _how_ the man ended up in his current state. Maybe it is for the best; she doesn’t have reason to care outside trying to understand his clan’s customs.

That, and she remembers the incident on the ship. The one involving his strange, smelly _purring_. The kind of purring that began as one thing but spurred her thoughts another direction, a much less appropriate direction, the kind of direction she finds her mind drifting to as her eyes sweep the injured Yautja’s bare chest and shoulders. Even if Yautja are terrifying murder magnets, Jo cannot deny the physique is godly by human standards. Part of her wants to reach out and touch the man, but she knows better, and she is _not_ in the mood to have a hand or head ripped off today.

“So—We can understand him. But. But—He doesn’t—He can’t understand us?” Ivon whispers the words, inching closer to Jo when their voice draws the black irises of Gry to the two’s standing bodies.

“Yeah. Yes!” Jo nods.

Gry stares at the two. His low string of clicks—weak, he sounds incredibly weak—makes Jo blink and look away pointedly. She ignores the rising waft of barbecue in the air and keeps her eyes on the wall away from the half-naked hunter.

“Maelstrom. I need—I need help breaking Maelstrom out.” Ivon’s declare of intent to commit a jailbreak on a giant fucking alien ship is the last thing Jo needs now.

Her eyes grow big and she balks at the electrician’s audacity. “Well. Fuck.”

Her friend shuts their eyes. Their blond hair looks soft to touch, but Jo keeps her hands to herself, knowing full well how annoying it is to have someone randomly touch one’s hair. When Ivon speaks next, it is quieter. “…I—I had—Time to think. Kind of. Kind of. I need… I need to help her. I want to—Free her—Jo. This place—Clan—” The person grits their teeth. “They’ll ship her off—To be killed—Executed—"

“You need your prescription. That’s what you need, for starters,” the woman frowns widely. “One thing at a time, Ivon. You talk to any of the Yautja yet ‘bout getting on the _Kukulkan_?”

“Not yet...” They shrink where they stand. “I was just—I’ve been thinking—I want—I just want her safe. I can—You know I can do things! Things with,” Ivon gestures at the nearest piece of equipment protruding from a wall. “With—That! With that, Jo! I can… If I get my hands on it—I could cause a lot of trouble. Locks aren’t a problem. Yautja are the problem.”

The mention of the word _Yautja_ causes Gry’s head to snap upright and lock unto Ivon. The black eyes narrow. The man snarls, only to break into a fit of heaving gasps and coughs halfway. Jo pauses, momentarily distracted and full of worry she might witness a Yautja fall over dead. She doesn’t relax until Gry calms and turns away, a back of scars and bandages facing her. Even then, some of the woman’s tension remains with the sight of the injuries.

Jo’s gaze dims. _What the fuck goes on here… It’s not… It isn’t as light-hearted and easy-going as Leitjin makes it seem. Or—As H’chak spoke of it. Or—Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention? God, damnit._

She thinks about Ivon’s words to distract herself. The electrician is indeed some kind of bizarre magician with alien technology up to date, at least when it involves H’chak’s clan. Jo admits she doesn’t believe it is _actually_ magic, nor does she know if H’chak’s clan is the only clan Ivon can do Ivon-things in, but she acknowledges they are capable of things humans shouldn’t be capable of. The person is either a prodigy of a Yautja electrician born into the wrong species, or— _Something_. Jo doesn’t know. It nags at her in an annoying way, because it doesn’t seem to be a life or death matter, but she remains entranced by the possibilities all the same.

She wonders how hard it would be to break Maelstrom out of a goddamn clan ship with multiple levels, potential hostiles, and a sheer lack of weapons and the ability to communicate with anyone not using one of those translation software masks.

 _Very hard,_ she concludes. Jo glances at Ivon and smiles to herself when she sees their resolve. _But you like challenges, huh? Figures. You got it bad, Ivon. I bet she does, too._

“I don’t think talking about it in the open is the best way to do this.” Jo makes the comment quickly, glancing from Ivon to Gry.

“I know, I know—I _know_ , but—I—We’re running out of time. Jo! Jo. Jo.” Ivon clenches their eyes shut and whimpers softly. “I hate—I can’t stand—The thought of her being locked up—Caged—She’s not an animal! She’s my—”

“Bed buddy?” Jo cracks a grin.

“Girlfriend!” Ivon’s face flushes bright red, the crimson hue a stark contrast to their pasty white skin. “I don’t want my girlfriend to die. Thanks.”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m not saying I won’t help—Just—Let’s find a more private place to handle this, okay? Ivon? This isn’t—You can’t take big fucking risks like this—”

“How is it a risk?” Ivon frowns.

“You’re talking ‘bout jailbreak in front of an Elite warrior!” Jo steps forward and gestures wildly at Gry. “I know he doesn’t—He might not understand us now—But what about the future? We need to be careful!”

The Elite appears to inch away from her, scooting further back on the table he sits upon. His recently acquired thermal mesh clings to his pelt in a strange way, practically inviting her eyes to ogle. Jo looks to the side quickly.

“—I don’t want to lose my head. Okay?” Jo admits finally, shoulders slumping and hands balling into fists.

“We won’t,” Ivon assures her. “Please—I—I can’t help Maelstrom alone.”

* * *

_“You realize what a pain it will be to keep every patient locked inside the medical bay? How long do you plan for this to last?”_

_“If all goes well—Not very long?”_ C’it-na shrugs amicably, tension rising in his form as other Yautja berate him with questions of their own.

From nearby, the silver figure watches as a group of Yautja nurses bickers back and forth with the olive-green Adjutant. She doesn’t know how long C’it-na has been at it, having found the medical bay only after a merry trek through random levels of the clan ship accompanied by an escort upon stumbling into the armory. Sundew makes a note to thank the golden Yautja clad in pure white metals later, only to recall she forgot to get the individual’s name.

 _She was at the ship._ The Vekin frowns to herself as she thinks. _Yey… Yey… I need to ask H’chak about her. Later, perhaps…_

When the Adjutant nurse finishes his spiel, Sundew waves at him. C’it-na stills, expression masked by his bio-mask, but Sundew notes the tension in his form, likely at the fact she wears a set of H’chak’s robes like a big, baggy dress. She maintains a friendly smile as she walks to him and clasps her hands behind her back. Her head tilts to one side, clear eyes locked on the man. “Greetings, Adjutant C’it-na.”

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ The nurse relaxes. _“You—You have strange timing.”_

“Do I?” The Vekin pauses, lips pursed as she indulges the thought.

 _“Sei-i.”_ C’it-na reiterates with a quick click. _“Perhaps—Not—Not for you, m-di, but for other nurses and myself. Preparations for tomorrow. I wish I could tell you more, but—But I can’t. For. Reasons.”_ There is a sincere note of apology in his strings of chirrups.

Sundew smiles wider. “I do not need to know. Tomorrow will come eventually. I find it fascinating how this clan and the humans of Earth correspond to similar night and day cycles.”

 _“Eh,”_ C’it-na rubs the back of his head, tussling his green locs and leaving them askew. _“—I don’t know enough about Terra to comment…”_

“It does not matter. Perchance, have you seen my mate in here recently? Or—Honorable Bist’ri?” She scans the surroundings, noting other nurses and Yautja but no H’chak or Bist’ri.

 _“Honorable Bist’ri left to attend a meeting with someone.”_ C’it-na clicks hastily. _“I haven’t seen M-di-H’chak. Apologies, Sun-Dew, I—I’ve been screeched at by my fellow nurses for a fair span of time—I haven’t seen others this irate with me since my sirer brought me back to this ship.”_

“Brought you back?” Sundew blinks.

 _“Sei-I, sei-I,”_ the Adjutant gestures for her to follow to a quieter place, where there are less Yautja and where the two have a degree of privacy. He dips into a side room and she steps in after him. C’it-na sighs. _“My sirer—He served as my—Well. In Gahn’tha-cte, the term is ‘pa-e’, usually the bearer of a pup who raises the pup until the pup is eligible for training. I would have been raise by my bearer, but she passed unexpectedly and I was returned to my sirer.”_

“Returned—You are not from Gahn’tha-cte?” The news takes her by surprise. Sundew soaks in the new information, feeling her surprise fade in favor of delight. In her head, she feels the fragment of GHOST’s consciousness stir and savor the information.

 _“M-di. But—Enough of me,”_ the man sounds suddenly bashful. He straightens upright and clers his throat. _“Why do you need to find the head nurse? Or—Your mate? If you don’t mind me asking—”_

“I do not mind.” Sundew assures him. “It is… not easy to explain.”

She attempts an explanation regardless, calmly breaking down the possibility of reproducing a working Yautja heart through consumption of the damaged Elder’s organs. C’it-na appears fascinated the further in-depth she becomes. As one point, he asks her to slow down so he can fish an electronic tablet from his medical vestments and begin inputting notes into the device.

 _“I’ll inform the head nurse of your idea,”_ the Adjutant sounds excited by the prospect of growing organs, something which thrills Sundew; it is always nice to find another who appreciates indulging in odd avenues in pursuit of new information. C’it-na pauses, then clicks at the Vekin. “ _—Sun-Dew, do you know if your mate has a wrist computer right now?”_

“H’chak usually keeps one on his personnel,” Sundew smiles at the thought. He looks charming when donned in his armor and equipment. As much as the Vekin adores the sight of him nude, she just as much appreciates the strength and lethality her mate embodies when he is outfitted to hunt. The thought of how his thermal mesh contours to muscles and clings to his scales makes heat twist in her stomach.

Sundew calms her thoughts—Now is not the time.

C’it-na clicks once in appreciation and turns away. He pushes a button on his wrist computer and the device pops open, revealing more keys and a screen displaying beautiful, ruby red dashes arranged geometrically. The sight of the written Yautja script of Gahn’tha-cte makes Sundew’s heart tighten. As lovely a sight it is, it reminds her of the geometrically aligned, oscillating triangles, and how her kind uses the arrangement of triangles to communicate when not transmitting perceptions and memories.

 _Once H’chak finishes his business in the clan—I will talk to him about returning to Saturn. I want to see my hive._ She bites her lip. There are many reasons to long for her hive, but the woman avoids dwelling on what will only bring her pain.

A soft ping comes from C’it-na’s wrist computer.

 _“Sun-Dew,”_ C’it-na pauses. _“I’ve told your mate to return to the medical bay as soon as possible. If you can make—Err—Sei-I, make—A new cora’n—Or two, even—We will need M-di-H’chak present. His thwei is essential to keeping Elder Lar’ja alive while we transplant the hearts. In the meantime—Honorable Bist’ri asked me to take you to the biohazard and waste room. But—You can’t—Eat—Any of the organs—Except for the three hearts removed from Elder Lar’ja. Okay?”_

“I will restrain myself. I do not possess the appetite to indulge in old flesh at this time.” Her response is sufficient enough for C’it-na to click appreciatively. He trills at her to follow, and the two leave the room and begin heading through winding halls of the medical bay.

* * *

Text is cowardly. She is a coward, but not that much a coward. When she slips her bio-mask back on and activates the communications line, part of Bist’ri holds hope to the thought maybe he won’t answer. Maybe the man will be dozing off in a medical pod, or in the process of having his bandages changed, or…

Or…

She has a second before the line connects. 

_“Bist’ri.”_ He sounds relieved. _“I’m happy to hear from you.”_

His voice is full of warmth.

The nurse’s gaze is fixed on the stars outside the observation deck. Though she intends to speak, no words come out. Her hands ball into fists. _You’re a strong man, Guan. Kind and strong. You’ll be happier when you cut yourself free of this mess. Of Ikthya-De. Of… me._

“Forgive me. I—I won’t be able to come by for a while,” the head nurse clears her throat. She strains to keep her clicks and chirps in check. Her voice threatens to crack the longer she speaks. “—I need to take care of a few things.”

The pause makes her hearts drop in her chest.

 _“Ki’sei. I will be here when you are done,”_ Guan’s latter sentence clicks carry a note of humor. He pauses again, hesitant, before inquiring. _“Did… Are you alright? I don’t know what Daga wanted, but—”_

 _“I think he slept with my bearer.”_ It is not a lie.

_“…That’s unpleasant.”_

_“Sei-I,”_ Bist’ri clenches her inner jaws. _“But—It’s for me to deal with. Don’t worry about it. You are—Guan. Not a nurse, I mean.”_

A pair of Yautjas pass by her, trilling with mirth mid-discussion. Her eyes follow the two as they walk off to another part of the observation deck. Bist’ri’s chest tightens and her four hearts slow. She hears it in her head, again, again, again, the saccharine sweet tone of her dead brother— _ic’jit._ Bad Blood. One without honor. One who is not even Yautja, who has been disavowed by all clans abiding under the Council of Ancients and their laws.

_Ic’jit meet their end cut down by Arbitrators or Enforcers who assist them in honorable suicide._

In a day, she will be dead. Murder of another Yautja is too damning a sentence. She doesn’t want the man to mourn her, not Guan. She tells herself it is for the best, that even if she can’t survive, at least Guan can move past her. It is easier to hate than to trust.

 _“Guan?”_ The head nurse pauses, throat dry. The rest of her body is frozen and rigid, full of overwhelming tension.

 _“I’m here.”_ She hears his voice over the communication line. He sounds okay.

He will be okay. He _will_ be okay.

She sucks in a deep breath, filling her lungs with filtered air. _“There’s something I need to tell you—”_

The man says nothing. Bist’ri wonders if he hates the silence as much as she does.

The woman fights tooth and nail not to begin sobbing. She will not cry. She will keep him safe. _This_ will keep him safe from Daga’s wrath. _This_ will keep the blame off his back. _This_ is what she needs to do.

_“I’m through pretending I care about you.”_

Silence.

_“You disgust me.”_

The stars glow softly, millions of light years away.

_“Now that you aren’t Adjutant—"_

Her voice cracks.

_“—you aren’t useful anymore.”_

She hears a shaky exhale on the other end.

 _“Bist’ri—”_ He begins, and the head nurse cuts him off. She can’t give him the opportunity to doubt her words.

 _“I don’t want to see you again,”_ The woman growls into her mask. Her hands tremble. _“You’re useless to me—You’re useless to everyone else.”_

 _Ic’jit._ Her brother whispers in her head.

_“Chirp—"_

_Ic’jit._

_“—died—"_

_Ic’jit._

_“—because of—"_

_Ic’jit._

_“—you.”_

She hears a sharp exhale come from the other end of the communication line. A numbness crawls up her body and slowly spreads, enveloping every inch if blue flesh and leaving her gaze dim and floating across the stars overhead.

 _“Okay.”_ Guan clicks once.

Bist’ri cannot keep her eyes from watering. _“N’dhi-ja, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

_“…N’dhi-ja, Honorable Bist’ri.”_

The communications line ends.

The head nurse holds her head in her hands and weeps.


	67. the trial of bist'ri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a happy chapter.
> 
> TW:  
> -references to past rape / noncon  
> -references to deceased children  
> -references to past abuse  
> -references to suicide / murder  
> -references to cheating / affairs  
> -references to medical procedures / surgery

During the evening of the fourth day of the return of the M-di H’chak recovery expedition, Guan-Tjau’ke steps out of the room while Honorable Bist’ri and Adjutant C’it-na command a crew of nurses to prepare Elder M-di-Guan-Lar’ja for an experimental medical procedure. Ten minutes later, the woman’s old friend is wheeled out on a metal gurney with dozens of wires and tubing clamped or pressing into Lar’ja’s flesh. One tube goes straight down the woman’s mouth, nestling into her airway in order to keep her breathing when the anesthesia goes into effect.

Tjau’ke does not get a chance to say goodbye before the woman is carted off for surgery. There is nothing to do but sit and wait. As she is unable to attend her former Adjutant’s trial in the morning, the woman decides to return to her room and sleep in a pod. The liquid of the pod is a comforting sensation when she finally shuts her eyes and falls into slumber.

She does not dream, except for a flash of deep golden light. Like tiny sunkisses, or a gleaming constellation, the light shines in pinpricks and needle-thin specks, encompassing her mind and spreading like a blessed shroud rather than a veil of mourning.

She does not see a memory, because she does not dream. Yet when she stirs the next morning, begrudging and mournful, the woman hears a repeated _ping ping ping_ from her wrist computer. She drags herself from her sleeping pod and leaves a trail of pod liquid behind her. Her locs hang like dead weight; Tjau’ke might consider cutting them short in her grief, if she were not occupied with fastening her bio-mask to her face and inputting the command to bring up the messages into her wrist computer.

The woman ignores the influx of messages from Elder Tyioe requesting her consideration to undergo a Hunt as Arbitrator and reclaim her honor.

She can’t care about becoming a nurse again, much less restoring her _honor_ , when the woman her heart sunk deep for is—

_As of six-zero-zero this morning cycle, Elder M-di-Guan-Lar’ja was brought out of anesthesia and control of her care transferred to Adjutant C’it-na. He began two lines of immunosuppressants at six-zero-two. The patient was immediately transferred to a critical care pod following an allergic reaction to one of the drugs administered._

It is the report Bist’ri sent earlier in the morning following the conclusion of the double heart transplant.

Tjau’ke doesn’t want to imagine the exhaustion looming over the former Adjutant. She doesn’t want to imagine how hard it is to sleep with impending trial on top of an exhaustive, invasive, complex surgery. She doesn’t want to imagine the pressure bearing on Bist’ri’s back even _now_. All she knows to process is the meaning of the report: Lar’ja is not dead yet.

Tjau’ke resists sobbing into her mask when the words sink in. She reads them, and reads them, and reads them again, then she begins to weep and takes off her mask to wipe her eyes and dry her tears. The woman scarcely puts her composure back together. She knows Lar’ja is not dead _yet_ , but it does not mean the woman will make it.

 _Especially if she had a reaction… They cannot use serum on her. Not like this._ Tjau’ke exhales softly. She forces herself to breath, calming her thoughts and keeping her anxiety from spiking. _But she lived the operation. She lived…_

Eventually, the woman puts her mask back on and checks the other messages.

_M-di-H’chak admitted to medical bay following donation of thwei for Elder M-di-Guan-Lar’ja’s operation. Assessed and released after injection of vitamins and intravenous fluids line. Left after receiving orders to rest for two day cycles._

From Bist’ri—Sent shortly before the start of Lar’ja’s operation last night.

_I can confirm Akrei-non-Daga questioned me on the state of my bearer’s fertility. I did not give the clan leader answers. I advise you tell my bearer to visit the medical bay; the nurses cannot perform the necessary examinations without their physical presence._

It is the earliest message, sent two hour cycles before the message regarding M-di-H’chak. Tjau’ke’s eyes dim as she rereads the message. _Oh, Bist’ri…_

The head nurse writes as if she does not expect to work in the medical bay much longer.

Tjau’ke feels a deep ache in her chest when she realizes _she_ does not expect the Bist’ri to remain head nurse much longer. 

Without authority to attend Bist’ri’s trial, Tjau’ke begrudgingly dresses. The woman puts on a thermal mesh and leather dress with a deep snakeskin pattern and wide sleeves. Perhaps she can not keep her former Adjutant company, but she can be there for Guan and H’chak should Lar’ja’s body breathe its last.

* * *

The trial opens with a somber mood. There is no denying the seriousness of the moment, nor the tension in the Arbitrators who push open the double doors of the council hall for the head nurse to walk through. The doors shut softly behind her. In the council hall, with two more Arbitrators flanking the doorway, Bist’ri finds herself thinking back to the _ka’rik’na_ that spurned this mess. It was only a little over a month ago she sat at Tjau’ke’s side on the lower seats, upright and poised with the calm of a coming storm.

She felt confident about the future back then. She didn’t think she would go on the trip to Terra, not then. It hadn’t been until mid-trial she decided it was imperative to be in attendance, for the sake of ensuring the then-Adjutant Guan’s safety. But just as she thought she wouldn’t go to Terra, she thought she could handle the season’s heat. She had thought she could keep her own selfish ambitions in check and quash the old, faded blight of feelings in her chest. She thought she could keep herself in line with her honor as a nurse.

 _If I had—Would I be facing the terror I feel right now?_ The woman asks herself as she walks forward and unto the round center stage of the council hall.

Multiple sets of eyes fall on her. Bist’ri shuts her eyes.

_Sei-i._

When Daga revealed he had the video feed of her murdering her twin—

 _This event became set in stone. Inevitable._ She opens her eyes. Her green gaze is concealed by her mask, but she imagines the five Elders—Daga included—can breathe in the scent of salt and mucus from recent tears. She could not keep herself from sobbing just an hour prior, the only moment of peace after handing over care of Elder Lar’ja to her Adjutant. She is tired.

 _“Honorable Bist’ri.”_ From high on the ascending rows of seats, perched at the very top in his massive chair, Akrei-non-Daga stares at her with the face of his sirer. His yellow eyes are piercing. She cannot bear to look more than a second before turning her masked face to the side.

 _“Honorable Clan Leader Akrei-non-Daga.”_ She clicks quietly.

 _Be strong,_ she tells herself. _Please. Just once—Be strong for me._

Strength cannot come when panic is nigh unavoidable. She knows she has no control over how the past triggers and clings and gouges through her present. She feels a numbness settle over her body. The woman shudders from silent chills raking down her spine. _I can’t be strong._

Her eyes flicker to her bearer, seated high in the rows of ascending seats yet not higher than Daga. Ju’dha-Jehdin wears no mask. Their green eyes gleam with unspoken feelings as they watch her, their only pup, stand trial.

Ironically, Ju’dha-Jehdin is donned in white robes. Bright white, bleached whiter than whale bone, with platinum adornments woven and wrapped around their green locs. Bist’ri’s chest tightens. Intentionally or not—White is the color of mourning in Gahn’tha-cte. She recalls Elder Lar’ja in white clothes many times, hinting at the woman’s deceased mate.

 _“Do you know why you are here on trial, Honorable Bist’ri?”_ From the side, Bist’ri notes Elder H’dlak speaks with exhaustion. The Yautja’s gold eyes are a half-lidded mess struggling to stay open. They smell poignant: a fragrance tying them to Elder Migo-Kujhade. The realization provokes disturbing mental imagery; for a moment Bist’ri’s mind focuses on something other than her predicament.

She cannot keep herself from replying, _“Are you capable of judging today, Elder M-di H’dlak?”_

From the side, Elder Ju’dha pauses. Bist’ri hears Daga hiss irritably at her. Her sincere concern amuses Migo, who shakes his head, whereas Tyioe growls once. H’dlak pauses and leans forward in their seat. The Yautja’s green and brown pelt reminds Bist’ri vaguely of Guan’s twin, except the hues are different variations of green and brown, and there is no white motley of scales extending down H’dlak’s throat.

H’dlak’s gold eyes squint. He pauses before exhaling softly and looking around the council hall. _“I am… Not certain I am. Honorable Bist’ri. It has been many tiring nights. I was,”_ a hint of ire creeps into the Yautja’s chirps. _“—Not informed of a change in schedule until this morning. If not for Elder Migo-Kujhade, I might have missed the trial today altogether.”_

 _“If you begin sharing details of your exploits with Migo, I will rip off both your cocks and grind them into paste.”_ Elder Tyioe snarls.

The words make Migo clack mandibles together in laughter, while H’dlak simply shakes their head.

 _“I am not one to brag, Elder Kwei-Tyioe. You have nothing to fear, least of all cocks to grind,”_ H’dlak’s response is dry. They tilt their head to one side before they finally turn their attention back to Bist’ri. The Elder grimaces. _“Honorable Bist’ri. Your concern is noted, but I am more than capable of assessing myself.”_

 _“Forgive me, Elder M-di H’dlak, if I have insulted you. I did not mean to imply you are incapable.”_ The head nurse speaks slowly, carefully, yet softer than before.

H’dlak grunts once in acknowledgement before Daga growls for silence. Attention shifts to the clan leader. He stands and snaps at the woman on trial, _“Honorable Bist’ri! You are on trial for the lack of subordinance demonstrated during the retrieval of Elite M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit Vayuh’ta. As a member of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, you hold the right to demand a trial at the clanship instead of the Council of Ancients. The Elders before you shall serve as your jury, but if you are found guilty—I will deliver your sentence. Am I clear?”_

 _“Sei-I, Honorable Clan Leader Daga.”_ Bist’ri whispers.

 _“Let it be known—This trial serves two functions. The first is innermost justice, the penchant for mistakes made by individuals on the stand. The second—Review. A chance to question and dissect an individual’s testimony and conclusive evidence to determine an individuals’ eligibility for additional charges.”_ Daga trills loudly.

Bist’ri sees her bearer stiffen. She looks away, too ashamed to maintain eye contact for long.

 _“Before we begin, Honorable Bist’ri—”_ Daga pauses, and in a second the weight of reality comes crashing back on her shoulders. She clenches her eyes shut as the clan Leader asks, _“Is there anything you wish to confess to?”_

 _“Sei-I, Clan Leader Daga.”_ Bist’ri clicks. She can hear the room fall quiet, with even the breathing of the Elders and Arbitrators alike taken aback by her words.

She thinks of Guan, of his bright, Jupiter-orange eyes, of the delight and happiness she found in her time at his side.

 _This is the right thing to do,_ she tells herself.

 _Is it what I want?_ She asks herself. _Is it what I think I deserve?_

“Honorable Bist’ri! We wait on your answer.” Leader Daga growls quickly.

_I want to protect him. I want him to be safe._

_Ic’jit._ Tarei reminds her.

She shuts her eyes and breathes slowly.

_I…._

_I deserve this._

_“I am here to confess, Honorable Leader Daga, with the Elders as my witness,”_ The head nurse clicks in a voice as empty and numb as she feels. Like a speaker of a ship blaring a communications line—She does not register her words as her own, but as words spoken through her. _“A little over two month cycles past—I attended the scene of a mating dance. The participants became violent toward one another, and one met the final rest from his injuries. This event triggered an unhealthy interest in the then-Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

Daga pauses, yellow eyes narrowing. His interest is piped.

Bist’ri continues, _“—As time passed, I became increasingly fixated on the then-Adjutant. Though I knew he was a paired man, I did not restrain my urges or inhibitions. I engaged in activities that produced a higher chance of bumping into him. My actions did not cross,”_ her eyes dim. _“Did not cross…”_

Tarei’s voice is soft in her head, urging and vile. _Ic’jit._

_“—Did not cross the lines of honor and disloyalty until his mate and life partner, Ikthya-De th’Syra, attempted to stop me.”_

The other Elder straighten upright. Ju’dha’s eyes are wide, locked directly on her form. Bist’ri cannot stand to look her bearer in the eye, knowing full well the shock and disbelief her bearer will attempt to impose on the other Elders. Any other time and the dedication and protective nature Ju’dha extends toward her might be a comfort. Not now.

She bows her head submissively. _“In the medical logs, prior to the retrieval of the Elite M-di-H’chak and the ic’jit Vayuh’ta—You will find a log entering Ikthya-De th’Syra’s injuries into the medical division’s database. She lost several locs by my hand. Then-Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan attempted to intervene, and I…”_

She clenches her teeth. She can picture the man’s handsome features in her mind. She can imagine the trills, the _whoops_ of joy he makes when happy. She can envision the gleam of his bright orange eyes, the glorious shroud of the _Pride of Cetanu_ as it hangs off his head and falls to his shoulders, and the dozens of scars running across his form—Each with their own tale to tell. She imagines it, briefly, and for a moment her resolve wavers.

_“I love H’chak,” the silver figure says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you love anyone, Adjutant Bist’ri?”_

_“—I stabbed him twice.”_ The woman says quietly. Her hands ball into fists.

She hears an Elder begin inputting notes into a wrist computer. Bist’ri doesn’t look up.

She explains everything in this way: taking the events of the past two months and warping them to fit the perspective required to ensure Guan remains the victim. _Her_ victim. She cannot prove Ikthya-De is a perpetrator, but she can prove Guan is a victim in her words. They damn her, by all the Gods, by Cetanu himself, by the Black Hunter’s wrath—They damn her to an afterlife worse than the deepest, foulest pits of oblivion’s void. She feels the disbelief grow the longer she goes on, but it reaches a point where most of the Elders—save for Ju’dha, expected but not surprising, and Tyioe, whose body language she cannot read—accept it as factual.

That is where the anger begins.

It is a just anger, a righteous outrage, and one she knows well. To be so disgusted by a Yautja entails the other Yautja is an _ic’jit_ , a Bad Blood, a Yautja not even worthy of being called ‘Yautja’ anymore. To engage in a dishonorable partnership, formally recognized or not, is abhorrent and grounds for expulsion from the clan. It is not always a sentence demanding the individual’s final rest, but it brands the individual a certain type of _ic’jit._

Even among _ic’jit_ —There are some aspects of Honor upheld. Even _ic’jit_ do not stand for the type of misdeeds she takes credit for. She is not surrounded by _ic’jit,_ she is surrounded by Elders, and for that alone a sliver of fear begins to unfurl in her gut, even after she reminds herself of what she is doing. It is for Guan, but it ensures the Elders are not lenient on her sentencing.

 _Clever, Ikthya-De._ She acknowledges the wretched woman’s skill in manipulating her to this point. _You don’t want me expelled from the clan. You want my life to end._

By the time it is done, when she has confessed to crimes of physical assault, of extortion, abuse of power, forced disloyalty, and coercive rape, even the impeccably difficult-to-read Elder Tyioe has joined the others in fury. Bist’ri glances up once and sees the Elder’s hands clenched so tightly on the hilt of her combistick that the knuckles appear white on the bright beige pelt. More than one Yautja reeks of barely restrained rage, and she identifies the scent of bloodlust coming from four individuals in the room, with two being the Arbitrators watching the door to ensure she doesn’t try to escape. Bist’ri wonders briefly if one of the Elders will beat her to death in anger.

Her mind feels far away, on another planet, a distant plane, by the time she finishes her confessions.

The room is heavy with filtered shock, indignation, and a sullen mood from Ju’dha-Jehdin.

 _“I wish I could commend your honesty, Bist’ri,”_ Clan Leader Daga no longer uses her title. _“—Disgusted as I am with you—There was no evidence of disloyalty or… the rest of these charges. But you do not deserve applause for foregoing lies.”_

 _“Let me judge her,”_ Elder Tyioe hisses from the side. The woman is clad in her bright, gleaming gold armor, and she looks just as deadly as she sounds.

 _“Patience, Elder Tyioe. Clearly, this woman accepts her fate—But there is a process, and we must follow this process,”_ Daga sounds almost haughty when he shifts and looks down at Bist’ri. _“Let us begin with the first charge. Your lack of subordination…”_

As the man rattles off formalities and details of her defiance of orders during the expedition to Terra, Bist’ri finds her mind is suddenly elsewhere. She locks unto something he said, the words repeating in her mind as she realizes—

_There was no evidence of disloyalty or… the rest of these charges._

Ikthya-De never gave the _Kukulkan_ mask signatures to Daga.

* * *

In another part of the ship, sprawled out in the blankets of a residence that is not his own, the fatigued man slowly comes to and blinks. His orange eyes stare at the ceiling, noting only thermal hues, before he breathes in and the events of the night come back to him.

M-di-H’chak’s eyes widen as he recalls the short stay in the medical division after donating _thwei_ for his sirer’s surgery. He left after speaking with his mate. It was late in the evening cycle then, but not quite the following morning yet.

 _I left to find Ikthya-De._ He remembers. _I found her. She was… I…_

His chest tightens. He feels someone else shift in the bed with him. He knows the scent, yet when he flounders an arm off the bed and tries to grab a bio-mask—where is his bio-mask—from the adjacent night table, a hand lurches out and grabs hold of his own. He feels the sharp claws and cruel fingers dig into the flesh of one wrist.

Ikthya-De hums as she pulls herself up and straddles him. The woman tilts her head to one side, her other hand skipping past the Elite’s face and falling to his bare chest.

 _“Look at you,”_ The way she speaks is sweet and suggestive, almost playful. _“Even better from up here than down below.”_

H’chak stares at her.

He remembers what he did.

He remembers what _they_ did, together.

 _“Ikthya-De,”_ He begins, but his breath hitches and he whines when the woman lets go of his wrist and leans down to his face. The two’s bare foreheads touch. H’chak feels his blood begin to pump wildly in his veins.

 _“Go on. Talk.”_ She is calm as she feels out his chest.

By the Gods—It feels good. But it isn’t why he’s there. He is a man on a mission.

 _“Pauk—Pauk—”_ H’chak pants as the woman touches him. When her hips collide with his own, it is all he can do not to take her on the bed then and there. His heat puts him in a mess of need and wants. Having the naked lady he once loved on top of him does _not_ help. Absentmindedly, H’chak’s hands shift and move to the woman’s hips. He grinds his claws into her pelt and begins to unsheathe at the sound of her cry.

 _I need her to move to the washroom._ It’s the only way to get her away from her equipment.

 _“Oh, Cetanu, yes, yes—”_ Ikthya-De keens and doubles over when the man bucks his hips up toward her groin. He doesn’t enter her, but he grinds against her until the woman is sopping wet. _“H’chak—Breed me, H’chak! Fill me up—”_

The sounds are almost nauseating enough to rid him of his erection. _Almost_ , thankfully, as it makes him more convincing when he pulls her flush against his chest and growls against her, _“Run yourself a bath. I’ll join you shortly.”_

Umbra Skull huffs once before she climbs off. His erection twitches even as he watches her wiggle her hips and walk, nude, to the joined washroom. She growls at him from the door, _“Don’t make a huntress wait.”_

 _“I don’t intend to.”_ H’chak bucks his hips for emphasis. It makes Ikthya-De laugh. She disappears into the washroom— _Thank Cetanu._

He doesn’t have much time. The man practically throws himself off the bed in the haste to grope around aimlessly and retrieve his wrist computer. He inputs a key to reveal a small compartment within, then shifts to snatch Ikthya-De’s wrist computer and turn it over. His movements are crude, and he almost drops the wrist computer more than once, but he tears the back off and pulls the memory chip within out. No sooner than he tucks the chip into his wrist computer’s compartment and inputs the command to seal it does he hear Ikthya-De behind him, voice smooth as it is deadly—

_“Oh, H’chak. I wish you hadn’t done that.”_

* * *

The discussion on what punishment is appropriate for lack of subordination drags on longer than it should. Elder Tyioe is dead-set on a full thirty lashes from each Arbitrator in the room. Though Leader Daga doesn’t dissuade the idea, Elder H’dlak argues it is pointless to murder a _wretched woman_ like herself when the other punishments entail shame. Ultimately, Bist’ri’s first sentence has her on the receiving end of a long _dha’kte._ She is not restrained, as the woman willingly allows the Arbitrator to approach, seize her locs, and with one swipe—

 _Gone._ They are cut unevenly near the base. Not enough hair exists for the locs to remain in their twisted state, causing some of the thick hair strands to uncoil. Her hair puffs in a disheveled way, a manner she finds embarrassing _especially_ once an Arbitrator snickers.

_“The acts of disloyalty… and of a sin second only to murder—”_

It is an easier verdict to reach, and the punishment approved immediately when proposed.

_“You are stripped of honor, Bist’ri. Your title, your honor, your prestige and possessions, all of it foregoes your name. You spit upon the pride of Gahn’tha-cte.”_

Bist’ri remains quiet.

 _“With that taken care of—Allow us to begin the next part of this trial. Bist’ri!”_ Daga sounds haughty, _smug_ , as he clears his throat and sits back in his chair. _“I received reports from my former Adjutant during the trip to Terra… Incidences in which you… What is the correct terminology, Bist’ri? ‘Shut down’?”_

 _“I experienced episodes of panic and terror. An influx of anxiety deterring my respiratory system—”_ Bist’ri prepares to begin another spiel but the clan leader holds a hand and she falls quiet.

 _“I didn’t take you for a coward.”_ Elder Migo clicks once from the side, pausing when others turn and look at him. _“She is a coward for what she has confessed! But—I have not seen her act in a cowardly fashion before today. Her inability to handle certain stimuli is a problem, as it would be for any other kv’var-de. If we were not investigating her abilities now, I might have called for a second Chiva.”_

The word _chiva_ triggers a spike of fear in the former nurse’s stomach. She forgets to breathe momentarily, eyes wide and body numb. Her hands slowly begin to shake.

Her bearer sees, as a moment later Ju’dha growls from across the council hall. _“Do not bring up what isn’t relevant, Elder Migo.”_

 _“It is relevant.”_ Leader Daga corrects Ju’dha with a stern chirp. He crosses his arms. _“I see she is your pup, Ju’dha-Jehdin, but do not act as if you are incapable of having others.”_

The words make Ju’dha leap to their feet and hiss violently. Daga cocks his head to one side. His attention shifts to them. The room is quiet with unspoken tension between the two, each as equally full of animosity for each other. In the end, Bist’ri’s bearer relents and sits back down. Daga hisses in triumph, in a way that reminds Bist’ri too much of his sirer. As disgust slowly claws its way up the former nurse’s throat, it dawns on her just _why_ the man hates her.

She meets his gaze, knowing her bio-mask prevents him from seeing the scathing glare in her gaze, but she stares anyways. If she had courage, she might have screamed at him that it isn’t her fault for what his sirer did, for what her bearer and Lar’ja did to ensure the clan leader’s sirer could never touch her again—

The quell of anger is not enough to break her composure. She remains steadfast, a cliff face against the raging sea. Bist’ri stands tall, desperate to get through the trial. She knows how it ends, but she cannot stand the journey to its end. Having Elder Tyioe rip her head off is preferable to the anxiety waiting causes her.

 _I lost this game of politics._ She acknowledges silently. _I see that! I’m ready to meet the Black Hunter._

It is a lie.

 _“I understand an incident occurred following your chiva,”_ She hears the pleasure drip from Daga’s voice at the way he articulates the growl for ‘chiva’. It makes some of the Elders pause, and causes Ju’dha to snarl once more, but the clan leader does not waver. _“You and your chiva mei-hswei and mei-jahdi vanished following interference from a group of ic’jit.”_

Bist’ri tenses.

 _“Tell us about that, Bist’ri. Tell me about your chiva.” Tell me_ , the clan leader could project the word in a holographic display over his head. He knows exactly what he is doing.

 _“This isn’t necessary!”_ Elder Ju’dha snaps their head up at Daga.

The clan leader speaks with venom— _“How is it not? It is written in her patient records—She reacts to certain stimuli related to the events following her chiva. Is it not fair to demand the full story? The Elders, yourself included, require as much information as possible to judge fairly. Unless,”_ there is a note of hmor to the trill that follows. _“You know something about this they don’t, Ju’dha?”_

Bist’ri stills. She sees her bearer pause; the Yautja hesitates where they sit, as if contemplating something. _No. No. No!_

Ju’dha considers telling the details of the actions taken by them and Lar’ja—That much is clear. Bist’ri is not here to watch her bearer throw their life away. That is her fate, and it does not extend to Ju’dha or her bearer’s future pups.

 _“I killed him,”_ she snaps at Daga before she has a moment to think through what she is doing. _“That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? I killed him—”_

 _“Bist’ri!”_ Ju’dha clicks the name in shock.

She looks to the side, away from her bearer’s shocked green gaze. The room returns to silence, then after a moment Daga’s mandibles clack together in soft chuckles. _“They don’t know the ‘him’ you refer to.”_

 _“Tarei-Jehdin. Tarei. My mei-hswei.”_ The name alone brings guilt back into her chest, but Bist’ri is nothing if not stubborn. She grits her teeth. _“Tarei was my twin, and I killed him.”_

* * *

He barely has time to think before Ikthya-De is on him, tackling him to the floor and sending the two rolling. H’chak yelps as claws dig into his pelt. He grits his teeth through it and bashes his head forward, colliding with a sickening _thud_ against the woman’s skull. It sends pain through his head and leaves his aural channels ringing loudly, but the woman’s grip loosens and H’chak throws her off him. The woman leaps to her feet and grabs him from behind when he tries to escape. He doesn’t have a chance to react before her arm is around his neck, tight as a vise and crushing his windpipe.

He squirms and thrashes, then digs his elbow into the woman’s exposed abdomen. Ikthya-De growls and hisses at the man’s head, _“I thought Guan was the s’yuit-de between you two. You couldn’t play along, could you? You couldn’t be satisfied with just me?”_

She presses hard enough that the man begins to squirm for air. His vision blurs and tears well in his eyes. In a flurry of panic-riddled thoughts, H’chak remembers the woman’s muscle mass _greatly_ overshadows his own. He buckles his knees and throws her over his shoulder, forcing her hands off him and wrenching himself free of her grip. The man staggers backward as Ikthya-De crawls up, the former panting heavily from a mess of _n’dui-se_ in the air and his own fatigue. He is not only short on _thwei_ , but H’chak struggles to avoid thinking about how his body reacts to Ikthya-De’s smell.

She is intoxicating. A glorious, lustful scent, spurring lewd images into his mind even as she unleashes a terrible roar. He circles her in the bedroom, aiming to keep the bed between them for space. Any other time, and the man might have reveled in how goddamn beautiful the woman is. Even if she is a menace, a threat, a trickster—She is vicious and violent and everything a sirer of Gahn’tha-cte desires in a mate.

 _“I’ll make you an offer, H’chak. Give it back and you’ll walk out of here with your th’syra intact.”_ Ikthya-De hisses and rattles like a snake.

 _“Not a chance,”_ The Elite spits at the bed between the two, the same one shared the previous night in a tandem of sweat and ecstasy he regrets with every inch of his being.

 _“Pity. For all the skills you know in bed, I thought you possessed an inkling of common sense,”_ Ikthya-De climbs unto the bed, standing tall and towering over where he begins to back away to one door. The woman hisses, _“To think I considered taking you as a life partner—”_

 _“Cut the cjit, we both know that’s a lie!”_ H’chak snarls. His hands tense into fists. He feels _thwei_ dripping from where the woman plunged claws into his scales earlier.

She lunges for him. His four hearts pound wildly in his head, dizziness following, as the man ducks the blow and thrusts his fist into her chest. Ikthya-De catches it and parries it away, her own fist following and smashing into the Elite’s jaw. She throws him against the wall and wails on him mercilessly. Her claws tear into the flesh of his already scarred face, leaving gaping wounds pouring green _thwei_ until she draws back and switches to punches.

She intends to make him suffer before he meets the final rest.

 _Spiteful bitch!_ The Elite thinks. He ignores the pain razing his face and with a howl of agony-laced fury, the man knees her directly in the pelvis. He feels it connect and smash between her thighs. Ikthya-De balks and staggers backward, clutching her groin and cussing him to Cetanu and back.

 _“Didn’t think,”_ H’chak pants as he steps backward and puts distance between the two again. _“You had the physiology for that to pauking hurt, did you?”_

The empty gleam in Ikthya-De’s eyes foretells her coming rage. H’chak feels a broken mandible flap against his face as he breaks into a run out of the bedchamber, down the connecting corridor, and into the common room of Ikthya-De’s and Guan’s shared residence. He picks up a sofa and throws it at her, followed by a chair, then a table. It does little to damage the huntress, but he isn’t trying to hurt the huntress—With his wrist computer strapped wildly to his arm, the man finally dives for the door and throws it open. He gets two steps out before Ikthya-De seizes him by his remaining locs and pulls him back against her.

His back presses against her chest. She howls in victory and wrenches his head at an uncomfortable angle. _“You thought you could outwit me?”_

 _“Ikthya-De th’Syra?”_ A Yautja exiting the residence across the hall freezes and stares at the duo. H’chak doesn’t recognize the hunter, but he hisses at the man for help. The stranger pauses, then squints at H’chak, then at Ikthya-De, before realizing the two are nude, save for one wearing a wrist computer. _“Oh—Oh—I am so—”_

 _“Get off me!”_ H’chak yells it before the woman can shut him up. Ikthya-De’s eyes leer dangerously at him, but as a group of Unblooded Yautja round the corner of the corridor and stop to watch the commotion, the woman squeezes H’chak’s windpipe once before she releases him.

She shoves him to the floor and huffs, her anger already dissipating into an act of theatrics. _“You lose again, Elite! Try harder if you want a chance at this.”_ The woman runs her hand up and down her body.

H’chak growls at her until Ikthya-De returns to her residence.

He pulls himself to his feet and pauses when he hears the Yautja down the corridor begin to chuckle between each other. The Yautja who exited the residence opposite H’chak, a thermal signature indicating he is a Yautja of approximately H’chak’s size and stature, unclasps a kilt from his waist and holds it out.

He takes it and wraps it around his waist, not out of shame for his own nudity, but out of a desire to have the Unblooded Yautja watching the spectacle _shut up_. _“Thanks.”_

 _“You good, there? I know the mating dance is tough on many of us, even an Elite.”_ The Yautja clears his throat.

H’chak looks to the side. _“I’ll be… good. I’ll be good. What is your name?”_

The slightly less clothed Yautja pauses. _“Na’tauk.”_

 _“M-di-H’chak.”_ H’chak lifts a hand and grips Na’tauk’s shoulder. The latter seems less than pleased by his blood-covered hand smearing _thwei_ over his form, but Na’tauk doesn’t shake him off.

Na’tauk returns the gesture _. “I suggest you run to the med bay and get someone to look at your face. Looks like one of your mandibles broke, and another is at an odd angle.”_

 _“Sei-i?”_ He clicks before cursing at the pain. With his adrenaline wearing off, H’chak realizes how much pain he is in: a _lot_ of it. He nods slowly. _“I will do so. Appreciate your concern, mei-hswei.”_

_“Ah, I am only a kv’var-de! Not an Elite. Forgive me, but I am not your equal—Not worthy of calling ‘mei-hswei’.”_

_“Your concern is enough for me to use the term.”_ H’chak puts the matter to rest with a low growl.

Glancing over his shoulder at the door to Guan’s and Ikthya-De’s residence, H’chak decides to get a move on before Ikthya-De tries to hunt him down. He nods once more at Na’tauk before the man begins to limp—his bad calf _hurts_ —in the direction of the clan’s primary lift. He passes the group of snickering Unblooded Yautja on the way; though they annoy him, he is in too much pain to do more than growl lowly when he passes them. The group shuts up and H’chak continues on, a little more satisfied at the day’s events.

* * *

The Elders grill her for what feels like hours, asking question after question. There are no boundaries; she is on trial, and she must answer each of them to the best of her abilities. If she cannot answer, then the Elders wait until she regains enough composure to provide an answer. No topic is barred. Some topics repeat in the questions, as if the Elders attempt to find slip-ups in her story. By the time the Elders are satisfied, Bist’ri is not only sleep-deprived and exhausted, but she is weary, depressed, and mournful. Guilt and remorse weigh on her mind as her dim green eyes watch the Elders discuss things a moment longer before the group begins the voting.

 _“Leader Daga—We are ready.”_ Elder Tyioe chirps abruptly.

 _“Sei-I, sei-i.”_ Daga leans backward in his seat. He turns and peers at Ju’dha, whose face reflects grief preparing to unfurl. The Yautja trills calmly at Ju’dha. _“—Due to your connection with this Yautja, I recommend you withdraw from voting.”_

 _“Will you withdraw, Leader Daga? If I recall—You made my pup discuss her deceased pups multiple times, and one of the rapists responsible for those pups is in fact—Your sirer. You have a ‘connection,’ do you not?”_ Ju’dha’s words are furious. The Yautja seethes where they sit as they look up and lock eyes with Daga.

The latter growls and gestures at the remaining Elders. _“I am responsible for the sentencing! Not the voting, Ju’dha!”_

 _“Excuse yourself from the sentencing.”_ Tyioe interjects, her gold eyes full of impatience. _“Leader Daga.”_

 _“I relinquish the authority within me as Clan Leader to the Elders voting on the outcome of this trial.”_ The man does not put up a fight. He crosses his arms once more and returns his attention to Bist’ri.

She feels tired. She is tired.

So, so tired.

She wants it to be over. She wants everything to be over.

Over, and over, and over, and…

The Elders cast their votes in unison. It is unanimous, with only Tyioe hesitating before she chimes in with a stern, _“Guilty.”_

Even expected—Bist’ri hears her bearer hiss softly, eventually beginning to weep into their hands. 

Akrei-non-Daga does not speak until the three Elders—Tyioe, Migo, and H’dlak—finish deciding on the sentence. When he does speak, the clan Leader is gleeful in every chirp, trill, and chirrup, _“Bist’ri, you have been found guilty of the murder of Tarei-Jehdin.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ Bist’ri shuts her eyes.

 _“In accordance with the laws dictated by the Council of Ancients, Bist’ri, you have broken the Code of Honor. You have foregone your honor and the right to call yourself Yautja,”_ it is Elder Migo-Kujhade who delivers the sentence, speaking words Bist’ri knew were coming yet fears anyways. Her eyes well up with tears as she listens. _“—For the sin of sending another Yautja to meet the Black Hunter, you are hereby branded ic’jit, sworn enemy to all Yautja who roam the stars. You cannot atone for this act of dishonor but through the offering of thwei. Given the nature of your confessions, it is imperative for the safety of others in Gahn’tha-cte you atone immediately. Arbitrators—”_ Migo nods at the two flanking the doorway of the council hall. _“Escort this woman to the execution chamber. I will be there shortly.”_

The former nurse doesn’t resist when the Arbitrators grab her by a shoulder each and turn her around. She doesn’t resist when they march her out of the council hall and past onlooking Yautja. She doesn’t resist even as they board the lift and wait for it to descend, with both Arbitrators growling at any other Yautja who tries to board.

Then she sees the medical bay come into view, with a cluster of nurses pinning and sedating a patient in a white robe and bandages visible around the back. The Yautja makes gurgled, waning growls and bellows as he slowly falls under the effects of the drug—but not before lifting his head, looking up, and catching sight of her. Bist’ri stares into Guan’s bright orange eyes. His gaze widens in shock—and then he is gone, the medical bay disappearing as the lift continues down.

 _“Do you love anyone, Adjutant Bist’ri?”_ A Vekin had once asked.

 _Sei-i._ She thinks. _I love Gahn’tha-cte-Guan._


	68. reconsidering (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realized drosera is my most viewed fic on ao3, and just wanted to reiterate: thank you to everyone who has stuck by this story. I'm someone who struggles with a lot of anxiety and self-doubt around my writing. Every kudos, every review, and every new view on this story have encouraged me to keep writing even on my bad days. Whether it's been for one chapter or 68, thank you for giving this strange story a chance. <3
> 
> TW:   
> -infidelity / cheating  
> -medical procedures   
> -reflections on alcohol / alcoholism

Two days pass since his sirer first goes in for surgery.

H’chak exhales softly from where he sits on the floor of his room, soaking in the cool, refreshing touch of the silver figure next to him. It has been a strenuous time, with the attempt on his life from Ikthya-De, his mei-hswei panicking and being restrained, and his sirer’s condition staggering in spikes and drops of improvement. Having Sundew close, _with_ him, it puts him at ease in a way no alcoholic drink ever could. He finds himself grateful for not dipping back into his old alcoholic ways. Staying away from _cn’tlip_ has proven more difficult than he thought once he returned to Gahn’tha-cte.

Looking down, the Yautja’s eyes soften at the sight of Sundew nuzzling his arm. She has been exceptionally hands-on since first being let into his room. The Vekin has only left his side twice, once to find one of the oomans, and another time to fetch both sustenance. To his relief, Sundew did not bring in hard tack for the two to munch on.

It also brings a surge of guilt and remorse, encompassing his entire body. The man still reeks of Ikthya-De, even after bathing in the medical pod and scrubbing himself vigorously. He knows it is irrelevant, that the Vekin holding him tightly does not have a sense of smell, but he yearns to rid himself the feeling of Ikthya-De’s flesh against his own. Every memory of it, of _his_ disloyalty, sings disgust in his mind. Part of him feels nauseous the longer he dwells on the matter.

He seduced her to get the memory chip—But he still seduced her. Ikthya-De got what she wanted. She had him for a night, demanding of his touch, his caress, his affections—And no matter how much the man despises himself, he will not deny there was a part of him from his past that enjoyed ‘it’. It was everything he once wanted, everything his younger self lusted after, right in his traitorous twin’s bedchamber of all places. H’chak shuts his eyes and exhales.

He has no right to judge Guan.

He has no right to call the man _mei-hswei_ , by blood _or_ by kin.

The Elite grits his teeth. His mandibles twitch uncomfortable, with pain shooting through two fractured tusks and flaring along the side of his face. The groan he emits causes his mate to shift and look up. Her silvery skin, shiny and lustrous as ever, like metal, continues to make his heart skip beats when he sees how light glows off her. He feels heat rise in his face when she lets go and stands on her knees to press her lips against the side of his head, where his bio-mask ends. He can only feel part of it, as the scar tissue atop his face and skull is almost thick as scales, but he purrs appreciatively. For a moment, his guilt wavers in place of the comfort his mate offers.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ H’chak cannot click very loudly, but he manages despite the pain of his mandibles.

“H’chak.” She cups his masked face. Her lips purse. The strange, thin white hair falling off her head demands his attention, but he knows there is no time to braid her hair. “My apologies. It appears I fell asleep when you sat next to me on the floor. I did not mean to keep you here—Even if these floors are exceptionally well-cleaned, I know your species is prone to cramps when you remain in a position for too long. You are at a higher risk of leg cramps due to the injuries in your calf.”

She gestures at his bad leg, where the calf has a strange shape from the damage left from… H’chak grimaces. If he remembers correctly, it was her response to him trying to comfort a time ago on the _Kukulkan_. His damaged nerves burn as if sentient and aware of him reflecting on the memory of being electrocuted. He stills at the sight of his mate shifting where she sits and putting a hand on his bad calf.

“I am sorry for this—For how I reacted back then.” His mate’s voice is somber.

H’chak narrows his gaze. He takes her and pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and letting her back rest against his large, muscled chest. Even in a light patient’s robe, he still feels how his mate shivers and then relaxes into his touch. Sundew leans against him while he looks at the ceiling, his mind lost on what to say or do.

 _“—First.”_ He trills slowly, carefully. _“—That was an accident. Sun-Dew. Second,”_ he growls lowly, briefly drawn to how enticing his mate smells. She reeks of soft prey, yet the odor remains distinct enough for him to know better than to assume she is a _pyode amedha._ H’chak hears her faint sigh. His growl dips back into a soft rumble, reverberating through his throat. He takes a moment to stay like that before he finally pauses to intone, _“You are not the one who needs to apologize.”_

His mate pauses. H’chak lets his words sink in. He doesn’t try to keep her when she sits up and turns around, sitting with her calves folded neatly under her thighs. His old training robe is captivating on her, but he does not dawdle on the sight when there is a more serious matter at hand. Sundew blinks once before she states, “I want to know what happened.”

She sounds calm, but there is an underlying, demanding tone to her words. H’chak shudders. He nods once and forces himself to maintain eye contact. _“Sun-Dew. You remember—I informed you my intent to fix what took place with Ikthya-De and the Kukulkan mask signatures?”_

“I do. Is that why you were in the medical bay? Did you get hurt fixing the damage you caused?” She does not shy from the truth, as blunt as it is. Her head tilts to one side. “H’chak. Do not lie to me.”

 _“M-di, I will not, I swear by the remains of my honor,”_ he breathes softly. H’chak takes a deep breath. “I recovered—I believe I have recovered the Kukulkan mask signatures. Rather, what the mask signatures is on, in a memory chip. It is locked safely inside my private computer. But—”

He shuts his eyes and sighs.

“But?” Sundew repeats.

 _“—To acquire it—I removed it from the wrist computer of Ikthya-De th’Syra.”_ The man inhales deeply and presses on with the confession, _“After I bedded her a night.”_

He feels the guilt and shame curl up inside him when his mate stills and stares. Then, ever-so-slightly, Sundew’s clear eyes slowly widen. What is a beautiful face of a trophy turns into a startled face of a trophy. The Vekin tenses and looks down at her lap. Her eyes shut and she bites her lip. Neither individuals say anything for several minutes.

“Why?” The Vekin sounds less hurt opposed to confused. “You are not hers, H’chak. You are mine.”

_“Sei-I—I know that—”_

“No, you are mine,” Sundew repeats, her head snapping back up. She grabs his face and pulls him down to her eye level. “Mine. Not hers. _My_ H’chak. _My_ mate. _Mine._ ”

H’chak must arch his back a strange way to accompany the two’s height differences even when sitting down. He nods quickly, “I am yours, Sun-Dew—”

 _“Explain yourself. Explain why you acted with her when she is not yours and you are not hers,”_ the Vekin’s voice slowly becomes more and more intense. H’chak struggles to explain the story start-to-finish, as when he delves into his—asinine—actions and the thought process behind them, Sundew’s reaction is to climb unto his lap and straddle him. She crosses her arms and leans forward, something akin to a glare in her otherwise clear eyes. “I will hang her from a ceiling and make her get herself down. That is how you warn others to stay away from your mate, correct?”

 _“Usually the body has met the final rest—”_ He begins, but upon seeing his five-foot-five mate’s eyes grow wide as saucers, H’chak stiffens and clicks through the pain of his injured mandibles _. “—Sun-Dew—M-di—You can’t—Ikthya-De is a dangerous woman! The clan will have you executed if you lay a hand on her—”_

“She will hang from a ceiling, expired or not.” Sundew huffs at him. She jabs a finger at his chest, thankfully missing one of the injury sites.

Not being able to take serum is a pain in the ass, and that is _solely_ Guan’s fault. H’chak grits his teeth and shuts his eyes to keep himself from making a noise at the tender flesh of his chest and pectorals. He feels his mate’s palms spread across his chest and feel his scales and scars through his patient robe. She is cold to the touch, and her hands grow colder with each second.

“H’chak, I do not appreciate individuals who say they are _mine_ and I am _theirs_ and then go and _copulate other individuals._ It makes me want to trust you less. My trust is not freely earned, H’chak. Even if I am very short in comparison to the heights of your species—I do not pass trust to others.” It is a scolding the man deserves.

He nods slowly, soaking in each sentence. The Vekin on him leans back into his lap, her hips rubbing against his body in such a way the man briefly finds his thoughts wander. H’chak grits his teeth; the Yautja’s orange eyes squeeze shut. _“I have wronged you, Sun-Dew. I committed an act of disloyalty and tarnished my honor.”_

“Why?” The Vekin’s voice is still calm, but it borders on authoritative.

 _“I thought it was the only way,”_ H’chak answers truthfully, wincing when the words leave him. He exhales into his mask. _“Sun-Dew, were you aware of the possibility? I told you I may need to bargain with Ikthya-De.”_

“Bargain with the process of fornication? Asinine,” Sundew retorts immediately. Her hands climb to his neck, then move past it, until her arms are loosely wrapped around him while she looks up at his mask. He cracks open an eye in time to see her ask, “Why would I think that, H’chak?”

H’chak falls quiet. He growls softly. _“—You would not, m-di. But I—I assumed it crossed your mind. I assumed you knew of the differences in sexuality between our species.”_

 _“I know the differences.”_ Sundew sounds offended. She shifts against him, her groin grinding into his as she tilts her head to one side. It almost pulls a hiss from the Elite.

The man cannot help but question if she’s doing it on purpose.

 _“I am sorry for what I’ve done. No matter what I said—It is clear I hurt you. I regret it,”_ H’chak doesn’t know if she acts this way on purpose, unknowingly spurring a physiological reaction by how she commands his attention, but he is sorry regardless. The man leans into her touch when Sundew lifts a hand to his mask. He holds his breath as Sundew cups the metal with one chilly palm.

The Vekin growls.

H’chak’s orange eyes widen in surprise, unaware such a disturbing noise could come from such a beautiful entity. Sundew drags him back down to her eye level and huffs. “—You should regret it. The word is _s’yuit-de_ in your language. _S’yuit-de, H’chak._ If I were Yautja, I might make a remark about engaging in mutually pleasurable copulation until you could not walk. You would not be able to sit right for days. And,” the Vekin pauses, lips pursing while H’chak feels heat flood his face. “And… What else would I do?”

 _“…I don’t know.”_ He clicks softly, wincing from the pain in his mandibles. _“Whatever you want—My actions of disloyalty are damning. Sun-Dew. I don’t deserve h’chak.”_

“I would tie you to a bed on the floor and not let your body achieve orgasm for approximately… At least four hours. No—Days.” She taps her chin thoughtfully, once more looking and sounding very much like the calm, polite Vekin she often embodies. Sundew frowns and looks back at him. “But you are Yautja. Even if I am not—I think—I should treat you as if I am Yautja. Because part of our relationship is Yautja, H’chak.”

“…” H’chak is uncertain how to respond. He decides to nod.

Sundew smiles widely. “Is that okay, H’chak? I think I want to treat you like you are Yautja. Like I am Yautja. You have… As you put it, ‘committed an act of disloyalty.’ That warrants a judgement, but you have already confessed.”

_“Usually the ones who judge those on trial are the Elders—”_

“I have an Elder, he would agree with me,” Sundew speaks so casually it throws H’chak off. He balks at her, eyeballing the woman like he doesn’t believe she’s really there.

 _Have an… Elder?_ He doesn’t know what it means.

“Then I should determine the sentencing.” Sundew lets go of him and scoots away and off his groin. H’chak lets out a breath he isn’t aware he holds as he watches her sit on her knees between his legs. Her hands drift to his patient’s robe and in a second the man’s robes have formed a tent over his crotch, the bulge thick and growing as his cock unsheathes. He inhales slowly, uncertain of just what the Vekin intends, but eager to both please her and see where she leads. He stays still as she watches him, her hands moving very slowly to his clothed groin.

“May I judge you?” Sundew pauses.

 _“Usually—The judges don’t ask permission.”_ H’chak blurts aloud.

“Do they ask to bring a sentenced Yautja to orgasm?” Sundew blinks slowly.

Oh. _Oh._ H’chak cannot hold in his groan at the thought. He gasps when the woman splays open his patient’s robes and lets his cock spring free. _“Sun—Sun—Dew—”_

“I have decided on your punishment,” The Vekin announces. She leans forward. “May I judge you?”

 _“Are—Are you—”_ It is hard to breathe when _her_ breath fans his aching cock. He doesn’t dare move, desperate for her to continue but uncertain all in one. _“Is this—Are you mad at me? I don’t—I don’t want you to—To think this is—How—Yautja solve problems—”_

Sundew looks up at him. She sits upright, though her hands remain on his groin, close but not quite touching him where he wants her to. Her voice is somber once more, “I was sad for a time. Not angry. If I was angry, it became sorrow.”

 _“Sun-Dew—”_ H’chak leans back against the wall of the room and grimaces. _“This—What you—That—”_ He gestures from her to his penis. _“Is not the way to resolve problems in our relationship. Especially not—My disloyalty.”_

“Ah.” Sundew frowns at him. “How would you like to resolve this? If not through the methods a Yautja uses—”

She pauses when he grabs her and pulls her flush against him. The man begins to purr for her, feeling her slowly relax in his arms. Sundew wraps her arms around his torso and nuzzles his chest. When his purring deepens, she straddles his waist and bumps the two’s hips together, grinding against his erection enough to make the man _tense_ in need. He does not act on it, opting instead to wait until she is gripping him tightly before he suddenly rolls and puts her beneath him. Sundew inhales sharply and lets go, laying on the floor and staring at where his form looms over her.

 _“I need to know if what I’ve done—Has shattered trust between us permanently. Because,”_ the Elite watches her face, staring intently for the slightest reaction. _“You mean the worlds to me. I love you enough to—To end things here—If you bear resentment—If you cannot stand me anymore—I want you to be free.”_

“I think Annie would call you dramatic. ‘Melodramatic,’ specifically. But I am not Annie. I am not human, H’chak,” she cups his masked face. “I am not human. I am not Yautja. I cannot be either when I am Vekin—”

She wraps herself around him when H’chak lowers himself to her and nuzzles her neck and head. He exhales. _“—I mean what I say, Sun-Dew. I do not want to—Excuse my actions. No excuse changes the past.”_

“I do not want you to leave me for her.” Sundew squirms against him, vying for a better grip. H’chak keeps his weight from crushing her current physical composition; he shifts to give her room to feel him as she wishes. It comes as some surprise—but a huge relief—that her legs hook around his waist and hug his hips. “You are mine and I do not want her to have you.”

“ _I have no interest in taking her as a mate,”_ the man clicks honestly.

“I do not want her to have you again. As a mate or not. You are mine,” the Vekin’s nails dig into his patient robe like tiny pinpricks against his flesh. Sundew’s growl sounds distinctly… _something_ , familiar yet lethal, and it riles something up in the man. He struggles to keep himself still while his mate moves to nuzzle his throat. She breathes against it. “I am a Vekin, H’chak. Vekin expire to pursue knowledge at all costs. But you—You are worth as much as knowledge—

Her teeth sink into the crook of his neck and H’chak wheezes and gasps at the pain. It is not pain, not _true_ pain, but it makes him unsheathe all over again. He wants her, desperately.

“—And I—"

She kisses the bite mark on his neck.

“—Am a stubborn hunter—”

The man bucks his hips into her.

“—Who loves you—”

He lets her push him to the ground. He can barely move, four hearts thumping wildly in his head as he stares at his mate. He can hardly keen loudly enough when the Vekin’s silvery fingers pulls the patient robe off him. In an instant, he is completely bare under the clothed predator’s touch, utterly defenseless and aching for everything she may bring. She parts his legs and moves forward until her clothed groin bumps into his throbbing, twitching cock. H’chak’s hands tense into fists and his toes curl when he feels his mate’s breath on the head of his shaft.

“Sun-Dew—” H’chak is weak, unable to contain the cry of submission when his mate opens her mouth and takes him in. It feels cold, gloriously cold, like he pounds into ice without worrying about foreskin sticking to the surface. But he is not the one who controls the situation; the Elite arches his back as he feels his shorter mate suck harder on the tip.

He is a panting mess by the time she begins to stroke him. H’chak cannot stand being still, yet he doesn’t dare move. He strains not to fidget, his entire body shaking with nerves and anticipation melding into one. His hips buck weakly but a cold finger squeezing his shaft reminds him to be still. The man starts to exhale and wheeze into his mask, the pain of remaining still contrasting with every second of his urge to seize his mate by the hair and rut her until she’s bursting with his seed.

He knows he cannot tell what direction she looks, but he _feels_ her gaze on him as he whines and watches her bob her head up and down. The suction increases; both her hands grip his penis and languidly rub up and down the entire length. He throws his head back and moans louder, beginning to feel the coil of heat in his abdomen wind toward the breaking point.

But it is not the Vekin’s lips which throw him over the edge. H’chak hears the crackle of electricity and then the feeling of a deep, intense throb within himself. His mouth hangs ajar and his fractured mandibles weep with pain, but nothing prepares him for the scream he makes when his prostate is stimulated to the point of no return.

He sees white. His joints lock. The man screams and howls and writhes into the Vekin’s mouth. She takes him and gags while he orgasms and a jet of semen shoots down her throat. H’chak feels her suck him through his blood-curling climax. He grabs at her and clutches her like his life depends on it while she slowly swirls a tongue around his sensitive tip until the man begins humping weakly into her mouth. He cannot reach a second climax; he trembles in exhaustion as Sundew lets go of his cock and wipes her lips.

He grabs her and pulls her flush against his chest. Even through her mesh suit, he ravishes how her cool skin welcomes his warmth and how he sucks in her chill. He rubs his forehead against her head and whines softly, a noise the man was not aware he could make.

“Are you okay?” Sundew looks up at him. H’chak loops his arms around her waist. “Was that alright?”

 _“In the—The future—”_ The man’s throat rumbles in rising desperation. _“Punish me more.”_

“So—You _did_ have fun. That makes me happy,” She beams through her smile, so light and sincere. “I love you. I still love you! I love you a lot—"

The sound of his patient room unlocking makes both individuals pause, though H’chak freezes versus stilling to listen. Sundew tilts her head to one side. She blinks and lifts her head to look at H’chak. His eyes narrow, the submissive side already fading. The man sits upright and gently pushes Sundew off him, just enough to right his patient robes.

He has no doubt any Yautja can smell the two all over each other, but he does not wish to make things awkward for any of the nurses, recalling how some of them react poorly to impromptu nudity. He has only just fixed his clothes when the head nurse steps into the room, evident by the formal medical vestments hinting the rank of the Yautja wearing them. But to H’chak’s confusion, the Yautja is none other than C’it-na, former Adjutant and the third-in-command prior to Adjutant status. The olive green Yautja pauses at the sight of H’chak and his mate on the floor.

C’it-na clicks once, nervous. _“Do—The two of you need more time—Or—Should I come back later…?”_

 _“M-di.”_ H’chak mumbles. He ignores Sundew’s widening grin, but when she grabs hold of his arm—again—the Yautja begrudgingly lets her cling to him like a _drosera_ wrapping around prey. He ignores the returning blush in his face and clears his throat. _“What do you need?”_

 _“I was just—Well—I wanted to tell you Elder Lar’ja’s status.”_ The head nurse inhales deeply, audible even through his mask. _“Since—She is your sirer. And… Everything.”_

H’chak nods once. He pretends not to notice when Sundew winds up sitting in his lap, calmly clinging to his torso now in favor of his arm. She’s incredibly touchy, more so than usual after the two are intimate. Perhaps, when the Vekin does not achieve climax, she is left in an energetic mood instead of her need for naps and dozing off. H’chak makes a note to fix that later, every bit intent of returning all affection she gives him tenfold over.

 _“So—I have good news. And bad news, but—M-di, good news first! She lives. Elder Lar’ja is… She is better now, sei-I, sei-i.”_ C’it-na rubs the back of his head, messing with his locs under H’chak’s gaze. _“I’ve kept her sedated. She would be in too much pain to be coherent.”_

 _“A wise decision, ki’sei.”_ H’chak tilts his head to one side. He feels his mate’s strange, thin white hair tickle him where the sleeves of his robe stop at his elbows.

 _“Bad news—She has… She isn’t recovering as quickly as she should. I suspect her age is responsible for the delayed healing rate. Her body is struggling. We may need to take more thwei and transfuse it. Is that acceptable to you?”_ The man pauses. He sounds serious, in a way H’chak both appreciates yet dislikes.

He doesn’t want to think of his sirer’s condition. It hurts him knowing how much Lar’ja’s state effects his bearer and Guan. The latter already has enough to deal with regarding his own back injuries, but this is _too much_. He hates how he cannot fix things. He hates how he cannot smack Lar’ja into waking up, recovering, and apologizing to him and Guan for how she lied to the two for hundreds of cycles.

He doesn’t like feeling helpless.

“That is good news, H’chak. Some improvement is improvement.” His mate mumbles from the side, her grip on him growing tighter. H’chak feels his gut twist with want he can’t fulfill while the head nurse is there.

 _Pauk. Head nurse. C’it-na as head nurse. This is a real thing._ He pauses, then glances over the olive-pelted man. C’it-na clicks in acknowledgement and H’chak grunts. _“You are the head nurse, now? Where is Bist’ri?”_

 _“You won’t—You won’t see Bist’ri around again. Not here.”_ C’it-na’s hands tense into fists.

 _“But she is very nice.”_ Sundew lets go of H’chak to protest. He wraps arms around her, and she smiles at him. _“She is very nice, H’chak. I thought we were beginning to be friends.”_

 _“Sei-i.”_ H’chak feels the quills on the back of his neck stand up on end. He squints at C’it-na. _“Send me the number of her residence and I’ll—”_

 _“She isn’t at her residence. She isn’t,”_ C’it-na growls softly and turns away. _“She’s met the final rest. The paukers executed her. I know—I know she wasn’t—She couldn’t have done all—All that cjit—She confessed to—And yet… Yet… They brought her the final rest.”_

H’chak’s orange eyes widen. _“M-di…”_

 _“I am the head nurse now. So—So—”_ C’it-na sounds as if he might break down and weep at any moment. _“If—If you—Need—Something—”_

 _“My mei-hswei. Guan—Where is he? Does he know of this?”_ H’chak rises with Sundew in his arms. He does not want to set her down, but he does. She lets go of him after a final embrace and chaste kiss against his neck.

The head nurse slumps his shoulders. _“That is—Another thing. I wanted to ask for—For your help. Please. Delivering news of Elder Lar’ja to him,”_ C’it-na exhales loud enough for H’chak to hear. _“He is not… Handling things well.”_

 _“I expect nothing less_.” H’chak grits his teeth. He can imagine the pain Guan feels. _“Sei-I, I’ll speak with him. Tell him the news. Honorable C’it-na—Can you point me to the drawer with my equipment?”_

The head nurse inputs a command into his gauntlet computer. He walks to the far wall in time to finish entering the command to unlock and eject a drawer from the wall. C’it-na pulls out the gauntlet computer and tosses it to H’chak, the latter grunting and nodding in thanks. _“If there—If there isn’t—Nothing else—Then—”_

 _“I’ll let you know if anything comes up, Honorable C’it-na,”_ H’chak nods once more. He waits until the younger Yautja leaves the room before he straps his personal computer to his left bicep and fixes it in place. He leans over and taps a long series of keys, occasionally looking over at Sundew who seems curious in what he does. When he finishes the input, H’chak holds his breath. His wrist computer ejects a small compartment, where the memory chip stolen from Ikthya-De remains.

Sundew straightens upright when H’chak pulls the memory chip from the storage compartment. “What is that?”

 _“The key to proving Ikthya-De is a dishonorable woman,”_ The Elite clicks carefully, all too aware of the pain in his still-fractured mandibles. “ _Can you get this to Ivon, Sundew? Make sure they know to keep it out of sight of the nurses. I do not know if Ikthya-De has allies in the medical division, but… But we cannot take that risk. She wants to bring me the final rest. She nearly killed me before—Before I came here. Before you saw me like that—"_

“What?” The Vekin stills, eyes slowly growing big. Her hands tense.

 _“Take this to Ivon.”_ H’chak presses the memory chip into one of Sundew’s hands. Her hand curls around his and she frowns at him. The Elite clicks softly. _“The two oomans—They have… They are both more honorable than I thought possible of pyode amedha. Their kind is strange.”_

“Are you reconsidering Ivon’s idea of a threesome? I do not possess emotions for them, but I would be interested in watching the process of copulation between a true Yautja and an ooman.” Sundew tilts her head. The question seems so random, so _absurd_ , H’chak gawks at the notion.

 _“—I do not want to be anywhere near where Vayuh’ta—Pauk, m-di—”_ The man wants to heave, but he maintains his composure. _“Vayuh’ta can go pauk the ooman. I am happy with my mate.”_

“What about Jo? Jo is very kind and brave. Her hair is beautiful,” the Vekin taps her chin with her free hand as she speaks. “I think I would like to spend time with her in an intimate manner, if the concept was acceptable to you. She is warm and funny. She looks like she enjoys being held the way you hold me against you when we are together.”

 _“That is—”_ H’chak grits his teeth. Admittedly, the idea is more appealing, perhaps even resonating with the growing sliver—large platter—of respect he holds for the brave and foolish ooman, Jo. _“Sun-Dew. This is not the time to consider—Take this to Ivon. Only Ivon,”_ the Elite ceases the runaround on the topic of sharing an intimate session with another body. _“I love you. I need to speak with Guan.”_

 _“About your sirer? Or about the late head nurse?”_ His mate walks with him to the door of the room.

H’chak places a palm over the door and it slowly opens. He shuts his orange eyes and sighs. _“—Both.”_


	69. the only one (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tiny dab of smut at the end 
> 
> TW for:  
> -medical procedures  
> -death and grieving  
> -implied nonconsensual medical procedures  
> -implied / forced drugging  
> -talk about mass murder  
> -short talk of pregnancy  
> -very brief mention of egg laying but no actual egglaying

_Meet me at your residence._

It is an order, not a request. The second C’it-na sees the words, he swallows and excuses himself from the medical division a time. Though busy, he knows the nurses well enough to trust them to handle things on their own. And, if not, he anticipates hearing from them shortly.

The man takes the lift to the residential floor. He feels eyes on him— _What is the head nurse doing here?_ —but he strides by without pause. Confidence is key; he must always portray capability and composure lest others doubt the medical division’s efficiency.

Maybe he should have selected an Adjutant. It isn’t _required_ of him, but it helps alleviate the responsibilities, and it designates someone to pick up the mantle of head nurse should something happen to him. C’it-na doesn’t know who he would pick. There is no one he trusts more than himself, and the remaining nurses eligible for Adjutant status do not scream _Adjutant_ to him. Having an Adjutant also implies he may pass the authority of head nurse to another. While it is true—one day age will catch up with him—the man doesn’t enjoy thinking about it. He _finally_ has a position of authority and he feels nervous letting someone else close to it.

By the time he reaches his residence, his head spin with conflicting thoughts. He enters a command into his wrist computer to unlock the door, then puts a palm against the surface. No sooner than he is inside and the door shuts and locks behind him does he heard a familiar voice.

 _“Glad you could make it, C’it-na.”_ He calms his beating hearts and slowly turns looks across the common area of his humble residence.

His quarters are smaller than most Yautja due to his age, one-two-eight cycles. There is not much room to look, but he still jumps when he locates the dark, poisonous figure of Akrei-non-Daga’s ‘daughter’ sitting calmly on his hover chair, a glass of _c’ntlip_ in hand.

 _“Ikthya-De.”_ C’it-na clicks softly.

The woman doesn’t have a mask on, allowing her piercing yellow eyes to gleam in the dim light of his residence. She gestures to a seat and C’it-na walks obediently to a sofa-like piece of furniture. The fabric is closer to a silky blanket, partially engulfing him as it molds to his body and supports his stature. Ikthya-De tips her head back and the _c’ntlip_ goes down her throat. She exhales, sighs, and tosses the empty glass aside, then rises to her feet. _“We need to talk.”_

C’it-na isn’t sure how to respond. He notes Ikthya-De does not reek of _n’dui-se. “You—Are you with pups now?”_

 _“Hopefully.”_ Ikthya-De lays a hand on her abdomen. Her toned muscles flex and she chitters with amusement. _“It would be a satisfactory prize to see my mate’s face if I were to be full of his twin’s pups.”_

The former Adjutant, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. A man of honor paired with a woman who will sacrifice everything to get what she wants.

Much like him.

His green eyes dim. _“Are you here for a consultation? Pre-natal advice? I—I could just meet you in the medical bay—”_

 _“I have a problem.”_ She is a curt, blunt, terrifying woman to face. C’it-na swallows and nods. Ikthya-De trills lightly, _“M-di-H’chak has stolen the memory chip to my computer. It is critical it is either recovered or destroyed. I do not enjoy having my privacy tampered with, head nurse. Surely you understand?”_

C’it-na quickly nods. He fidgets where he sits. _“I—I can look into that. If—If that’s all you—Need—"_

 _“M-di. You stay where you are.”_ The woman growls. _“My… other problem, head nurse, is a matter encompassing not just me but the entirety of the medical bay.”_

_The entirety of… Oh._

Oh, he understands. The man shudders and wraps arms around himself. He does not enjoy thinking about it, but he knows what she refers to. His teeth clench and he holds in the choked sob that wants to escape. _Be strong. Be strong, C’it-na!_

 _“The former head nurse has not been executed,”_ the words surprise C’it-na. It is everything he _does_ not expect to hear. He balks at Ikthya-De; she growls loudly. _“Migo-Kujhade confirmed she was taken into the custody of Tyioe’s Adjutant before he could bring her the final rest.”_

 _“Yeyinde?”_ C’it-na clicks softly. _“Why would—”_

 _“I don’t know!”_ Ikthya-De’s disgust seeps through. _“I don’t know, C’it-na. But it is a problem. She has witnessed too much! She must be silenced! But she won’t—She won’t die! All I need is her skull on my mantle, but the bitch continues to breathe!”_

There is a childish note of jealousy in the words. C’it-na doesn’t dare comment on it, but he acknowledges the likelihood of the poisonous figure obsessing over the former head nurse for having the nerve to bed her mate. His heart aches when he thinks about the last tidbit. _Bist’ri and Guan… When? Why? How? He barely knows her, but we have worked together for over five-zero cycles… Closer to six-zero. Seven-zero, even._

 _“Her not meeting the final rest means we need to speed up the Phanes incubation.”_ Ikthya-De chirps once, the noise melodic and indicative her true nature. She crosses her arms and tilts her head to one side. _“Pick a nurse. Use them as a host. We cannot wait for Lar’ja to die. I don’t even know if the bitch will die—”_

_“She won’t. Her condition’s improving—”_

_“Even with your care?”_ The woman hisses, furious. _“You have been given an opportunity very few receive, C’it-na.”_

 _“Sorry,”_ the man utters quietly.

Ikthya-De seethes and shakes her head. _“Forget it, s’yuit-de! Find a nurse and transplant the specimen into them. You understand how to trigger the larva to begin metamorphosis into an adult? These are delicate creatures, C’it-na. You cannot find them in the wild.”_

 _“Parasitoid wasps.”_ C’it-na recalls. He flinches at the sound of the poison’s snarl.

 _“Far more than simple bugs.”_ Her hands roll into fists. _“Ka’Torag-Na attempts at recreating the kiande amedha… Dozens met the final rest when the ui’stbwe broke free the first time.”_

 _“If it’s so dangerous, why haven’t you done this before? Wipe out all of Gahn’tha-cte in one swoop.”_ C’it-na regrets speaking immediately. To his shock, no backhand comes. Ikthya-De looks like she considers it, but the woman stays where she is.

 _“—Phanes must be manufactured. The proteins in its cellular structure don’t occur naturally in the wild.”_ Ikthya-De growls and cracks her knuckles. _“The circumstances required to activate it’s mutagenic properties only exist when exposed to the right…”_ She trails off, pausing as if struggling to think of the appropriate term.

 _“Bug?”_ C’it-na offers, trying to help. He flinches when Ikthya-De hisses.

 _“For lack of appropriate terminology, bug,”_ The poison of Ka’Torag-Na spits each click like venom.

 _“Does it… breed? Lay eggs? Do I need more than one nurse, or—”_ C’it-na clicks, but he shudders when a thought comes over him. _“It won’t try to… lay eggs in me?”_

 _“M-di. The greatest problem with it—It cannot reproduce. Its life span is short, and the methods of bringing one to life are too circumstantial to rely upon for normal use. But it is an obfuscated relic of the past, a creature not recorded in warfare in a thousand cycles! The beauty of it comes in its surprise. For as short a life it lives, it takes after the kiande amedha in enhancing itself with attributes of the host,”_ the way Ikthya-De speaks is melodic, like a long-awaited song. The woman bows her head. _“If this is successful, C’it-na—You will wipe the medical division clean.”_

 _“Will it make my bearer happy?”_ He finally says after a long silence. _“Will she be pleased by this?”_

 _“The matriarch will surely look upon you with praise,”_ Ikthya-De answers immediately. _“Gahn’tha-cte has grown… sluggish. Treated their medical division like the remains of a carcass: the gristle left to rot. They will learn the errors of their ways when the Shadow’s wrath eclipses and thwei soaks the floor."_

* * *

It’s good to see Sundew again. The electrician smiles when she enters the room, the door sliding shut behind her. The silver figure cocks her head to one side and beams. “Greetings, Ivon. Greetings, Jo. Greetings …”

Ivon assumes she refers to Leitjin with the latter sentence.

“Sundew!” Jo exclaims, the woman bolting from her seat to embrace the silver figure in a massive hug. Sundew pauses, then laughs in her strange, airy way. She smiles when Jo pulls back and puts her hands on the Synthetic’s shoulders. “Are you doing okay? How are you? Have the others here treated you right? How’s Mercy?”

For a moment, it feels like… Ivon feels flabberghasted to call it _old times_ , but that is exactly what the moment represents. Old times on the ship, when they were with Jo, Sundew, and Louanne.

 _But not old enough to be my time on Earth._ The human feels a cold chill climb up their spine. _Am I that detached to the planet? To my old life? To a world before this?_

They realize, with mild horror, how they have foregone thoughts of their old life completely. It seems, ever since the _Kukulkan_ and their girlfriend’s decision to “mate” them, that nothing else comes close to the exhilaration of the present. They have thought only of Maelstrom, of how to break her free and escape, of what the future might hold in its infinite possibilities. They have thought of survival in an intergalactic world, thought of how to live among trained warriors far beyond their capabilities, and thought of how they might establish themself among such a society when they are simply… them. _Ivon._

In part, the incessant squabbles of engineers occasionally looming around the corner puts pressure on them to think more about their future far from Earth. They think about how to convince the Yautja not to dissect their brain, or cut them open on a table, or probe them in ways they don’t _think_ Yautja would engage in, but they worry about regardless. Ivon shudders, the familiar swell of anxiety taking over their figure. They wrap arms around their body and plead in their head for the shaking to stop.

 _Medicine. Need. Medicine._ The panic flutters through them, so bad it cuts into Sundew and Jo conversing and prompts the two to stop. Sundew pauses and Jo frowns widely at the electrician.

“You a’ight?” Jo calls.

Ivon shakes their head. “My—My—Can you ask them to—My—Medicine. My medicine. Please. Ship.”

They hate how they must rely on the pills to rein in their spiraling thoughts, but that is the chemistry makeup of their brain and they cannot swap the organ out like one might a car headlight. Ivon briefly stills, amused in part by the idea of a _car._ Yautja are so far beyond cars…

“I will ask … for you,” Sundew nods, smiling pleasantly. “But I have something to ask of you, Ivon. Are you capable of answering questions?”

“Yes?” The electrician jumps when Jo strides over and peers closely at them.

They are taller than her, by seven inches, but they feel like the small one with how intensely her gaze sweeps their face. Jo furrows her brows. Her locs dance as she looks back at Sundew. “—I mean. I don’t think they are lying about what they can do right now. Feasibly, y’know.”

 _"Great, more visitors."_ Leitjin grumbles from the corner, where the ash gray Yautja sits and begrudgingly scrolls through holograms displayed in the air over an electronic tablet. It takes a moment for their helmet to boot up the translation software and voice. "Great, more visitors."

 _Fuck. Need to remember one of them has a mask with the software. Need to remember…_ Ivon’s thoughts circle until Jo puts a hand on their shoulder. The person winces.

Jo frowns. “Sorry—You good?”

“I… I’ve been better,” they confess, reluctant to say more. “Sundew, what did you need?”

They frown when the silver figure extends a hand and places a single, sleek metal square in it. Ivon holds it up to their face and blinks. “Um.”

“Can you work with this?” The Synthetic inquires, voice much softer than before.

“I… I can try?” Ivon says, honest to their own uncertainty.

They turn the metal device over in their hands. Something throbs in their head. They aren’t sure where, but they have seen this before. The knowledge is on the tip of their tongue, just out of reach, but they struggle with putting the mental pieces together. They need something else—A missing part of the puzzle. _But what?_

“Is that a memory chip?” The words are translated by Leitjin, whose masked face now points directly at Ivon. The latter inches backward when Leitjin makes a lunge for it.

Jo steps between the two and growls a warning, but all it does is make Leitjin growl back, and their growl is _slightly_ more ferocious than a human’s.

“Hand it over,” Leitjin’s mask booms. “I have a mask and computer. Let me look at it.”

 _A bio-mask. A gauntlet computer. That’s what I need to… If I could get my hands on one…_ Ivon bites their lip and considers the idea. _Maybe… Mercy? Could he get me one? Or let me borrow his?_

“You cannot. That belongs to Ivon now, Leitjin. Do not attempt to take it from them.” Sundew speaks directly to Leitjin. She smiles politely, though her words are serious enough to make the Yautja click complaints under breath.

Leitjin returns to their corner. Ivon exhales and meets Jo’s gaze. The latter nods at them. Ivon can’t help but wonder if Jo has the same idea.

“Sundew? Where is Mercy?” Ivon asks, blinking slowly and clutching the memory chip to their chest. “Is—He isn’t in trouble, right? Not like… Maelstrom?”

“No, he is fine. He has gone to see his brother today. The two need to discuss certain things I should not be privy to. Why?” The Synthetic glances from them to Jo, then back to them. Her lips purse. “Is something the matter, Ivon? Why do you ask?”

“I need to see him. When possible.” Ivon jumps back a little after Jo clears her throat.

“—It has to do with the thing you asked them to do, Sundew.” The woman smiles.

Sundew’s eyes would light up if they could. Ivon sees the clear gaze widen with clear understanding. The Synthetic nods quickly and looks between both humans once more. “I understand. If I run into him before you, Ivon, I will direct him to this room. You two are keeping … company?”

“—Gry.” Jo can say the first part of the name of the unconscious Yautja nearby. “Yeah. I guess we are. Or—I am. Ivon, you don’t need to stay here.”

“Where else would I go?” Is Ivon’s immediate response. It earns them a stare at which they wince and look away. _I can’t break Maelstrom out on my own. I need help. I need your help, Jo. Sundew. Even—Mercy. I need help!_

“Shit.” Leitjin’s mask voices loud enough to make Ivon jump.

The two humans and Synthetic look over at the gray Yautja. Leitjin’s pale gray locs dance as they rise and exhale sharply. _"C'it-na wants to see me! He really... He wants to talk to me! Meet with me! Alone!"_

The mask voices a translation a second later.

Sundew smiles widely and nods. “He is the one you are inclined to favor, correct? I hope things progress in the manner you desire.”

Leitjin clicks back excitedly, stretching before they barrel out of the room. When the door slides shut, Jo snaps her head at Sundew and stares. “What the fuck was that about?”

“They possess ‘feelings’ for the head nurse, but until now he has not indicated the feelings are reciprocated. I have seen it in the blood of the expired head nurse …” When Sundew says the name, Ivon immediately knows which Yautja she refers to, but they cannot replicate the noises to say _Bist’ri_ aloud. Nor do they want to ask more about how in space Sundew got the late nurse’s blood. They nod at her to go on, at which the Synthetic taps her chin and smiles broadly. “Perhaps—The new head nurse accepted his feelings cannot be reciprocated by an expired body—a corpse? Maybe this will be the start to a new relationship between … and the current head nurse.”

“I would say that seems like fast grieving, but, fuck me—I don’t know how Yautja grieve.” Jo shakes her head, her black locs swinging merrily at the sides of her face. She exhales deeply and shrugs.

Ivon looks back at the memory chip in their hand. “If I can—If I could get a mask and computer—I can figure out how to get into this. I know I can.”

“Doesn’t that concern you sometimes? How you are just… You just do _that_ ,” Jo waves her hand at them and the memory chip. “It fascinates me, it fascinates the engineers, it has fascinated everyone who knows—But none of us have answers to the why. Why can you do these things? How? When? Where did you pick it up?”

“I believe the engineers are pushing to have you analyzed, Ivon.” Sundew chimes in, voice calm despite the sudden info dump.

“What? What?” Ivon’s face drains of color, turning whiter than they already are. “An—Anal— _Analyzed?”_

“Mercy believes the head nurse will disapprove the procedures requested.” Sundew nods once. “He will not let them hurt you, Ivon.”

“I won’t let ‘em hurt ya, either.” Jo grumbles, crossing her arms. “You two are my friends. No dissection goes on here. _Not you,”_ she jabs Ivon’s arm. _“Or_ you.” Jo waves at Sundew.

“I do not believe my critical mass can be dissected. I will turn it into gas before allowing such measures to be taken—” Sundew begins a tangent, speaking—quite seriously, Ivon notes—about the difficulties of examining gas under a microscope.

Somehow, Ivon doubts a Yautja clan lacks a way to examine gas.

* * *

To his surprise, no expletives are snarled his way when he enters the room and lets the door slide shut behind him. H’chak pauses and sweeps the patient’s room. It is messier than before, with several drawers bent to the point of being unable to close. The table has been cleaned recently, indicating a need for sanitation services. There are scratches long the walls, dents and impacts from someone or something struggling to get out. He breathes in and grimaces at the realization it is not only the table which has been sanitized: the entire room _reeks_ of disinfectant and laser use, pointing to repeated uses and _need_ for repeated uses.

H’chak’s orange eyes dim behind his mask. He sees signs he wishes he didn’t. His eyes lock on the medical pod at the far wall, where a light protruding from a nodule on the pod indicates it is in use. He grimaces internally as he strides to the pod and looks in. There, leaning against the inside of the pod with care not to put weight on his back, his twin is curled up against the side of the medical device looking utterly devastated.

 _…Explains the lack of expletives._ H’chak grits his teeth. He came here for a reason; he can do this. The man taps on the pod’s glass hatch, prompting his twin to shudder and look up. H’chak’s orange eyes narrow on the fiery, furious, _grieving_ orange eyes of his brother.

Guan glares at him. He doesn’t open the pod.

H’chak counts to ten before his patience wanes and he wrenches the pod open by force.

Guan’s growl is ignored. H’chak pries the pod hatch far enough back where his twin cannot slam it shut. His eyes narrow on Guan while the latter begins to shake with a rage unbefitting him.

 _“I didn’t send for company.”_ His twin spits.

 _“The head nurse asked me to talk with you.”_ H’chak keeps his tone calm.

He _needs_ to stay calm. His brother is not in a rational headspace, and for good reason. It aches more than the Elite cares to admit, but he knows the pain of loss. He remembers how he reacted on the _Echinos_ when he thought Sundew was gone.

 _“C’it-na can rot! I don’t want you here,”_ Guan tries to shove the pod hatch shut. It doesn’t work, and the man begins cursing and howling in growing furor. _“Pauk! Pauk! Piece of cjit!”_

 _“Guan,”_ H’chak groans when his twin ignores him. He mentally apologizes to the medical division before the man takes a deep breath and rips off the metal hatch of the pod. He tosses it aside and ignores his brother’s warning hiss. _“I’m not leaving until we talk—"_

 _“What? Came here to mock me again? Tell me how giddy you are over her death? I’m sure you don’t miss her,”_ his twin seethes in every word, becoming so virulent H’chak feels his resolve waver for a moment. Guan picks up on this and snarls. _“She’s gone. She saved your life and she’s gone and it’s all your fault!”_

 _“I wasn’t part of that trial, Guan.”_ H’chak is stern in reminding him. He steps back from the pod and crosses his arms.

 _“Might as well been holding the sword which took her head.”_ Guan growls deeply, form tensing so much H’chak questions if the man might snap from the pressure.

It looks so… unnatural, on his brother.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan is not meant to be a man of anger. Not _this_ kind of anger. Not the bitterness H’chak once lived, back when he mourned what he lost with Ikthya-De. Only this bitterness is different, and it is not rooted in petty daydreams. H’chak knows clear and well how serious his brother felt toward the late nurse. In his eyes, Guan has lost more than a daydream: he has lost an entire lifetime of possibilities. Moments he and Bist’ri could have shared together, moments where the two grew and survived, moments upon memories upon possibilities now extinguished.

 _I love you too!_ In his head, he remembers how effortlessly Sundew spoke the words. The two had been sitting in the kitchen unit of the _Kukulkan_ , reunited and in discussion about something he doesn’t recall. In the end, whatever the two discussed wasn’t as relevant as how he felt after the Vekin returned the sentiment.

Even now—

Just the memory stirs warmth and bliss in his stomach. He revels in the thought of _her_ , in his beautiful flower, in every inch of silver flesh and the effortless way she speaks of the two in their most intimate moments.

But he had thought he lost her, and that was the end of his world for a time. H’chak knows he found enough resolve to continue living, but that was in the misled goal to protect Ikthya-De in Sundew’s honor. Ikthya-De had not needed protection, and Sundew was not as deceased as he thought.

 _Adjutant Yeyinde confirmed the execution._ H’chak grimaces internally. _What would I be doing with myself if she was gone? Protecting the two oomans? Vayuh’ta? What after that? How would I grieve? How long? How much?_

 _“Guan.”_ H’chak tries, but his twin shifts in his pod and turns his back to him.

 _“I didn’t think I could ever hate you.”_ Guan shivers from the pod. _“I didn’t think—I knew you hated me. I didn’t think—I didn’t think I could hate you. Not you. Not after the cjit the Elders pulled with Chirp. The cjit you knew the Elders pulled with Chirp! But—”_

H’chak growls, _“Don’t bring up Chirp!”_

 _“I cared about him as much I did you, H’chak. And you—Disgusting—Man—”_ Guan howls again, too overwhelmed to form coherent words. He shudders and splashes in his pod, throwing himself to one side only to break down sobbing. In a second, the anger dies and falls down his face. The tears come thick and heavy, as wretched to witness as they must be to feel.

His brother weeps.

H’chak looks away. _“I’m sorry.”_

 _“Sorry doesn’t,”_ Guan wipes his eyes. He looks a mess. _“It won’t bring her back. No one comes back after the Black Hunter takes them.”_

 _“Sei-i, sei-i, I know that, I know,”_ H’chak tenses his hands into fists. _“For what it’s worth—It’s not because of the mask signatures. I got that back from Ikthya-De.”_

He winces when Guan looks at him. He hates everything about the man’s face right now, from the clacking, shuddering mandibles to the big, wet eyes and the tear streaks trailing down his face.

 _“Good job.”_ The anger is back with a friend: sarcasm.

 _“Guan. Guan—”_ He won’t let the man dissuade him. H’chak grits his teeth and strides to the edge of the pod, leaning over to the broken hole where the hatch once was and peering inside _. “C’it-na says Lar’ja is improving. He thought—You might want to know.”_

 _“Lar’ja has no honor! I don’t care what happens to her! Let her and C’it-na meet the Black Hunter!”_ Guan roars from the pod. _“C’it-na had them—He made them stop me—When I was—the day of—Pauk. Pauk!”_

The string of expletives following delves back into grief, squirming like a maggot trying to burrow into decaying flesh. It is clear his brother hurts. H’chak looks to the side. _“It isn’t your fault, Guan. That she… That Bist’ri—”_

“ _Don’t say her name. Don’t…”_ Guan trails off and holds his head in his hands. He hisses. _“I couldn’t do anything—He ordered the nurses to—Hold me down—Restrain me by any means necessary—Drug me—He drugged me! He let them drug me! And I watched the lift… It carried her down… I did nothing…”_

He gives the man a moment to process what is evidently heavy emotions. H’chak refrains from snide comments or curt remarks. He knows Guan hurts, and despite all the man has done to _him_ , he knows the pain well enough to not want him to wallow in it endlessly. He doesn’t want Guan to make the mistakes he made, to be used and manipulated like how he was by Ikthya-De.

 _Maybe you still matter to me,_ H’chak’s orange eyes dim, _a little, mei-hswei._

The universe is cruel to turn the tables like this, to put him in the position of guilt and his brother in the position of losing everything valuable to him. It is not the same, but it is similar enough for H’chak to grit his teeth, clench his eyes shut, and pretend, for just a moment, the world has not spiraled out of control.

He doesn’t know what he can do.

He can’t earn the forgiveness of a dead woman.

 _But I can still…_ H’chak tenses where he stands. He steps back and exhales softly. _I can let the past go. Only one of us must hate the other._

 _It isn’t to earn forgiveness,_ he acknowledges. _Such forgiveness is impossible._

It is for a greater purpose, for something he hopes can one way be found across him and his brother: peace.

 _“That day in the kehrite. When you stripped me of everything,”_ H’chak ignores his brother’s glare. He stares at the ceiling. _“I thought I was ruined—That I had no future. I was… Arbitrator. I was barely an Elite. No reputation to back myself up with. No respect from my peers or potential mates. And you were there—And you had it all. You even had her, Ikthya-De.”_

The man growls softly. He shakes his head.

“ _Guan—I lost cycles to my own alcoholism. Futile attempts to forget and move on. But I couldn’t forget—I didn’t forget. I remembered because I was full of hate, hate for you. I remembered because I despised everything you were and stood for.”_ H’chak admits with his own string of expletives following. He looks back at the pod, where his twin says nothing but glares.

H’chak’s orange eyes dims _. “I know you carried my hate on your back. You did that for me. You caused me pain by shoving me out of the way even if it meant you took the final blow. And I continued to hate you.”_

The man breathes in deeply. He calms his nerves and clicks. “ _Bist’ri wanted… She wanted me to forgive you. For the sake of her forgiveness, on my honor as a Yautja. I couldn’t fulfill her request in the cycles she lived. But I—”_ H’chak pauses, tasting the words on his tongue before he says anything. _“I—I want to fulfill it now. Not for the sake of honor I cannot reobtain. But for the sake of… Putting things to rest.”_

Guan is quiet, listening to every word.

 _“I forgive you, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. For the actions you took then and the actions you take now,”_ H’chak shuts his eyes. _“You are absolved of the weight of the past between us.”_

There is a long moment of silence.

 _“Forgiveness won’t bring her back.”_ Guan clicks softly. _“What does forgiveness do for me now, H’chak?”_

 _“I don’t know. Guess you got to stick around and find out.”_ He retorts, _“Maybe join me in the background to watch Ikthya-De crash and burn?”_

 _“How do you propose accomplishing that?”_ His twin snaps, returning to his irate demeanor.

 _“I borrowed her computer’s memory chip.”_ H’chak chirps casually, opening his eyes in time to catch the brief flicker of surprise wash over Guan’s face. _“M-di, do not give me that look! I am still an Arbitrator, it is my duty to seek out ic’jit. If I have reason to believe Ikthya-De commits dishonorable actions, am I not in my right to seize evidence for analysis?”_

 _“You push your luck.”_ Guan clicks coldly.

 _“Then push it with me.”_ H’chak grits his teeth. _“Hate me or not, you want to see Ikthya-De brought down for her dishonorable actions. She is a wretched woman.”_

 _“She is,”_ his twin acknowledges after a moment. Guan growls and shakes his head. _“May the gods give me wisdom—I do not do this for you, M-di-H’chak. I’m doing this for myself, and for Bist’ri.”_

 _“For you and Bist’ri, then,”_ H’chak intones in quiet trills. _“We’ll knock her off her pedestal.”_

* * *

In another part of the clanship, on the residential floor, an overzealous ash gray Yautja greets the waiting green one eagerly. In front of several witnesses, the two enter the latter’s residence. There is but a moment’s pause, a moment where the duo set things down and make idle small talk, before C’it-na offers his confession and grabs the other nurse passionately. The younger Yautja is malleable in his hands as he walks them away from the door and into the bedchamber. The clothes come off within minutes, and the two Yautja wrestle until C’it-na comes out on top.

Leitjin is pinned to the bed while C'it-na smashes the two's hips together. The moans that fall from Leitjin's body are nothing short of ecstatic, dripping with high-pitched pleasure and squealing loudly whenever C’it-na thrusts into _just_ the right spot deep inside. The head nurse speaks tender things as he mates the Yautja and pries multiple orgasms from the individual. None of it is enough for C’it-na, nor is it meant to be enough for _him_.

His job is to aid the poison of Ka’Torag-Na’s fallen.

When he feels Leitjin fall into an exhausted stupor, no doubt their stamina spent in the excitement, C’it-na is quick to pull out and leave. He scurries to another room, to his wrist computer, and the head nurse silently inputs a short command to eject a capped syringe. The tranquilizer within is already loaded.

In the haze of post-coitus pleasure, Leitjin barely has time to thrash or fight back before C’it-na grabs their neck and presses a knee into their sternum. He injects the tranquilizer into their neck. The nude body goes limp beneath him.

The head nurse climbs off them. He inputs a new command into his wrist computer and ejects the portable tray of surgical tools from the wall next to the bed of pelts. C’it-na retrieves a scalpel and clamps. He glances at Leitjin’s unconscious form.

 _“I’m sorry, Leitjin,”_ the olive-green Yautja clicks slowly. _“But I need a nurse—And you are the only one no one will miss, or remember.”_


	70. dishonesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:
> 
> -talk about past rape / trafficking  
> -death / mourning stuff  
> -talk about medical procedures / injuries  
> -brief mention of eugenics / culling

It has been one week since arriving at the clan. In one week, things have changed. The nurses in the medical bay have distanced themselves from her and Ivon, something Jo feels conflicted about.

It isn’t that she detests the Yautja. The clan has been hospitable, save for forcing her to undergo brain surgery for the translation chip implantation, with a steady supply of food and other basic necessities coming from the medical division. She is still a ‘prisoner’ but she is not treated in a rough or lewd fashion. The clan is honorable, and honorable means taking care of their prisoners.

 _Until they finish Mercy’s trial and kill us._ Jo grimaces at the thought. The woman crosses her arms and squints where Ivon turns the memory chip over in their hand.

In one week, Mercy has gone from ‘going on trial’ to ‘eventually going on trial’. According to the Yautja, he is under suspicion but not yet charged or convicted pending something called _ka’rik’na_. Jo figures it is the Yautja word for trial or meeting. Maybe even _meeting for the purpose of holding a trial_.

Linguistics are weird.

Jo wonders just how weird everything else in the clan is. Mercy’s situation confuses her, she no longer sees the light gray Yautja around, Ivon continues playing with a memory chip-thingy, and Sundew occasionally swoops into the room to update her on other things happening in the clan. _The clan._ She cannot remember the official name.

_“You intend to occupy the corner of this room permanently…? Pauk… Will I never get a moment to myself?”_

The clicks stir her attention, although Jo notes Ivon is too deep in thought to respond. She looks up and meets the steely black gaze of an amber pelted Yautja. The Elite, _Gry’sui-bpe-de_ , has been recovering in the room for the past… Less than a week. His long red locs, usually twisted into each other in an intricate double locs style, have come undone, allowing Jo a glimpse at just _how goddamn tight_ the coiled hair is. It is not hair like hers, which is coiled but dead, but rather nigh-infinite strands of what looks like black flesh. Over time, her staring leads her to the conclusion it is flesh coiled and braided so finely the blood source decreases and kills most cells in the area.

At least, that is the hair protruding from _Gry’s_ head. Jo isn’t sure if it applies universally across Yautja.

Jo’s brown eyes meet Gry’s black ones without fear. She isn’t sure the reason, but something tells her the Yautja is not one to harm her. Maybe it is the ‘honorable’ lifestyle she has seen and heard other Yautja speak of. Perhaps it tied to how he purred for her back on the ship. She squints at him, furrowing her brows and making it clear she is not intimidated by his _massive_ stature and muscles.

Less muscles than before, but _muscles._

“Do you want me to go?” Jo accuses the man, noting how quickly tension falls on the Yautja’s form. “Uh-huh.”

It isn’t until Gry’sui puts his bio-mask on Jo realizes the Yautja doesn’t understand her. He needs the translation software in his equipment. She flushes a reddish brown and looks away. _Good one, Jo. Least Ivon is too distracted to hear._

 _“What did you say?”_ Gry chirps at her, rough and rigid in his demeanor. His mask makes him far more intimidating. Jo misses the black eyes.

“I asked,” she grits her teeth. “If you wanted me t’ go? I thought you liked my company.”

The clicking laughter offends her. Jo quickly chides herself: what is there to be offended about? He can dislike her as he pleases, she is not there for him. Except she is, in a way. Her excuse for exploring the medical bay was originally to see him.

 _“I do not care for a pyode amedha. Ev—Even an honorable one.”_ The Elite sits upright and looks to the side. He growls deeply, clicking after, _“I need to speak with Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I will not allow my stay in the medical division to interfere with my ability to continue hunts.”_

“Your stay in the…” Jo doesn’t even try to address the _Adjutant_ thing. She focuses on the other thing, rising to her feet and walking over.

Ivon mumbles something as she goes, but they speak too low to hear.

Jo stops and leans against the wall near where Gry’sui massages his calves. The Yautja pauses when she clears her throat. “Does your clan have shit to take up with the medical division or somethin’? I’ve noticed—It seems like ya’ll treat your nurses piss poor.”

 _“We do not urinate on our nurses!”_ Gry’sui roars the words, fists shaking.

“It’s an expression on Earth,” Jo elaborates. She sees him calm down just as quickly. She tilts her head to one side, “Do the hunters like you—Do you not get along with the nurses? Is it not honorable to be a nurse?”

 _“It does not go against our Code, but there is no reason to pursue a lifestyle of healing outside of natal care. Yautja find glory dying in Hunts or succeeding in their hunts.”_ The Elite trills. He gestures at himself. _“I am an Elite! That is not a rank easily earned, lavender. I have toiled dozens of Hunts, surpassed other hunters, and proven myself worthy of the rank 'Elite' among my fellow hunters. It is a social standing as much as it is a position of authority in my clan.”_

The first time the two _really_ talk and Jo wants to throw something at him. She does not, knowing escalation will only make things worse, but she finds herself disappointed. It appears the Elite is no less egoistical than several Yautja she has bumped into. Mercy is a man with an ego as big as his head, if not bigger. And Maelstrom— _Vayuh’ta,_ Jo reminds herself—has a fair bit of pride to her name.

“Why did—Why did you call her Lavender?” From behind her, tucked off to the side, Ivon’s words are easily missed if not for Jo turning back to face them. The woman pauses and glances at her friend. It helps to have the person’s medicine on hand, something she must thank the olive-green _head nurse_ for, but Ivon’s medication is not a be-all-end-all for preventing the human from feeling anxious. They look nervous the longer Jo stares at them.

Then their words register, and Jo spins on her heels. Her eyes narrow and she barks at the Elite, “Did you call me a fucking flower?”

 _“Copulating flora has nothing to do with—”_ Gry’sui begins, a mess of chirps, up until he freezes and falls quiet. _“What flower?”_

“Lavender.” Ivon mumbles from the side. They sound more dejected than usual. Jo doesn’t know if it’s because their girlfriend is going to be shipped off to an unknown clan and executed, or because they can’t figure out how to do… whatever it is they do with alien electronics.

She feels sympathy for them, but her attention quickly returns to the Elite nearby. Gry’sui’s shoulders slump. Jo glares. “I have a name. It isn’t _ooman_ or the fuck you call my species. It’s _Jo._ Joan Mackenzie. I go by Jo, a’ight?”

 _“Jo.”_ Gry’sui clicks once. _“Not lav’a-da.”_

“Not… that. Lavender. Not that.” Jo agrees. “Jo.”

 _“Jo.”_ The Elite repeats.

She exhales and nods. “Good, good. Thanks. I’m not trying to—I’m not trying to rag on you, it’s just… It’s a sore spot for me.”

Gry’sui angles his mask away. He growls. _“Jo. I am Gry’sui-bpe-de—"_

“I know that, now,” the woman grimaces. She walks over to the Yautja, ignoring how he tenses as she draws close and looks up at him. “I can’t say all of your name. Not yet. But I’m workin’ on learning it. You were the one who purred at me on the ship.”

_“…Yautja do not—"_

“You have another word for it?” Jo grunts. “It’s _‘purr’_ where I come from. What’s that mean, anyways?”

Absentmindedly, her eyes shift from the Yautja’s mask to the rest of his body. She backs up two feet and flushes deeply at the realization he wears very, _very_ little. A thin patient’s robe which is semi-transparent in places, but otherwise clings to the Yautja’s muscles and contours well to his body. Jo reels back another step and clears her throat. She hears Gry’sui say something, but it goes over her head as she turns and stalks back to Ivon, sitting down next to them and seeking their presence as a buffer between her and thoughts she does not want to delve into.

“I asked Sundew to get—To get me one of those face things.” Ivon whispers softly to her.

Jo blanks on what _face things_ refers to. When Ivon rubs their hand over their face, the cogs in Jo’s head turns and she nods. “Let’s hope she finds one.”

* * *

He is surprised to find Guan out of his pod and pacing his room slowly. The man’s back has a long way to heal, but the dusky-pelted Yautja shifts and moves in gradual, silent steps, just like how his _mei-hswei_ was trained many cycles ago. When the door opens and H’chak steps inside, it takes a long minute before his twin snaps his head up and stares at him, _“What are you doing here?”_

 _“Checking on you,”_ H’chak retorts immediately, his orange eyes narrowing behind his mask. _“I’m not that big a s’yuit-de to realize you shouldn’t be left by yourself. Not this long. Not after….”_

 _“Don’t say it. We are… allies, not friends.”_ Guan snaps. He exhales after, mumbling something under breath before looking away.

 _“We are also twins.”_ H’chak huffs, ignoring the clear strain in Guan’s voice when he speaks of the two as _allies._ The Arbitrator strides forward and looks him up and down. _“Is it wise for you to be moving like that? This quickly?”_

 _“Sei-i. I need to be mobile,”_ his twin clicks and straightens upright.

 _“For what?”_ It takes a moment for the implications to sink in. The Arbitrator stills and drops his hands to his sides. He eyes his twin with concern. _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan—”_

_“Don’t say my name like you have not spat on all I am for cycles, H’chak.”_

_“I am saying your name because I expect it is how Tjau’ke would scold you for being so asinine! You cannot break the Code! You will meet the final rest,”_ H’chak cannot believe he has to go through this again. _“I am working on retrieving evidence from Ikthya-de’s memory chip.”_

 _“You think Daga won’t exile her in lieu of execution?”_ His twin hisses.

H’chak growls. _“Daga can’t overrule a decision by the Council of Ancients.”_

His twin stares. _“…You’re getting the Council involved.”_

 _“We don’t have a choice,”_ H’chak clicks. _“We made the mistake of trusting the Elders last time. I’m going a step above them.”_

 _“What about your mate?”_ Guan narrows his eyes. _“The Ancients don’t approve of… Of a Yautja and an Im-Gen. They are prey species. It’s an act of indecency—"_

 _“If they cannot accept her, then I will leave the clan and take her with me.”_ H’chak’s response is immediate. He revels in the uncomfortable silence following. The idea clearly unnerves his twin, but the other Yautja. H’chak returns to the immediate subject at hand. _“Let me worry about my mate and I, Guan. We aren’t your problem.”_

* * *

The audacity of his _mei-hswei_ aggravates him to no end. Guan’s hands tense into tight fists, the clawtips embedding into the surface of his hide from how tightly he grips them. The man stares at H’chak. Words do not _begin_ to describe the envy he holds for the man, the words he wants to spit and spew with venom. Any progress the two made in his twin’s prior visit seems to fall away as he repeats H’chak’s clicks and chirps in his head.

_Let me worry about my mate and I._

H’chak has a mate to worry about it.

Guan shuts his eyes.

_Salt. Sand. Sea._

He remembers what she smells like. He remembers the call to the coast. He remembers the two’s last conversation, where she had said things that were so _wrong_. Things that, initially, had shocked and rattled him. Then he had realized something was wrong, and he had tried to get out of the medical division, and he discovered the late nurse was not only capable but considerate. Her orders kept the man contained to the medical division until she finished her trial.

He blocks out he rest of the world a moment and lets the past take hold.

 _I wanted you safe._ Her words repeat in his mind, drawing him beyond the two’s last conversation, pulling him through to happier moments in the two’s past. _And then—I guess I began wanting more than that. I wanted you._

He remembers the joy she brought him in the short time the two spent together. Whether wrapped up in sheets together or joking about _s’pke_ , the nurse brought out every side of him. He shared those things with her, gave himself willingly, reveled in the mutual mirth the two provoked in one another and built something beautiful off that. 

_Only you._

She had seen him for all his flaws and had not turned him away.

 _I can’t have what I want._ She had spoken the words then and he didn’t believe them, clinging to the strand of hope she helped him see. That conversation had been right after he thought she died in the _Echinos_ explosion, prior to discovering her and the _ic’jit_ Vayuh’ta’s unconscious bodies within an activated escape pod.

 _What can’t you have?_ Guan’s chest tightens. _Would it be dishonorable?_

 _Sei-i._ Yes.

He should have known it was impossible then, when the two danced the line between disloyalty and honor, when she told him she held dishonorable thoughts and feelings, that the two could find peace in one another. Such simple words had conveyed so much, but he had ignored the consequences. The two ignored the consequences for each other, becoming lost in a spiraling, doomed passion. Bist’ri wanted to protect him, but in the end, she left the deepest wounds with her death. He had been held down and restrained by multiple nurses until the medical division’s personnel could sedate him and forcibly return him to his room.

She had known he would try and reach her. She anticipated him interfering. She knew he would throw himself into the final rest if it meant talking to her one last time, and she had accounted for it to the very end.

Guan grits his teeth. _Why, Bist’ri? Why?_

He knows why. The concept of an affection so strong, of an attachment so deep and vivid and _real,_ that one is willing to meet the final rest to protect the object of adoration—He remembers that conversation, too.

_His mate—Sundew—She asked if I ‘loved’ anyone. I suppose she heard from one of the other nurses, but she—She knew Yautja do not… apply ooman expressions often, not to themselves._

_What did you say?_

_I didn’t answer._

_Ah. What—What were you going to say? If you had answered._

_If I had… Oh, right._ She had looked so _right_ back then, a vivid blue flush to her face. Her green eyes had captivated him, but nowhere near as much as her words ensnared him when she answered. _You know the answer to that._

 _The human expression._ The man thinks, somber. _The human expression of ‘love’… You…_

 _“Guan.”_ His brother interrupts his thoughts.

The man growls at H’chak. He glares at him, bitterness rising and mixing in with the pain of loss. No matter how much he wants to find peace in H’chak forgiving him, he cannot. There is no peace among the mourning. Bist’ri is dead and he will never see her again. He won’t get a chance to say goodbye. H’chak will go and enjoy the company of _his_ mate, of the Im-Gen, and the two will find happiness and prosperity where Guan can only weep and wail for the deceased. He envies H’chak. He envies H’chak more than he hates himself, because it is ultimately his inability to restrain himself that led to Bist’ri committing acts of disloyalty with him.

 _“My trial has been postponed until a representative arrives from Ka’Torag-Na to witness it,”_ H’chak clicks quietly, as if picking up on some of the morose atmosphere radiating off the former Adjutant. _“We have until then to act.”_

 _“Does it matter?”_ Guan shakes his head. _“Does it matter? I take down Ikthya-De—What happens then? Cetanu does not awaken those who have met the final rest! She’s gone! She’s dead! This clan killed her!”_

 _“Sei-I,”_ His brother does not deny the words. It only provokes more anger, more tears, and more numbness in Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. _“But she—She seemed to care about you. Deeply. She would not want you to give up on your life.”_

_“Don’t speak like you knew her!”_

Technically, the man is now far below the rank of Elite. He is simply a hunter, _kv’var-de_ , and H’chak is an Arbitrator, yet one still possessing his rank of Elite. Guan knows attacking another Yautja outside honorable combat is disgraceful. To do so demands the wrath of the other Yautja, a judgement where the Elders condone a one-sided battle until the other Yautja is satiated in their bloodlust and outrage. But when he looks at H’chak, when he sees how his brother holds himself, how the Yautja talks as if he was Bist’ri’s friend, about how he still has his mate—He cannot hold back from lashing out against the Elite.

What he does not expect is for H’chak to stand perfectly still and take the blow.

* * *

The fist connects and H’chak falls backward, sputtering and cursing. His temper flares and he narrows his orange eyes on his twin, the latter standing still as if deeply shocked. H’chak fixes his bio-mask—the damn blow was hard enough to move it out of place—and growls as he rises to his feet. He hisses loudly at Guan _. “You through with this cjit?”_

Guan’s hands drop to his sides. He looks at the metal flooring. _“Why did…?”_

 _“We’re on the same side now. Correct?”_ The Arbitrator seethes with constrained rage. _“You are, perhaps, the biggest s’yuit-de I know in this clan, and I’ve known many Yautja! Many! I am not letting you wilt away in a corner! She would not want that for you. Nor would Tjau’ke. Nor would Lar’ja. Nor would Setg’in!”_

H’chak ignores how his twin’s growl.

He clicks at Guan, irritable. _“We are surrounded by enemies in our own clan. We have each other. Who else? Who else can be trusted? We can’t say for sure, can we? I need to know who my allies are. If you aren’t one of them—I’ll accept it.”_

* * *

His _mei-hswei_ sounds so determined, so full of resolve, so… In a way, M-di-H’chak comes off as being so _like_ the past. Full of confidence in his abilities, capable, and devoted to finishing something once he starts it. But unlike the past, where the pre-Challenging had him an egoistical man who was smitten for the treacherous Ikthya-De, H’chak does not sound bogged down by the wretched woman’s influence.

He sounds like he does this for himself.

It startles Guan to consider that perhaps his _mei-hswei_ has grown more than he thought back on the _Kukulkan_. Perhaps the trip to _Terra_ changed more than what he is aware of.

 _“I don’t want to hate you, H’chak.”_ He clicks softly, his eyes watering. _“But I am a broken man. Broken men… They do and think and feel things they shouldn’t. I despise you. I envy you. You and your mate—You have each other. I wanted that. I thought I could… I thought maybe I finally had that—And now she’s dead. She’s gone. Bist’ri met the final rest. How can I ever look at you the same?”_

 _“Can I trust you?”_ H’chak ignores the rest of his words.

Guan shuts his eyes. _“…Only to deal with Ikthya-De. I don’t think—I don’t want anything to do with you when this is over.”_

 _“Ki’sei. If that is your wish._ ” The Arbitrator clicks faintly. _“As long as I can trust you—”_

 _“What do you need of me?”_ The former Adjutant interrupts H’chak. He wants to finish the conversation and be left alone to grieve and mourn painful memories.

“ _This room,”_ H’chak’s words surprise Guan. _“I need you to hide someone in here. One of the oomans, Ivon. They need access to your bio-mask and computer. You can’t let the nurses find them here. If anyone got ahold of that memory chip—”_

 _“Is that all?”_ Guan cuts him off again.

 _“For now.”_ H’chak clicks.

* * *

There are few individuals the woman deems trustworthy. Fewer, even, she trusts. It is not the fault of the clan at large, but the Elder huntress has not lived to her age relying on the strength of others. She finds the value of altruism applies to the _clan,_ not to her own survival and prosperity. It is a lesson she has ingrained in herself since she almost failed one of her hunts, since she kissed the Black Hunter and rebuked his claim on her life. Not many can say they denied the call of Cetanu, but the Elder is not _many_.

She is the Sly Escape, Kwei-Tyioe. Her survival across the wildlands of _Baltic-102t_ is her namesake, and her namesake has taught her she must pick allies _carefully._ She must rely on herself if they fail, and she must not pick ones who fail.

Yet as she strides through the corridors of the medical division, clad in gleaming golden-hued alloys, the Elder questions if she has done just that: relied on an unworthy Yautja, on someone other than herself, on a possible crack in her solid foundation as an Elder in Gahn’tha-cte.

 _She_ cannot afford mistakes. _She_ cannot let others make those mistakes for her. Tyioe intends to hold herself accountable for those in her division; she _will_ uphold the honor of herself and her subordinates.

Her golden eyes gleam as she clicks at the two Elite guards to unlock the door leading to the patient’s room. She already knows who is inside, but Tyioe steels herself regardless as she crosses through the open door and waits for it to slide shut behind her.

A quick input into her wrist computer locks the door from outsiders, leaving her alone with two Yautja in the room: an unconscious former Elder devoid of honor, and a former head nurse sitting next to where the near-dead Yautja sprawls out on a metal table in the center of the room. Tyioe knows them both, though one she knows _vastly_ more than the other. Her golden eyes immediately lock unto Guan-Tjau’ke’s deep, dark pelt and the specks of soft yellow and white scattered across them.

Tjau’ke has always been a fascinating ally. Not quite enough to demand trust or companionship, but one who derives respect from Tyioe all the same. The woman looks innocent enough at a distance: her long locs spiral and twist into one deep, dark brown loc falling over her back. She wears simple vestments, forgoing all equipment but a bio-mask to shield her face and a wrist computer to sync herself with the clan ship interface. It is all a ruse, a mask over the feral bloodlust Elder Tyioe _knows_ the woman holds. She remembers watching Guan-Tjau’ke rise in ranks prior to the latter’s decision to become a nurse.

The woman was a Brawler once, a fighting style reserved for warriors of Elite status or higher. Elder Tyioe reminisces on the memories with slight fondness; observing the brutality contained in the now ex-nurse was always fascinating. To take on a specialty fighting what is essentially gauntlet-fisted hand-to-hand, to go up against prey where close contact and one wrong move could bring the final rest—The memories retain that fascination. And, though the Elder chides herself for it, the memories also carry a degree of respect.

In hindsight—Guan-Tjau’ke’s fighting style may have passed to M-di-H’chak, in a way. Not by blood, but the man was close to his adoptive bearer in his early cycles, extending beyond his sabotaged and successful _chivas_ up until he lost his honor at the hands of Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.

 _His twin. Thwei’mei-hswei…_ Kin through blood. Elder Tyioe glances at the immobile form of M-di-Guan-Lar’ja. Thanks to her bio-mask, the Elder sees every healing incision stretching down the former Elder’s torso. _You hid this from us, Lar’ja. Tjau’ke._

Now she gets to assess the damage done by the omission of truth. It is clear neither Yautja trusts the other, trusts _her_ , but Elder Tyioe has a _job_ and a _duty_ ; she maintains her responsibilities with a diligence becoming her rank. She shifts her gaze to Guan-Tjau’ke’s silent form, noting the tension in the woman’s hands. Clawtips twitch, but not in pursuit of bloodlust, not bloodlust directed at _her_.

 _Have I made a mistake abiding by your wishes, Tjau’ke?_ The Elder questions in her head as she hisses and growls to announce her presence.

 _“Elder Tyioe,”_ is Guan-Tjau’ke’s response, a series of clicks equally strained as the last. _“I’m surprised you did not summon me. It is your right.”_

 _“It is. But summons draw unwarranted attention. Gahn’tha-cte has cjit to worry about.”_ Tyioe retorts.

Unlike Tjau’ke, Elder Tyioe is careful in her chirps and soft trills. She can click sufficiently with her three prosthetic mandibles, but it is not a pleasant sensation. She has enough chronic pain to deal with when it comes to the prosthetic jaw replacing the one ripped out by a Queen _kiande amedha_ cycles long past.

 _“What do you need?”_ The ex-nurse asks Tyioe. _“You already interrogated me, Elder Tyioe.”_

 _Not enough._ Tyioe’s gold eyes narrow. _“Elder Ju’dha confirmed your… excuse.”_

 _“I consider it reasoning.”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly.

_“—Do not insult my intellect, Guan-Tjau’ke. It was an excuse to interfere in a matter irrelevant of your status and position within the clan! I will not forget this—When Gahn’tha-cte is not bent over a table offering itself up to the Black Hunter, we will revisit this subject. You had no right—”_

_“You say that, and yet, I ask myself: what right I had to start? The right to keep crucial information secret? To look away and allow corruption and dishonor to rear its ugly head and entrap Gahn’tha-cte? Tell me, Elder Tyioe, what right did I have? What right should I have exercised?”_ Guan-Tjau’ke trills once and looks over at the tall, honorable huntress. _“I did not ask you to commit dishonor. I did not ask you to excuse Bist’ri’s sentence! All I asked—Was you consider her knowledge of the suspect of Adjutant Yeyinde’s investigation—"_

Kwei-Tyioe hisses. _“You knew I could not say no! I have owed you a debt for over a hundred cycles—”_

 _“Do not play this game with me, Elder Tyioe,”_ Guan-Tjau’ke’s tone becomes harsh and cold. _“You acted of your own volition! Do not push responsibility for your actions unto others! If you wanted her dead, she would be a corpse in the morgue, awaiting burial!”_

 _“She should be! She deserves the final rest!”_ Tyioe howls the words now, agitated. Her composure briefly slips at the audacity of the woman before of, of a Yautja without honor, to disregard the differences in rank, in respect, in _honor_. She bunches her fists and curses, _“You do not know the things she confessed to in that hall, Tjau’ke! The acts second in dishonor, a sin second only to bringing innocents the final rest—You did not hear the desecration committed to former Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan! The disgust! The horror! A wretched, wretched woman—The acts she confessed to—"_

 _“Desecration… Sin second only to…”_ The words appear to take Guan-Tjau’ke aback. The ex-nurse exhales softly. She tightens her hands into fists and angles her mask to the side. _“Oh, Bist’ri. S’yuit-de. S’yuit-de. I understand now.”_

 _“You understand what?”_ It is a demand for information, because as much as Kwei-Tyioe despises it—She does not fully grasp the situation. She is hesitant to believe a Yautja without honor, but the ex-nurse is not _simply_ any Yautja without honor. Her honor was lost because she took up M-di-Guan-Lar’ja’s honor, and Lar’ja lost hers.

_“Kwei-Tyioe, we are not close like I am with… Lar’ja. Elder Ju’dha. But part of you trusts me, as you have already taken initiative to order your Adjutant to put a stay on my former Adjutant’s execution.”_

_“I may regret it.”_ Tyioe growls, arching her back slightly and snarling from behind her mask.

_“You don’t. You haven’t so far, and you haven’t now. You’ve put trust in my insight, Kwei-Tyioe,”_ the former head nurse, the Yautja without armor, she clicks louder now, turning around to face Tyioe again. _“You possess a sense of honor. You root out those who do not comply with the Code. And when you read my words—You acted believing something I did not say.”_

_“You implied it! You implied the woman’s honor is intact!”_

_“I didn’t say it.”_ Guan-Tjau’ke rebukes her words immediately. _“You came to that conclusion because part of you believes it’s true!”_

_“Even if part of me has—She has been sentenced. A stay is not a pardon. I believe she faces punishment for her dishonorable actions. She murdered her mei-hswei—”_

_“Did she?”_ Guan-Tjau’ke challenges the claim.

Tyioe roars and stomps toward the woman, grabbing her by the collar of her vestments and pulls her down to eye level. _“S’yuit-de! She confessed it!”_

 _“S’yuit-de!”_ the unarmored, _unarmed_ Yautja seizes Tyioe by _her_ neck guard and lifts her until her feet barely touch the ground. Guan-Tjau’ke _hisses_ with monstrous venom, with the notes of a rage not even Tyioe remembers to fear until then.

The former Brawler ignores the sound of Tyioe’s _dha’kte_ extending, ignores when the Elder shoves the blades against the Yautja’s throat, ignores her even when the Elder orders the woman to _put her down._

Guan-Tjau’ke does not let go. In fact, if Kwei-Tyioe were to guess, she might say the woman’s grip tightens on her armor.

 _“You were one of the Elders who called for her life when Lar’ja located her. You did not believe she had a fighting spirit, sain-bhu’ja! You wanted her culled for surviving!”_ Tjau’ke’s voice drips with bitterness and disgust. _“She fought to live! She fought to recover! She fought to thrive! I doubt her progress escaped you!”_

“ _Survivorship_ _does not entail honor, Tjau’ke. Sometimes the suffering become the next link in the chain!”_ Tyioe barks back.

 _“She hasn’t. She wouldn’t.”_ Guan-Tjau’ke growls again. _“Bist’ri lied to you and the Elders, Kwei-Tyioe. She is, perhaps, the most infuriating s’yuit-de I have trained to date—She and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan had an affair and committed acts of disloyalty, but she did not—"_

_“She confessed!”_

_“Under duress! Why would the head of a division throw away the honor and authority of a high-ranking position like that? Why would she bar Gahn’tha-cte-Guan from testifying to the authenticity of her words? She knew his words would exonerate her!”_

_“Pretend she has lied to us, Guan-Tjau’ke, pretend your former Adjutant is not a disgusting ui’stbe in Yautja flesh! Pretend she did not do the things she spoke of,”_ Kwei-Tyioe snaps and roars angrily. When the door to the room opens, she bellows over her shoulder for the two Elites looking in to _get the pauk out_. They oblige eagerly and the door shuts once more. Tyioe’s gaze returns to Tjau’ke. _“She has been sentenced to the final rest for murdering Tarei-Jehdin.”_

 _“And what evidence do you have of that? What evidence do you have beyond her word? Do you have his body? Do you have proof? Can you stand in front of this clan and honestly say you can prove she murdered him? That her actions were not under duress after being trafficked for eight cycles?”_ The bluntness of Guan-Tjau’ke’s words makes Tyioe grate her authentic teeth against the fake ones of her prosthetic lower jaw. 

The Elder hisses once more. _“If Leader Daga did not have proof—He could have dismissed the charge.”_

 _“Yes, ‘Leader’ Daga! ‘Honorable’ Leader Daga—”_ Tjau’ke stills when Tyioe pushes her _dah’kte_ into the flesh of the ex-nurse’s neck enough to draw blood. A stream of luminescent green blood drips out.

Kwei-Tyioe seethes. _“I am through tolerating your disrespect—”_

 _“Then cut me down, Tyioe,”_ the woman cuts her off with a growl. _“Use your authority as Elder to bring me the final rest! If you do not believe my words are true—Then I am nothing more than dishonorable cjit to wipe off your feet!”_

The Elder roars and throws Guan-Tjau’ke aside. The latter curses when she slams into the wall of the room, accidentally activating shelves containing miscellaneous vials and dozens of unused, sanitized syringes. Tyioe cusses louder than Tjau’ke ever could as she throws her head back and yells at the _Payas,_ the gods, for having the nerve to bring her this conflict. Her rage is fiery, but it is nowhere near the anger simmering in Guan-Tjau’ke when Tyioe looks over.

And, at the heart of that rage, is a sickening, soft chortle. A laugh as vile to think about as she is to be near.

The Yautja without honor is right.

She believes Guan-Tjau’ke. She believes she made a mistake. She believes something is amiss in Gahn’tha-cte, or she would not have sent her Adjutant to halt the execution of a damned ic’jit.

It infuriates Kwei-Tyioe to the point she momentarily sees red. She almost gives in to the violence she yearns to satiate.

“ _Gahn’tha-cte-Guan—He will be tried when this is over. Punished for disloyalty. If what you say is right. And the ic’jit—She will be investigated for disloyalty, tried for disloyalty, for dishonesty, for falsifying testimony in a trial. That is what I seek to accomplish in this clan, Guan-Tjau’ke. Honorable justice,”_ the Elder spits at the ground. _“You and Lar’ja will be tried for dishonorable omission of information.”_

 _“I expect nothing less of an honorable Elder,”_ Tjau’ke growls.

 _“There is much to unravel with the former head nurse. I put a stay on her execution until my Adjutant finishes her investigation independent of outside influence. When it concludes—If there is no evidence proving the woman has lied or been coerced into testimony—She meets the Black Hunter,”_ Tyioe straightens upright and retracts the blades of her _dah’kte._ She looks away. _“No exceptions to punishing the dishonorable, Guan-Tjau’ke. None to you, or her, or Lar’ja. None to me or the Elders if we made a mistake in our judgements. Honor will be kept.”_

 _“Honor will be kept.”_ Guan-Tjau’ke repeats, voice quieter but tension remaining.

Kwei-Tyioe smooths her locs and walks to the door. She clicks over her shoulder, _“Where is Daga’s former Adjutant?”_

 _“Ask the head nurse.”_ Is Tjau’ke’s reply.

Tyioe cusses her out before the Elder opens the door and leaves, leaving one somber ex-nurse, an unconscious Yautja, and two baffled Elites in her wake.


	71. how minecraft works

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -pregnancy mention  
> -medical procedures / injections / needles  
> -murder  
> -forced drugging  
> -mention of past abuse 
> 
> so tired. Been having a bit of a block as this story winds down for its final stretch !!!!! Aaaaaaaa. Hope it's still enjoyable !!

It has been eight days since the ship occupants returned to the alien clan _._ Despite everything changing around her, the woman feels as if nothing has changed. She and Ivon are no better off now than the day of arrival, with exception of translator chips in their heads.

 _Today, that changes._ Jo thinks to herself after Mercy informs her and Ivon the two are meeting his twin. It is the next step to hopefully freeing Maelstrom, and hopefully reaching a conclusive end of Mercy’s strange clan. Jo doesn’t want to stick around more than necessary; the Yautja don’t put her on edge but she recognizes how dangerous they are. She is not seen as an equal to them. She is disposable, only kept for… a reason she either doesn’t know or can’t remember. She doesn’t want to be around individuals who view her as a gnat or fly.

Mercy clicks at her to keep up when she lags after him and Ivon. Occasionally, a nurse chitters at the trio passing by, but the three are not hindered or stopped by anyone. Jo keeps her gaze on Mercy’s back, noting the definitive bulge of muscles visible through the thin bathrobe he wears.

 _Yautja got their own sense of style, huh?_ Jo thinks with some amusement as she trails after Ivon and Mercy.

The latter huffs at her but says nothing, much to Jo’s surprise. She distinctly remembers how _vicious_ Mercy was when he first found her, Ivon, and Louanne on his ship. He was ready to slaughter the three, and Jo reckons he would have if Sundew did not intervene. The contrast between then and now _baffles_ Jo. If not for the clear species differences and the fact she and Ivon are _unofficial_ prisoners of his clan, she might say the guy is warming up to her.

 _That… It wouldn’t be a bad thing. Would it?_ The woman considers. _Be nice to have someone of his species I can trust. And I trust Sundew, who trusts him, so. Maybe we could all be friends. Real… friends?_

Along the way to Mercy’s brother, Jo takes note of the appearances of passing Yautja. She doesn’t see Roja or Leitjin, though she recalls Roja checking in with Gry during the ‘morning cycle’. It puzzles her Leitjin hasn’t popped back up. The woman recalls how happy they were to meet C’it-na. She makes a note to ask the green nurse if she sees him again.

* * *

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan is awake and out of his pod when the trio enter. His brother clicks in greeting; Guan ignores the man and shifts his gaze to the two heat signatures with him. Neither smell appealing, nor can he spot either in any form of protective wear. The two oomans are relatively scrawny, though the shorter one—a woman named _Jo_ , H’chak explained to him in the past—has slightly more muscle despite the four-inch height difference between herself and the antsy human at her side.

H’chak growls to get his attention when Guan looks away. _“Guan—"_

 _“How long will they be?”_ He skips to the point, mood already sullied by his twin’s presence.

The taller of the two oomans says something. The noises are alien to hear, far from the easily understood raspy clicks of his clan’s dialect. Guan grimaces. He turns away and walks to his medical pod while H’chak takes both oomans aside and begins asking the tallest one questions.

 _That one,_ he thinks, _that one is Ivon. I remember._

 _“Guan,”_ his brother approaches him after minutes of discussion with the oomans. H’chak unclasps his bio-mask and holds it out to the man. _“Use my mask’s translator if you need to communicate with either of them.”_

 _“Why would I need such a thing if you speak their language?”_ Guan takes the mask regardless, eying it with distaste.

 _“I am leaving them in your care. My mate is receiving injections of serum by the head nurse,”_ H’chak’s words make Guan pause. His brother falls quiet. There is an unusual amount of tension in H’chak’s heat signature. Guan puts on H’chak’s bio-mask and activates the optical filters in time to catch sight of his brother pulling his mandibles tight across his inner jaws in the impression of a frown. H’chak clicks softly, _“I want you to meet her soon.”_

_“Why would I want to meet her? She isn’t Yautja. She has no relevance to—”_

_“I don’t care if she’s not a Yautja! She matters to me,”_ H’chak’s hands tense into fists. _“She matters to me, Guan.”_

 _“Not to me.”_ Guan’s tone briefly delves into bitterness. He grits his teeth.

 _“Pretend she means something to you. You may see her around before this cjit with the clan is over.”_ H’chak dismisses his words.

The picture of the two Yautja briefly amuses Guan. Everything feels _reversed_. H’chak sounds mature, and he the bitter, vengeful one. Guan doesn’t like it. The man looks away, off to the side, where the two oomans have picked a corner to sit in. He takes _his_ bio-mask and walks over to the pasty white _pyode amedha._ ‘Ivon’ flinches, a note of fear permeating the air before the ooman relaxes. Their brown eyes lock with Guan’s orange ones.

“Mercy mentioned,” Ivon speaks, but it takes a second for the translation software to boot up and flash the words across Guan’s mask. “You have a—A mask? I can use?”

 _“Sei-i, take it.”_ Guan doesn’t bother speaking further or getting acquainted. He hands over _his_ bio-mask and walks back to his medical pod. The pod is quickly becoming his place of refuge, but for now the former Adjutant refrains from slipping inside. He needs to make sure neither ooman breaks his bio-mask, especially if H’chak is serious about dumping the two oomans on him and departing

H’chack _is_ serious about leaving the two oomans with him. Guan finds the room becomes oddly quiet once his twin exits.

 _For the better,_ he thinks.

* * *

It is equally wondrous as it is _boring_ to observe Ivon’s weird way of doing… _things,_ for lack of better words. Jo’s bright brown eyes balk and stare as she watches her companion effortlessly insert the memory chip thing into a gauntlet computer. Ivon straps the computer to their left wrist and plucks the helmet from the floor next to them. Jo blinks and stifles a yawn. She stretches her arms as Ivon turns the helmet over and faces the visors at the floor.

“How’s it goin’?” Jo asks, sitting cross-legged next to Ivon’s sprawled out limbs.

The latter frowns and blinks, “I was just—Just wondering if this mask is… If it’s human compatible.”

 _“I don’t have authority to peruse history of bio-masks. Not anymore,”_ From across the room, the only Yautja present clicks roughly. He sounds bitter. _“The sensors might attach, but you don’t read our language. You can’t navigate the mask interface.”_

“I, um, I do, actually,” Ivon retorts, wincing when the Yautja quiets and walks over to them.

Jo’s gaze narrows; the woman prepares to stand and act as a buffer between her jumpy friend and the imposing, seven-foot-three alien, but the Yautja does not advance further or move to grab Ivon. The dusky-pelted Yautja angles his mask at Ivon but remains quiet, almost expectant.

Next to her, Ivon shudders. “So… I’m just going to… Try to put it on now.”

Many hair-thin thin sensors drop from the upper-back of the mask as Ivon nervously lifts the mask to their face. It is not a proper fit, the mask having been made for hulking killer aliens, not a human. Jo offers her hand for Ivon to grab unto; the human mumbles a thanks and takes it before pressing the mask to their face. They yelp softly and begin squirming and groaning in pain. Ivon squeezes Jo’s hand; she doesn’t know what goes on, but she is glad to offer some comfort. After a minute, Ivon calms, and the human lets go and leans backward against the wall.

“Okay,” their voice is slightly muffled by the mask. “Let’s see what we got here…”

* * *

Guan isn’t sure what to think when the ooman puts the mask on. He knew their intentions, as H’chak spoke of it moments before leaving, but the man remains in a state of disbelief. The notion an ooman can make use of _Yautja_ technology astounds and baffles the former Adjutant. He stares, silent for a time, observing the ooman suffer and writhe as the mask's sensors dig through their flesh.

His borrowed mask’s translation software accurately displays the ooman’s words when they state, “Okay, let’s see what we got here…”

 _H’chak really puts his trust in an ooman._ Guan grimaces behind his mask. He waits to hear the ooman complain, sputter, or give up. He waits for Ivon to sigh or mope about how the ooman can’t articulate nor process Yautja script and alphabet. He waits, but the complaints never come. Ivon _hums_ after a second, the soft noise faint but distinct enough to pick out above the ambience of breathing and machinery in the walls.

“Find anything?” The other ooman, the one with beautiful brown skin and long black ringlets of coiled hair, speaks with optimism. “Ivon?”

“Hang on… I never knew how wordy this species can be. It’s cool to see.” Ivon mumbles, tapping buttons into the wrist computer.

Guan wonders if the engineers aboard the _Kukulkan_ and _Echinos_ were right about the ooman. Maybe they have some prowess with technology enabling them to decipher the alien computer and language? To navigate it, even?

 _I’m wrong? If I’m wrong… then… No wonder the engineers want to run tests on their brain._ He straightens upright. The two oomans ignore him as if he isn’t there.

“I think,” Ivon fumbles with flashing red keys on the gauntlet computer. There is a certain unease to which they press and fiddle with input sequences. Though hesitant, the ooman has some idea of how to approach the equipment. “I think—There’s—It’s like a server, Jo. A server on the internet. You know how _Minecraft_ works?”

“Played it once, maybe? My brother’s a fan,” Jo huffs. “Was fun, though. Everything’s a block? Yeah? I liked fishing the most.”

“Yes, but—But more than that—The way multiplayer works in Minecraft—You have servers hosting worlds with your friends. Each of you contribute to the, uh, the world, and you add or retract stuff as you go,” Ivon sounds flustered in the wordy explanation. “All of that world’s _shit_ is stored on the server. Delete the server, delete the world, right?”

“Right.”

Ivon exhales loud enough to be heard. “Let’s call what I found a… It mentions this… server. I think a ‘database’ would also suffice, but it seems… It seems more than that. Or, less than that, rather? It’s more private. I don’t think I can say the name, but—”

 _“You should try.”_ Guan chirps loudly, cutting into the conversation. He tilts his head to one side and watches Jo still and Ivon wince. _“I’m curious, oomans.”_

“Jo.” Jo points at herself, then at Ivon. “Ivon. We have _names.”_

 _“Jo. Ivon.”_ His mask translates the chirps. _“I may know the name.”_

He wants to know if Ivon makes everything up or if the ooman found something of substance. Having a name would be a start. Guan's stomach twists uncomfortably as he waits for the ooman to reply. He hears Ivon strain to make a strange hissing noise, a distinct _saaaaaaa_ ending in a snarl. Ivon’s snarl is weak, pitiful in comparison to a Yautja's weakest roar, but Guan silently commends the person for trying.

 _“_ Sa…” Ivon fumbles with the syllable. They click with their throat, then flare their puffy alien lips out and boom, “Ooooooooooo…”

Ivon stops to breathe in deeply. Jo giggles.

“There’s—One more part to it, um,” Ivon blurts. “It’s a… It’s like a… Like a… Like a hard ‘d’. Saaaaaaa-“ _Click._ “Oooooo-duh.”

“Hard _‘d’,”_ Jo laughs openly, amused. Ivon balks and begins to excuse their words.

 _“Sa’ud.”_ The former Adjutant chirps the name. His mask doesn’t translate it, but Ivon nods at the pronounciation. Guan crosses his arms. _“The late Elder Sa’ud… She was once head of the medical division in Gahn’tha-cte. You found her…?”_

“Not her, but her—It’s a private place of information, authored and input by her. A database. A server. Call it, um, what you want, but it’s private. It was mentioned in a message transmitted from whoever owns this mask’s memory chip. Someone named… Um… I read it as ‘Umbra Skull’? To—Sly… Sly something… Sly…”

 _“Escape?”_ Guan offers.

Ivon shakes their head. “Not escape. I’d’ve seen that word. I think it’s… puzzle?”

 _“Kwei-Bezas.”_ Guan clicks the name and begins cussing under his breath after the ooman confirms the name. He grimaces internally. _“If that is Ikthya-De’s memory chip… You said there are transmissions between her and Kwei-Bezas?”_

“Correct.” Ivon’s shoulders slump. “The two talked about… This server. Database. Thing. About Sly Puzzle getting into it?”

 _Kwei-Bezas could decipher any Gahn’tha-cte encryption. What did my mate need only Elder Sa’ud possessed? Elder Sa’ud met the final rest over one-five-zero cycles past…_ It hurts his head to think about, but it needs to be addressed. He knows now the memory chip contains evidence, perhaps not on Ikthya-De but implicating Akrei-non-Daga. The leader did not order Kwei-Bezas’ immediate execution _or_ pardoned them. Unlawfully detaining a Yautja past their sentence is dishonorable enough to warrant suspicions.

 _“Do you know,”_ Guan hesitates, uncertain how to request assistance from an _ooman_. He forces his pride aside. _“Do you know what Kwei-Bezas… found? What they looked for? What Ikthya-De asked them to find?_ ”

“I’ll check?” Ivon offers.

Guan intends to reply, but the door to the room begins sliding open. He rises to his feet but stops. Confusion and surprise overtakes him when he sees a gleaming golden Adjutant enter, the woman in her white armor and flanked by two Elites. He recognizes the Elite Yautja, Elite Bakuub and Elite Z'skuy'thwei, but the man's attention shifts to Elder Tyioe’s Adjutant, Yeyinde. Her fiery orange locs are hard not to ogle, though Guan finds his mind does not attach to them as he once did to Bist’ri’s blue green locs.

 _“Adjutant Yeyinde.”_ Guan bows his head. He is not an Adjutant; Yeyinde’s rank over him _must_ be acknowledged.

The woman, who stands four inches taller than him, eyes him from beyond her sleek silver mask. She clicks firmly, _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I have questions for you; I expect them answered truthfully and to the extent of your cognitive abilities. Am I clear, kv’var-de?”_

 _“Sei-i,”_ Guan clicks, straightening upright more until his torso aches from the posture. He doesn’t know why Yeyinde is here, but her presence unnerves him. He has known her since she took the mantle of Adjutant up on Tyioe’s behest, but it does not mean he knows her _well_. _“I will answer with the remains of my honor, Adjutant Yeyinde.”_

 _“As you should,”_ the woman remarks gruffly. She glances at the side, where the two oomans have fallen quiet. Yeyinde pauses. Guan winces internally; there is nothing he can do to stop the Yautja when Yeyinde barks out an order, _“—Remove the two from the room and confiscate the equipment. Oomans are not allowed to toy with our technology, kv’var-de. If I catch the two here again, I will rip out their eyes and your tongue.”_

 _“Sei-i, Adjutant Yeyinde.”_ Guan holds his tongue. He doesn’t look when Jo and Ivon begin squawking and yelping at Yeyinde’s guards ripping away the bio-mask and gauntlet computer, nor at the two’s struggles when the Elites drag Jo and Ivon from the room.

* * *

H’chak doesn’t understand his mate’s insistence to go through with the painful injections. It is clear they hurt her, but Sundew insists on being given serum. To his surprise, Honorable C’it-na obliges, though the head nurse expresses concern handing out serum like drinks during a festival. Sundew's assurances she only weeps should her system experience inebriation does not soothe H'chak's concern. He stands to the side of the metal table his mate sits in.

H'chak holds back the growl of pain from how hard Sundew strangles his arm when C’it-na finishes the current injection. Her grip loosens after the head nurse pulls the needle out. Sundew’s eyes are full of tears; the scent is nauseous to H'chak's olfactory receptors. H'chak cannot make out every detail of his mate's eye sockets due to his lack of a mask, but H’chak detests the sight all the same.

He rumbles softly, purring with intent to calm while his silver mate catches her breath. She leans against him; he is content allowing her to curl up into his torso from where she sits on the metal table.

 _“Sun-Dew…”_ H’chak clicks softly after a time.

“Much better,” his mate speaks before he has the chance to ask her how she’s faring. Sundew smiles politely and rubs her head against him, mimicking a gesture he’s done to her in the past. “I have not felt more like myself since… A long time. H’chak. I am currently at nine-two percent critical mass. It will only take one full injection for me to return to my original state.”

 _“What happens at your original state? When you reach it, I mean. Anything exciting?”_ C’it-na inquires while the head nurse bustles around the room; he returns the syringe to a slot in the wall labeled _sharps processing f_ or cleaning and recycling.

H’chak’s orange eyes narrow at the man. Though C’it-na is kind, H'chak is far too alert to let down his guard around _anyone_ right now. Gahn’tha-cte is full of potential threats.

“I will be able to change things. I could have eyes the way your kind does, _C’it-na.”_ Sundew speaks the name adequately enough for the head nurse to nod and chirp in delight. When Sundew turns and looks up at H’chak, the later pauses. Sundew leans back against him, “I could have the same beautiful Jupiter eyes you do. We could match.”

 _“Don’t change yourself for me.”_ is the Arbitrator’s response, though he feels a wave of pride wash over him at the comment. He puffs out his chest.

“The only changing I do for you is change out of clothes,” his mate’s quip is calm but quick on the draw. She smiles pleasantly at him while H’chak growls deeply and pulls her against him. Sundew laughs. “I like knowing I invoke that reaction in you.”

 _Cetanu help me._ He knows the tone, subtle yet hinting at underlying wants. She’s gotten very good at rousing his attention, _all_ his attention. H’chak reminds himself of where the two are; he is not going to allow someone like C’it-na to witness the two tangled in intimacy. He doubts anyone in the clan is worthy of witnessing much less _joining_ the duo, and he does not know if Sundew approves of anyone in the clan. Nor is he in the mood to share, nor does he know if she is in the mood to share.

The fact his thoughts linger on the subject for so long is a sign of how much he’s fallen for the silvery figure nearby. H’chak’s throat rumbles and he purrs briefly for his mate, wishing to convey just how much he intends to ravish her when the two have a moment to themselves.

 _“I’ll have the last injection ready shortly,”_ C’it-na chirps from across the room. The olive green Yautja seems distracted, not even looking the two’s way where H’chak stands next to Sundew. His mate looks back at him and gestures for him to bend down to her eye level. He obliges. The Yautja's body squirms with heat and he emits a high-pitched chirp when Sundew leans over and presses her lips against his cheekbone.

“Thank you for being here while I go through this,” Sundew kisses him again. Her lips feel cool and inviting, especially when they press closer to where his mandibles begin. Tension in H'chak's body melts from the sensations. His mate seems to pick up on this, leaving tiny kisses accompanied by her beautiful smile. Eventually, she draws back and peers up at him. “I know much has gone on since we arrived here, and I know you face problems not yet resolved, but your presence here calms me,” she kisses the base of an unbroken mandible, making the Yautja exhale sharply. “I love you."

 _“You two are—You’re devoted to one another. Even though,”_ from the side, C’it-na pauses. _“You aren’t… I mean… Sun-Dew…”_

 _“She isn’t Yautja, no.”_ H’chak clicks curtly.

C’it-na trills, _“I know that—!”_

The Arbitrator hisses, _“Then keep your comments to yourself, Honorable C’it-na. Do not disrespect a Yautja’s mate unless you are prepared to enter the kehrite over your opinion.”_

His words strike a nerve with the head nurse. The man stops and tenses but does not say anything in response to H’chak’s brash reply. C’it-na finishes filling a syringe with serum and returns to H’chak and Sundew. The nurse holds up the needle and clicks, _“Ready?”_

“Yes,” Sundew nods once, sitting upright and gripping H’chak’s arm like a cold vice or shackle. Through his thin patient's robe, H’chak feels the temperature difference penetrate his skin. He holds in a breath and steels himself as C’it-na inserts the syringe.

Sundew’s reaction to her injection is immediate; the damning screams and cries of pain are bad enough for her to nearly sock C’it-na in the head. The head nurse blocks the blow and holds one of her arms still while her other struggles to crush H’chak’s arm in her grip. H’chak rubs hands up and down her arms, purring soothingly and ignoring the growing urge to sever C’it-na’s head from his spine.

It is over quickly, though his mate pants and heaves in great pain minutes past the time of the initial injection. Sundew wraps both arms around H’chak’s torso and weep against his abdomen. He holds her until she is steady and no longer bawls. The woman eventually lets go and sits upright. She pushes herself off the table and stands on her feet, immediately throwing her arms out for balance. H’chak decides against picking her up and hauling her away like a sack of potatoes. He holds out his arm for her to grab unto when she sways, but otherwise offers no assistance. Sundew smiles gingerly.

 _“H’chak,”_ his mate is utterly _gleeful_ when she speaks. Sundew presses her palms to his chest. The sensations are _very_ distracting. “Where is your mask? I want to show you what I am capable of doing, what you have not seen before.”

The Arbitrator ignores the rising plume of heat in his gut. He puts his hands on Sundew’s shoulders and rubs circles into the thin fabric of her robes.

 _My robes. My old robes._ H’chak corrects himself, though he notes they are sure to look _perfect_ on her.

 _“I left it with Guan. I can grab it—”_ H’chak clicks, relaxing when Sundew’s heat signature hugs him. He returns the gesture, knowing it is not fully Yautja but too enamored with the Vekin to care. The woman releases him after a long moment. H’chak nuzzles the top of her head briefly before he draws back. _“Wait here?”_

“Is it alright for me to stay here a while longer, Honorable _C’it-na?”_ Sundew asks the head nurse, the latter having meandered to the other side of the room.

C’it-na chirps, fumbling with his gauntlet computer in the process. _“Sei-i, sei-i, but I won’t—I can’t keep you company. I—I need to see a patient. A real patient, that is. Not that you aren’t real, Sun-Dew, but—”_

“I understand. Do not let me keep you, Honorable _C’it-na_ ,” Sundew nods. She sounds content. H’chak purrs faintly at the thought. No sooner than the head nurse leaves does Sundew grab hold of H’chak’s arm and state, “You should hurry back.”

 _“Should I?”_ H’chak questions.

“Yes,” Sundew’s grip tightens. She pulls him close to her and sighs. “I want to do many things with you, H’chak... So many things. I want to learn and understand more about you, your clan, your body…”

The man stiffens. His blood resumes pooling in his abdomen. His musk increases in productiong and permeates the air from how wistful his mate sounds. The Yautja slowly nod. He groans and shudders when his mate kisses the scales of his torso through his robe. Sundew leaves a trail of kisses as she moves, slowly lowering herself to his groin, where his patient robe is thin enough to reveal the growing bulge of his unsheathing cock. He curses under his breath when Sundew draws back and straightens upright.

“I am a Vekin, H’chak. We are a predatory species, but we do not hunt for glory or honor. We hunt for knowledge. Knowledge of you—It is what I am after,” the woman speaks, voice becoming calm and polite once more, but teasing every inch of H’chak’s flesh with its implications. “I want to know the noises you make, the sounds you produce, the taste and touch of you in all positions—”

H’chak grabs hold of his mate and growls deeply. He ensnares her to his chest, willing his lust to calm even as the urge to rut wildly fills him. His throat rumbles; he hisses at her. _“I’ll be quick.”_

“Good,” Sundew states, exhaling softly when one of the Yautja’s hands drifts to her ass. H’chak has no shame feeling his mate’s flesh. He briefly indulges in squeezing and fondling the curve of her rear, a dozen needy thoughts leaping into his head.

She moans softly, weakly, for _him_ , when his other hand follows suit. H’chak savors every second of it, his grip tightening as he kneads the flesh. Eventually, he lets go and moves back, but not without noting his mate’s _slight_ increase in temperature. He growls with intent to claim her later when his mate pants for more of his touch. H’chak will not have her now, nor will Sundew have him. Not now, not _here_ , what happened in his patient room a day cycle prior already pushed the limits on what he considers acceptable. He wants to take her slowly, in the kind of soft passion she occasionally seeks of him, with the two tangled in pelts and her mouth ajar in ecstasy.

 _Cetanu bless me,_ H’chak thinks. Absentmindedly, he repeats, _“I’ll be quick.”_

* * *

Yeyinde is a blunt, capable woman. She is deadly enough to warrant Elder Tyioe’s approval, and Guan has zero inclination to seek out her wrath. He struggles not to feel intimidated even though the woman makes it _clear_ her questions are not to validate _current_ charges against him.

 _Hard to feel comfort when current doesn’t mean all or any…_ The former Adjutant holds his tongue as Yeyinde interrogates him.

She asks him many questions of subjects he is ashamed or paranoid to speak of without prompting. Most of the questions involve his mate, Ikthya-De, and his relationship with her. The two’s life partnership is a topic of pain wrung anew for Guan, as he recalls how close he was to cutting out the necrotic partnership and replacing it with something more substantial and sincere. He wanted to court Elder Ju’dha’s late offspring—Guan is careful not to say her name, intent not to break down weeping in front of the Adjutant—but the Gods did not approve of it.

He wonders if he hates the _Payas_ for their treatment, for how Bist’ri’s life ended. But then the questions continue, and Guan does not have enough spare time to reflect and mourn more than he already does and has.

He doesn’t hold back the truth. When Adjutant Yeyinde asks, Guan forces himself to choke out every click and chirp, trill and chirrup full of anger, bitterness, fear, or sorrow. He speaks of Ikthya-De’s actions in the two’s partnership with a degree of hesitation, but Yeyinde’s assurance she will not know of the two’s conversation is enough to encourage Guan to go on.

He goes on, both for himself and the freedom he knows he deserves, and for Bist’ri, whom he wanted to peruse a lifetime with. For the first time, Ikthya-De’s abuse is officially documented by someone other than a nurse. For the first time in months, Yeyinde shows him another Yautja has _finally_ taken notice of Ikthya-De’s disgusting actions. For the first time in a while, Guan begins feeling a sliver of hope that maybe, _maybe_ there can be a semblance of justice in the universe.

 _“She has treated you dishonorably,”_ Yeyinde says at one point, inputting rapid commands into her gauntlet. The golden-scaled Adjutant is quick to look back where Guan stands against his medical pod, leaning against it. Yeyinde clicks abruptly. _“—She is suspected of murdering multiple sirers across this clan, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, but substantial evidence has been lost when delivered to Leader Akrei-non-Daga for review. It will not happen again. He cannot rid of a witness to his progeny’s dishonor.”_

 _I wouldn’t put it past him._ Guan shuts his eyes, tense. He is grateful to wear H’chak’s mask, but he longs for his own. And for his wrist computer. He hesitates, debating whether to ask, but when Yeyinde clicks at him to _get on with it_ Guan grimaces internally and states. _“—The equipment confiscated by the oomans—It is mine, with exception to the memory chip. The chip belongs to Ikthya-De.”_

 _“Why are you in possession of your mate’s memory chip?”_ Yeyinde’s interest shows in her casual tone, a step past the professional demeanor she usually employs.

 _“My mei-hswei—M-di-H’chak—He obtained it and gave it to me. Thought it contained evidence of the very subject at hand. I implore you to review it for yourself, Adjutant Yeyinde, if I am worthy of making such a request anymore,”_ Guan bows his head. He hopes the woman feels an ounce of loyalty; the two have been acquaintances for many cycles.

 _“I will arrange for your equipment to be returned. The memory chip will be submitted and reviewed for evidence.”_ Yeyinde decides.

 _“Your generosity humbles me. You have my gratitude, Adjutant Yeyinde.”_ The former Adjutant clicks quietly.

 _“I don’t do this for you, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan,”_ Yeyinde growls before falling back into her professional persona. _“M-di-H’chak is an Arbitrator. If he has reason to suspect Ikthya-De commits acts worthy of being deemed an ic’jit it is within my authority to review these allegations.”_

 _“Ki’sei. I misunderstood.”_ Guan shuts his eyes. He is thankful all the same, no matter Yeyinde’s reasoning. _“Do you have more questions for me?”_

 _“Not a question; a request,”_ The words force Guan to look up at the taller woman. Intimidating as she is, he is too surprised by her words—a _request_ is unusual—to do more than balk. Yeyinde crosses her arms and growls, _“Tell me what transpired between you and Bist’ri.”_

* * *

It is late in the afternoon cycle by the time C’it-na finishes running pre-natal scans and labs for Elder Ju’dha. Having an older patient, especially one of their rank, would normally be a good thing, but the complicated position he is in as one of Ka’Torag-Na’s plants makes it difficult to act calm. He _knows_ his duties extend to eliminating or sowing strife among the Elders, and with Ju’dha being pregnant—with a fair chance of Akrei-non-Daga as the sirer—C’it-na acknowledges he has perfect opportunity to force the Elder to miscarry or outright kill them.

But he doesn’t. Not _yet_. Much like he spares Leitjin, he spares Ju’dha, and he conducts himself normally. He does not drag Ju’dha to a back room and leave them drugged and awaiting surgical implantation of a _Phanes_ parasitoid, nor does he heavily sedate them and dump them in a different room with adequate restraints. He treats Ju’dha, releases Ju’dha, and excuses himself in time for two different Elder to catch him in the waiting area. Any hope of checking on his ashen prisoner dissipates in favor of clicking attentively and approaching Elder H’dlak and Elder Migo. The sight of the two _together_ perplexes C’it-na. He knows neither are bearers, and thus have little reason to seek out the medical bay. To his knowledge, any substantial partnership the two dabble in on the side has yet to be declared public.

As he approaches, he observes Migo-Kujhade shift and move closer to H’dlak’s chair. The latter does not seem to notice, too busy holding their head in their hands. H’dlak is a hard Elder to gauge at first glance; C’it-na notes the patterning of dark brown with light green spots across the pelt easily gives the impression of both health and illness depending where he looks.

H’dlak, maskless, looks up when C’it-na chirps in greeting. Their golden eyes are dull and reek of exhaustion. _“Honorable… C’it-na. There you are.”_

 _“H’dlak—Let me worry about talking,”_ Behind the green-and-brown Yautja, Migo clears his throat and squints at C’it-na with his one good eye. The crimson iris locks unto C’it-na, visible as Migo too does not wear a mask. When H’dlak grunts softly, Migo turns to C’it-na and narrows his one-eyed gaze at the man. “They have gotten worse the weeks since mating season began.”

 _“They have?”_ C’it-na pauses, contemplative. _“In what ways?”_

 _“Loss of sleep. Fatigue. Nausea. Excruciating migraines,”_ Migo proceeds to recite a list of symptoms, each generic as the last. Midway through, C’it-na’s wrist computer pings and his mask displays a notification for an incoming communications line.

The head nurse excuses himself briefly and steps away to answer it, waiting until an unoccupied room is available before going inside. He is surprised to hear Ikthya-De’s voice on the other end, _“I’m giving you an opportunity. Waste it and it will be your last.”_

 _“Ikthya-De?”_ C’it-na clicks so soft it could be a mouse’s whisper. _“What is going on?”_

 _“M-di-H’dlak is a Yautja who is as keen to spread legs as they are to spread their own,”_ Ikthya-De clicks faintly. _“Akrei-non-Daga has arranged numerous matings between them and Yauja they desire.”_

 _“They desire you? Why?"_ C’it-na doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but he does. He regrets it instantly; he hears the snarl and ensuing expletives. The head nurse waits for Ikthya-De to calm before he goes on. C’it-na remains soft-spoken, _“Has… Y’know… Your sirer… H’dlak…”_

_“Akrei-non-Daga is not my father. Nor do I know or care if he rutted the Elder—”_

_“No, no, not that—”_ C’it-na protests the thought. Akrei-non-Daga is not his type, nor is H’dlak, and frankly C’it-na is too distraught over losing Bist’ri to _Guan_ to think about others. Bedding Leitjin to kidnap them was hard enough. The head nurse clicks quietly. _“…Has Akrei-non-Daga poisoned M-di-H’dlak? What am I dealing with?”_

Laughter comes from the other end.

 _“You aren’t going to heal H’dlak. S’yuit-de, C’it-na!”_ Ikthya-de scolds him like he is no more than a pup. It makes C’it-na tense and grit his teeth, but he holds his tongue. _“You have an opportunity, C’it-na. Don’t waste it.”_

The woman ends the communications line before C’it-na can clarify what _opportunity_ means. Deep down, he knows what it means. He knows, and he shudders at the thought. He calms himself after many deep breaths. He can do this. He is a descendant of the ruling Queen of Ka’Torag-na! The legacy of the Matriarch’s power is in his _thwei!_

C’it-na composes himself and steps out of the room. He returns to where Migo is once more watching over H’dlak. It is clearly more than one would with friends; the kind of concern Migo expresses is of a deep attachment to the other Elder. It will not fare well for C’it-na in the long run should he rely on Migo for anything else, but the Elder’s opinion of him doesn’t matter. What matters is justice and vengeance, wrapped in the shadows of another clan and delivered with the offering of _thwei_ upon the altar of Cetanu.

 _“I believe I can help you,”_ C’it-na chirps at H’dlak. He remains polite and cordial as he looks at Migo-Kujhade. Though his words address H’dlak, he keeps the meaning clear enough for Migo’s sake, _“I will see to you personally, Elder H’dlak. The medical division is known for diagnostics and recovery. We will hunt down what ails you as a kv’var-de does its prey.”_

The answer satisfies Elder Migo. He grunts and nods once at H’dlak as the latter follows C’it-na’s directives down the hall of the medical bay.

* * *

The subject of the blue Yautja disturbs Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, but not in the way Yeyinde expects. She anticipates anger, lots of anger, or perhaps horror, maybe a tiny bit of sorrow, but to her surprise she finds a riveting, piercing guilt. A grief deeper than a pitfall, spiraling down with every word the former Adjutant says. Yeyinde listens but she struggles to remain passive as surprise begins welling up. She does not expect Gahn’th-cte-Guan’s words to contradict what she read in the transcript of Bist’ri’s testimony. She does not expect his words to refute the blue Yautja’s claims in the trial.

It astounds her he wasn’t permitted within the council hall when the trial was ongoing. That decision and the subsequent vote points to the sentencing of Bist’ri as premeditated and malicious. It is unacceptable from any Yautja, but to see it coming from Akrei-non-Daga and the Elders is _repulsive._

It is late in the afternoon cycle by the time Yeyinde finishes her questioning. The Adjutant narrows her brown eyes at Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, her mind already made up on what to do with him.

 _“You admit to omitting information on acts of disloyalty with former head nurse Bist’ri.”_ She clicks, not a question but a statement.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan tenses. _“Sei-i.”_

_“These actions were taken with a clear state of mind? Neither of you took advantage of another?”_

_“She was the same rank as I. We were both of sound mind. She expressed equal enthusiasm.”_ Yeyinde notes how the man’s voice fills with pain. The former Adjutant remains smitten by a seemingly dead woman.

 _“I am through with my questioning. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, expect to go on trial for your dishonesty before the Elders. Until then, I am placing you into the custody of Elder Tyioe and myself. The Elites outside will escort you to private quarters, where you will remain until this investigation concludes,”_ Yeyinde clicks. _“If you choose to defy this directive, you will be sedated until the investigation finishes.”_

 _“…I’ll go with them.”_ The man’s answer comes quicker than Yeyinde expects.

She chirps at him and walks to the door. Her hand presses against the metal; the door unlocks and slides open, revealing her two Elite subordinates. The duo straightens upright.

 _“Bakuub, Z’skuy’thwei,”_ Yeyinde trills at the two. _“Do not let him out of your sight. Move him to the location pinged on your maps. I will meet you two and Elder Tyioe there after I retrieve the other.”_

As the three depart, Yeyinde activates a communications line with Elder Tyioe.

 _“News, quickly.”_ Tyioe clicks.

 _“It’s as you suspected, Elder Tyioe.”_ The Adjutant exhales softly. _“His testimony contradicts Bist’ri’s. The two don’t line up. His refutes hers and implicates both in disloyal actions. Hers puts all blame on herself but paints him innocent.”_

 _“S’yuit-de.”_ Tyioe growls into the communications line. _“Send him here—”_

_“I have done so, and I will escort M-di-H’chak to your quarters when I find him.”_

_“Ki’sei! Do not let anyone else know the progress of your investigation. It is imperative we confront Akrei-non-Daga directly about his lack of action pertaining to his daughter’s activities.”_

_“Ki’sei, Elder Tyioe.”_ Yeyinde bows her head, her fiery orange locs swaying and falling from the sharp movement. She hears the communications line cut out and turns her attention back to the empty patient room.

She grimaces and exits, then shuts and locks the door behind her. Once in the hallway, the woman breathes in deeply. She tastes the smell of ground after rainfall. It isn’t wholly appealing nor unappealing. When it doesn’t fade, Yeyinde heads in the direction it is strongest. She has an Arbitrator to question and drag back to Tyioe’s private quarters.

* * *

_“I think this will help,”_ it isn’t often C’it-na prescribes _these_ kinds of drugs outside the birthing season. The sedatives are dangerously strong, requiring careful measurement to avoid an overdose. But that is precisely what C’it-na seeks in the present: an opportunity must not be wasted. The head nurse steps back from H’dlak and watches the Yautja throw their head back and pour the drink into their gaping inner jaws.

C’it-na’s gaze darkens.

By the time H’dlak realizes the medication contains a brutal cocktail of varying drugs, including one H’dlak’s patient file notes as an _allergen_ , it is too late. The Yautja’s forest-like skin begins to swell and H’dlak gasps and groans as they clutch at their throat. Their mandibles flare and their golden eyes well up with unwanted tears. They glare when they turn and see C’it-na standing nearby, waiting with surgical instruments already prepared in ejected shelves.

Anaphylactic shock sets in before the head nurse's eyes. C'it-na keeps the doors of the room locked until the Elder's body succumbs to asphyxiation after the Yautja's throat swells shut.

C'it-na shakes his head and checks the body's pulse before grabbing a cauterization laser and beginning the dismembering process.


	72. playing dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -attempted murder / strangulation / neck injuries  
> -medical procedures   
> -imprisonment and kidnapping  
> -talks of pregnancy and infertility  
> -talks of execution  
> -discussion of rape

FLORA hears GHOST complain about _everything_ over the sun. In the past hours, the remnant of consciousness makes herself known in long, fluid analysis of the present. Unfolding circumstances and how to handle them are GHOST’s specialty, or so the expired Vekin claims, but FLORA does not take kindly to unwanted suggestions. She ignores the Vekin fragment until GHOST returns to the recesses of her mind, but a complicated string of electrical charges and connections.

H’chak left to find his brother and get his mask hours ago. FLORA’s mind fixates on the thought and the possibilities within it. She hopes he did not get lost, though it seems unlikely given this is _his_ clan. She hopes he did not grow bored of her, though she knows she is far from a Yautja bearer. She hopes, she hopes, and she hopes some more, until she finally allows Jo and Ivon to take her by the arm and drag her from the room where she has sat patiently up till then. The two take her to the room of Elite Gry’sui-bpe-de, sit her down in a chair, and chat calmly with one another as if things are not substantially bizarre.

 _Where is H’chak? Where has my H’chak gone?_ The woman’s shoulders slumps as she stares at the ceiling light fixtures. The light hurts, but it is nothing she cannot handle, not when she is truly a Vekin. FLORA’s clear gaze fills in and shifts to an opaque hue of graying-white sclera and rounded red pupils. She sees Ivon do a double take but ignores them when they blurt out, “Did—Sundew? Your… Eyes…”

FLORA ignores GHOST’s suggestion of consuming the human whole. Ivon is her _friend_ , not prey, even if they possess a disgustingly appealing amount of fresh information.

“Where are your manners?” Jo hisses at the human, poking Ivon’s arm. “It’s not nice to ask about a lady’s appearance, Ivon! God!”

“Oh—Right, sorry, Sundew,” Ivon rubs the back of their head. They have pretty, soft-looking blond hair, but it needs to be combed and tamed.

“I wanted to show my H’chak how I… can… do this,” FLORA utters softly, shaking her head before leaning against the metal wall.

From the patient table, Gry’sui-bpe-de sits upright and growls at the trio. _“Keep it down. Some of us are in pain.”_

“Why would an honorable warrior admit to pain?” Jo asks, both with a challenge in her tone and genuine curiosity.

 _“A smart warrior knows when pain is present. It is a sign we are injured, in body or spirit.”_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de begins into the start of what should be a fresh source of knowledge, a delicious fountain of information flowing freely. Yet as the Elite captures both Jo’s and Ivon’s attention, FLORA finds she cannot stand to hang around a second longer.

She needs to find her H’chak. Her gut nags at her to look for him. She believes his apologies before about his infidelity were genuine. She trusts him not to repeat the incident. She trusts he will not frolic in the bedchamber with other Yautja without her knowledge. She trusts him, and she hopes he trusts her.

FLORA does not understand why H’chak would skip a possible interlude of intimacy. While not the comfiest, FLORA recalls how thick the scent of _n’dui-se,_ mating musk, was at the time. It was one of the only things she could think about when she reobtained her sense of smell upon regenerating one hundred percent of her critical mass. She had wanted to lay bare and take him for hours at the time, but her desire to demonstrate her own natural abilities and skills overrode the lust.

 _Why did he not come back? It is not like him. It is not…_ FLORA’s thought trails off. She purses her lips and changes the transparency to reveal faux networks of nerves, layers of tissue, fat, and muscle behind the flesh.

GHOST offers to provide input on the situation. FLORA shuts her down before the thoughts get out of hand. Since the serum injections only hours earlier, the activity of different fragmented consciousness’ increases. She feels and senses bits of the past, whether it is in the _old_ Elder Yautja who despises her and her kind, or the familiar and comforting presence of Annie or Muppet. Her serum injections even prompt Miranda Escrow to resume bitching, but the deceased Stargazer admin quiets whenever another inhabitant of her system tells her to shut up. FLORA appreciates the older Louanne fragment for that reason. Louanne Garcia as an adult is a well-rounded individual, minus the aggravating xenophobia lingering under her surface.

She wishes Louanne had been a well-rounded individual _before_ she had to consume the woman.

“I am going to look for H’chak,” FLORA informs the others before rising and walking to the door. She presses a palm to it, only to blink slowly and stare when it does not open. The Vekin turns around, her thin white hair dancing from the movement. She purses her semi-translucent lips. “The clan is attempting to lock us in here.”

 _“Why would they do that?”_ Gry’Sui clicks with irritation, but FLORA recognizes confusion in each click.

“Ivon. Jo. I suggest you remain here. I do not know why H’chak has yet to return, nor why _Gahn’tha-cte_ seeks to contain us. But I will determine the answer and return here. Do not wander or attempt to escape.” FLORA is quick to make her move. She shoots controlled electrical charges into the door, activating the appropriate mechanisms to trigger the unlocking sequence. The Vekin ignores Jo’s protests before slipping out of the door.

“Be careful!” Jo half-shouts when FLORA triggers the door to shut between the two.

The Vekin tilts her head to one side. “I am always careful.”

* * *

It isn’t difficult to locate a nurse for directions. FLORA finds the red-pelted lady who previously helped Gry’Sui-bpe-de, Roja, and takes her aside. Roja grunts but complies. FLORA wrings her wrists and glances up and down the corridor as she speaks, “Is the head nurse available?”

 _“He’s tending to Elder H’dlak. Don’t interrupt him, Im-Gen._ ” Roja pauses, then grunts and cusses under her breath. _“That was… uncalled for. I must remember to use your name. Sun-Dew. Sun-Dew.”_

“I am Sundew,” the Vekin confirms, nodding once. FLORA watches Roja tap something into her wrist computer. She waits patiently.

 _“—He’ll meet you by the lift when he’s done with his duties for the evening.”_ The nurse clicks briskly. _“He may be a while…”_

“How long?” FLORA wonders aloud.

She doesn’t expect an answer, but to the Vekin’s surprise, Roja chirps at her. _“—An hour’s cycle, perhaps… Two? I can’t say. Our patients deserve only the best we can offer them.”_

“Thank you, Roja.” The Vekin smiles politely.

* * *

The olive green Yautja _smells_ strange when he finally meets FLORA at the lift. She smiles politely at him and nods. “Thank you for meeting me, Honorable C’it-na.”

 _“Well. You are—You are my friend, so…”_ the head nurse shrugs and glances away. His face is obfuscated by his mask, but he remains tense.

She wonders why.

 _“What did,”_ C’it-na clicks, pauses, then clicks again. _“What did you need me for? Sun-Dew.”_

“I am looking for my mate. I expected him hours ago, but he has not returned to me.” FLORA frowns. She briefly contemplates sending out electrical charges to better understand the medical bay’s technology, layout, and Yautja present in the vicinity, but the woman refrains.

 _They will learn the truth._ GHOST warns her inside her head. _They will turn our species into cattle to rear and hunt._

 _I will not let that happen. Trust me._ FLORA thinks back, shushing the fragment of consciousness in her head. She alters the pigmentation of her cells until her eyes are clear, mimicking her status as a Synthetic or Im-Gen. She does not notice C’it-na reacting. The Vekin calms, satisfied he has not noticed her tiny tricks. She resumes smiling at him. “Do you know where H’chak is? I am worried about him, C’it-na.”

 _“H’chak… M-di-H’chak, right?”_ The head nurse taps his mask. He gestures at the spacecraft’s primary lift, beckoning FLORA to follow him when he walks unto it. _“I believe he’s meeting someone in residential. That—It’s the resident area of the ship. The, uh,”_ C’it-na clears his throat and trills loudly. _“The area you live in. We live in, rather. You don’t live here.”_

“—Not yet.” FLORA remarks quickly, feeling a younger Louanne’s presence cheering her in her head.

 _You will never have a place among us!_ The hoarse, harsh clicks in her head indicate an old Yautja’s presence. She is displeased by his appearance, too occupied with finding H’chak to afford extra worries or concerns, but the Elder Yautja ignores her entirely and falls quiet upon finishing his initial statement. The only thing giving him away is the burning hate welling up in the back of FLORA’s mind. It is a just and rightful hate; she knows it is, even if she cannot identify why or identify _him_.

FLORA and C’it-na make small talk as the lift rises to the residential floor. He is strange today. FLORA does not recall him being so on edge, yet the wariness the man expresses indicates a degree of caution to not only her but _everyone_ around the two. She retains her calm, eased persona as she trails C’it-na.

In her head, both the teenage and adult fragments of Louanne voice concern.

 _Are you the predator or the prey, FLORA?_ GHOST intones.

 _I am Vekin._ FLORA thinks in response. _Vekin are many things._

The head nurse and FLORA walk side-by-side, the same awkward small talk between them, until C’it-na exhales, chirps, and gestures at a locked door on the right. He taps a command into his computer and trills happily when the door begins unlocking. C’it-na’s mask angles to face FLORA. _“Here we are. These are my quarters—”_

“Is H’chak in your quarters?” FLORA blinks.

C’it-na shuffles stiffly where he stands. The door to his quarters slides open. He gestures for her to step inside. When she hesitates, the man laughs nervously, _“Sei-I, sei-I, why would I take you somewhere he is not?”_

 _This is a trap. You cannot trust him._ GHOST’s voice is somber.

 _Muppet! You’ll get hurt if you go in there! I know you will!_ A teenage Louanne pleads with the Vekin in her head.

FLORA dismisses the concerns. She inhales deeply. “You would not lie to me. C’it-na. We are friends.”

 _“We are friends. I swear it on my honor.”_ The head nurse nods.

Her clear eyes narrow briefly. She forces her complexion to return to what it was: calm, restrained, subdued. There has always been a reason behind her lack of vigor or passion. Manipulating the perceptions of others is key to ensnaring prey or slipping out of the flytrap. She is not a _drosera,_ but she might as well be a sundew in the way she approaches _her_ prey. The head nurse must believe she is the prey, and he the predator, or else she may be overpowered not by raw strength alone but by the weapons she _knows_ he carries.

FLORA smiles politely at C’it-na. She bows her head and steps inside the residence.

* * *

It looks like H’chak’s quarters. There is nothing different about it at first glance, but when C’it-na excuses himself and walks off down the hall leading to his bedchamber, FLORA gets a chance to look around. She quickly realizes the head nurse possesses no trophies aside from a single Xenomorph hand, likely attributed to the individual’s _chiva_. There is no other evidence of C’it-na’s Hunts. FLORA wonders, briefly, if it is the man’s excuse for his bullshit.

 _Alleged bullshit._ FLORA reminds herself quickly. _What proof exists beyond suspicions? Beyond his lie?_

Clearly, H’chak is _not_ present. FLORA isn’t sure why C’it-na so readily lied to her. She glances back at the door, locked but not incapable of opening. She knows how to manipulate the inner workings of the door through careful bursts of electricity. She can emulate the strength of a stronger individual enough to force the hunk of metal open; straining or tearing a muscle is a worthwhile trade for escaping possible danger.

 _You know this is a trap. How is it alleged?_ GHOST chides her way of thinking.

FLORA ignores the Vekin fragment. She continues to ponder possible explanations. She cannot tell if it is because she is concerned for C’it-na’s wellbeing, or if it is because she possesses the same morbid curiosity _some_ Vekin consider innate. Her species _is_ known to throw themselves into the flames in pursuit of new knowledge. Perhaps her willingness to walk into the head nurse’s trap reflects her hunger for the unknown.

 _It is an innate lust for information. We are creatures of innate greed, FLORA._ GHOST’s words irk the Vekin.

She grits her teeth, briefly distracted from the world around her as her mind snaps back at her former hive member. _I do not agree with your assessment of our kind._

 _Why else would I imprison you? Test your limits? You and the others do not understand, we cannot stop the pull of knowledge. We will tear each other apart to satiate the cruel hunger._ The other Vekin’s voice is disgustingly calm.

FLORA’s fists clench tightly. _If that were true—Why did you let Arnold Escrow live? Why did you not kill him the day you met in the mountains?_

 _I saw something in humanity._ GHOST sounds far away now, but a whisper inside the Vekin’s head. _I saw infinite knowledge in their grasp. I knew our hive would eradicate humanity from existence in our greed to consume it all._

 _But you held yourself back._ FLORA feels the anger roiling inside her. She begins to seethe. _You claim we are incapable of controlling ourselves! You did the very thing you swore was impossible, the thing you damned me over!_

 _I did not intend to have you._ The other Vekin whispers softly into FLORA’s ear. _I did not think the hive would send a member of our old Cluster._

“No on sent me. I chose to go. I left our hive because of _Cassini!”_ FLORA yells at no one. _“No one asked me to find you!_ No one wanted you saved! They knew something was wrong with what you put on the _Cassini-Hyugens!_ The Hive knew it was a trap! And I…” Her clear eyes cannot dim, but she feels them glaze over and water. Her shoulders slump.

 _I chose to believe you. I chose to swear off our hive’s directive and… bring you back to us._ She feels herself shudder and tremble from chills not previously known. The Vekin shuts her eyes. _I wonder if I am the fool. I believed in you._

She remembers why she went to Earth.

She remembers everything now.

It fills her with a grief as deep as it is narrow. She feels the intensity spike her body in a dozen seamless places. Her flesh is like heavy rock; she cannot muster the strength to lift her head when she hears the rev of a plasma _something_ in the background. She knows it is a trap, that C’it-na is not her friend, that so, so many things are _wrong_ , but the Vekin of many names—FLORA, S, Synthetic, Sundew—can’t look up. Perhaps she deserves it.

She could not save GHOST from her twisted perspective. She could not save Muppet or Annie from her twisted actions. She could not save Vayuh’ta from being captured. She knows she cannot save H’chak from what awaits his trial. She cannot _save_. Vekin do not save. Vekin consume, and Vekin grow, and Vekin adapt, and Vekin _learn to_ _survive_.

She wants to survive.

* * *

“What are you doing?” The Im-Gen speaks softly, with a fear confirmed by the scent picked up in the head nurse’s olfactory receptors. He dislikes the taste, but he ignores it. He aims the _taun’dcha_ and lets out a shaky breath.

 _“What I need to.”_ C’it-na clicks in response.

Sundew’s clear gaze feels detached. It is easier to think of her as what she is: an inferior species, hapless in the might of Yautja technology and prowess, but despite the overwhelming knowledge that he _must_ kill her, part of him continues to scream out that she is his friend. Just like with Leitjin, he cannot go through executing the Im-Gen. Just like with Leitjin, the plant of Ka’Torag-Na hesitates. Just like with Leitjin, C’it-na is reminded he is a failure: incapable of accomplishing the basic of what his bearer, _pa-e,_ the Queen of Ka’Torag-Na, asks of him.

 _For those who were stolen from us. Stolen from those who lurk in the darkness!_ C’it-na reminds himself.

He opens fire. The shot of plasma rockets forward, but it crashes into a hover chair in the common area while C’it-na balks. He sees the flash of silver and shoots again, again, again, but his own hesitation throws off his aim. He feels a force _smack_ into his chest as the dainty figure of an Im-Gen tackles him to the floor. His vestments thump faintly; he howls in surprise, and adrenaline takes over. The two roll a moment before C’it-na grabs the squirming, writhing Im-Gen’s wrists and pins her to the floor beneath him.

He has never seen her glare, yet the daggers she gives him are utterly _hateful_ , mixed in with a tumultuous degree of sorrow. C’it-na’s green eyes narrow behind his mask. He pins her arms with his knees and moves his hands to her throat. Sundew’s gaze narrows. “We were friends!”

 _“We were.”_ C’it-na grits his teeth. His eyes water but he squeezes her throat until the struggling stops and the woman’s body goes limp beneath him.

The Yautja snaps her neck. He rises to his feet and exhales, his mind a mile a minute. There is so much left to be done, what with the Phanes about to mature and the cover-up of Elder H’dlak’s untimely final rest. He has a web of alibis to spin and weave, both for himself and for Elder Migo, all on top of his own preparations for when the clan who lurks in the darkness strikes down Gahn’tha-cte once and for all. It will not be long before he returns to his true clan, to his actual home, and when that time comes, C’it-na prays his bearer looks upon him in favor and showers him with praise.

* * *

_Nine-eight percent critical mass remaining._ GHOST informs her.

 _I know._ FLORA thinks back. _Be still now._

* * *

Her body is moved to another room. She hears someone begin howling in anger, cussing and cursing in great clicks and chirrups before the individual quiets down and begins to bawl. They sound familiar, but it is too soon to respond. The Vekin lays lifelessly on the ground, noticeable bruises swelling over the broken bones and injured flesh.

* * *

GHOST keeps her updated on the system’s stability. _Nine-three percent critical mass remaining. You will need to use two-three percent re-establishing nervous connections and constructing a new, whole spine._

 _Not yet._ FLORA informs her old hive mate. _Not yet. Give it time._

* * *

_Seven-four percent critical mass remaining. You are wasting it keeping this physical composition from decaying._ The other Vekin is not pleased with her lack of action.

FLORA ignores her.

* * *

A time ago, FLORA counted the minutes and hours and days between feedings during her time at Stargazer Corporation. She assessed the situation, created a timetable, and logged the time between feedings to keep track of the months lost to her imprisonment. In her head, FLORA counts once more, but it is not to escape a corporation. She counts to ensure enough time passes. Slowly, with assistance from _some_ fragments of consciousness lingering in her mental space, FLORA counts out two hours.

She hears no more weeping or bawling, nor any footsteps from outside the room she is in. The Vekin mentally steels herself. _Now._

She hears a sharp intake of breath from the side. The surprise on the Yautja increases tenfold and joins confusion and shock when FLORA repairs the damage done to her physical composition’s spine and reattaches nerve endings. It is not a cheap process; she notes her critical mass levels drop to four-nine percent.

Remembering how to move her physical composition takes a moment. FLORA’s clear eyes blink and stare at a blurry ceiling panel before her vision clears and she pushes herself upright. Her neck remains sore, but the fact sensation returns to her is a good sign. The damage is not permanent; she has reversed what would kill a human. And, as she holds her head in her hands and breathes slowly, she finally comes face to face with who is presumably her fellow prisoner: Leitjin.

FLORA’s eyes blink slowly. She sees Leitjin’s gobsmacked expression, evident as the nurse is without a mask. Leitjin shares in Gry’sui-bpe-de’s black eyes. They are pretty, but not as pretty as the Jupiter eyes of her dear H’chak.

 _H’chak._ FLORA winces internally. She needs to find him and warn him about C’it-na. She needs to get Jo and Ivon out of the medical bay. She needs to do many things, and everything she needs to do is increasingly difficult when C’it-na is bound to be present on that level of the ship.

 _“Cetanu did not take you.”_ Leitjin’s whisper-like clicks draw FLORA from her thoughts.

She tilts her head to one side, thin white hair falling in a mess to frame her face. _“M-di.”_

 _“He broke your neck. Why didn’t it kill you? Because… Because… You’re an Image? ‘Cause…”_ Leitjin begins to ramble, shock taking over but ending with a sudden, _“You were—You were dead! Gone! Then ya… You… I…”_

FLORA reminds herself Leitjin does not understand English. Her knowledge of the Gahn’tha-cte dialect of the primary Yautja language is vast, but she does not possess the anatomical pieces necessary to replicate the noises. She is grossly limited in what phrases she can say. The woman frowns and looks around the room, wondering if a mask can be found.

It disturbs her to see how thoroughly restrained Leitjin is. Her friend is ensnared in pulsating manacles which weld into the wall. There is no visible exit in the room, but FLORA knows any electric machinery within the walls can be tampered with. She holds off on trying to unlock the door, instead choosing to crawl to Leitjin and kneel near where their manacles meet the wall. Their poor friend looks exhausted. FLORA wonders what they have gone through at C’it-na’s hands.

Leitjin’s mandibles tremble with each passing second as the latter’s eyes wetten and they begin to cry softly.

The sight makes FLORA pause. She frowns and puts a hand on their shoulder. Her own clicks are ragged, but she chokes out the word for, _“Trust.”_

 _“I didn’t think,”_ the Yautja mumbles and sobs. _“Anyone would… They’d miss me… he said… No one’d miss me or… Or… remember…”_

FLORA begins picking at the manacles while Leitjin weeps again. She decides not to comment on the tears, knowing the Yautja’s mental state must be agony for them to throw away their pride and cry so openly in front of an Im-Gen. Her mind focuses on the manacles. She cannot break them by force. The Vekin begins shooting tiny charges of electricity into the walls of the room, seeking to activate any mechanisms in hopes one of them frees Leitjin from their imprisonment.

She finds, to her horror, there are several drawers full of surgical instruments within the room. It is not a bedchamber, but something closer to a closet, maybe even a trophy room, only it is packed with drugs and medical tools. FLORA grabs several lancets. She tests one out, expecting something beyond a simple blade. To her delight, the lancet has a prominent plasma-heated edge.

She turns to Leitjin, who looks at her with wide eyes and begins squirming as she walks back to them. _“M-di, m-di, m-di! Please! Don’t hurt me!”_

 _“Trust,”_ FLORA repeats the Yautja click for the word.

She kneels next to Leitjin’s shackled wrists, where they are forced painfully behind the Yautja’s back, and turns on the lancet. Leitjin begins to tremble and shudder. FLORA says nothing onward as she begins to cut through the manacles. It is a slow process; the Vekin must wait for metal to heat up and become soft enough to cut through. Her own proximity to the heat _hurts_ , but she holds her tongue and the choked sobs of pain.

 _Critical mass is dropping, FLORA._ GHOST warns her.

 _I know,_ FLORA thinks in response. _But I am not leaving my friend._

* * *

Things are boring for the ic’jit in the cell.

Vayuh’ta doesn’t try to break out. While escape _is_ a great way to kill time, she knows it is a death sentence. She has no equipment, no armor, _nothing_ , and this clan possesses all of that _and_ Ivon. To act in a way that brings Ivon harm is _despicable_ and Vayuh’ta can never condone that for herself. She knows that—for _their_ safety—pretending to be a subservient prisoner is the best option moving forward. Not in the long run, but she doesn’t know if she will be around in the long run to second guess her past actions.

No, what she needs is an opportunity. She hopes to find one once Ka’Torag-Na gets off their ass and sends someone to drag her kicking and screaming back to the clan. They will eventually, because she is _their_ ic’jit and the clan does not want anyone else to have the honor of killing her. The transfer of custody from Gahn’tha-cte to Ka’Torag-Na is the only opportunity the woman sees in the short run. She knows the chances of escape remain low, and the risk extraordinarily high, but perhaps the surprise of her escape attempt will be enough of an edge to get the upper hand over fully armed guards from both sides.

 _What a load of cjit._ The woman scorns and chides herself on the eighth day since her internment at Gahn’tha-cte. The huntress sits in her cell and stretches, gritting her teeth whenever her sore muscles yell at her. She cannot get adequate exercise in the containment chamber, and her body has begun to revolt against her for it. Another sign of the hopelessness of the future, even if Vayuh’ta wants to condemn her nihilism.

She passes the time not by overthinking her own grievous future, but by watching what goes on outside the cell. It is the reason why she winds up fascinated at the two prisoners who join her over the eight days since her initial imprisonment. The two are from the very expedition team that brought her to Gahn’tha-cte, the scents recognizable as one of the engineers and the other a Yautja Vayuh’ta considers too melodramatic to want around. She doesn’t remember the names of either, but the guards repeat the names enough times over several day cycles for her to learn the engineer is Kwei-Bezas, and the nurse with a penchant for strife is Bistri. 

Usually, Vayuh’ta wouldn’t care to talk to either, but the presence of the goody two shoes nurse perplexes her. She can see Kwei-Bezas being prisoner in their own clan; the ‘legendary mechanic’ or whatever _bullcjit_ the engineer claims to be doesn’t make up for their damn silver tongue. Kwei-Bezas proves this in the number of times they get into verbal, quip-filled exchanges with their guards.

No, what really _fascinates_ Vayuh’ta is the nurse. Bist’ri. Vayuh’ta knows she was formerly the Adjutant nurse in Gahn’tha-cte. Whatever happened must be bad, as even the guards regard the former Adjutant coldly. Vayuh’ta doesn’t understand it, but her curiosity is piqued. She wants to know, and she intends to find out.

She has an opportunity during the evening cycle of the eighth day since her official imprisonment. A round of guards heads off early before the next shift can arrive to take over. Vayuh’ta sits upright, ignores the ache of her never-ending heat—which would be comical under any other circumstances—and scoots to her cell’s bars. She doesn’t dare touch them, knowing the metal is electrified and unbearably hot, but the huntress stares through them at the Yautja in the cell across hers until the latter notices.

 _“Stop.”_ The former nurse clicks once, more withdrawn than Vayuh’ta expects.

The _ic’jit_ grunts. _“Nice to see you, too. Or is it, ‘fancy meeting you here’ in Gahn’tha-cte? Expressions don’t carry well across species.”_

 _“They don’t.”_ Bist’ri looks away.

Vayuh’ta suddenly realizes the woman has shorter locs. She draws her mandibles tightly together. _“What did you do…?”_

 _“—Not your business.”_ Bist’ri snaps.

Vayuh’ta clicks together in soft laughter. She cocks a hairless brow and grunts. _“—These are holding cells for Yautja preparing to meet the final rest. To be in here, you went and pauked up. Might as well ‘fess up to it before you meet the Black Hunter.”_

 _“How would you know that?”_ The former nurse’s bewilderment amuses Vayuh’ta.

 _“Not my first time in one of these.”_ The huntress crosses her arms.

 _“How the fa-uck did’ja get outta that? You got a clue the kinda security a Yautja holdin’ cell got?”_ From the cell adjacent Vayuh’ta’s own on the right comes the voice of Kwei-Bezas. They are in a better mood, if the use of ooman _fa-uck_ means anything.

Vayuh’ta clicks her mandibles together. _“I was a Lou-dte Kale in my clan.”_

 _“Lou-dte kale…? Ya know that’s, like, a degrading term here, yea?”_ Kwei-Bezas yaps away.

The huntress huffs loudly. _“Perhaps that is the way of your clan, but in Ka’Torag-na it is a title of great honor. A sacred role reserved for individuals who cross the line of hunter and huntress.”_

 _“We don’t classify our clan members that way. Not here. Yautja are bearers or sirers, save for the rare exception of individuals born with traits of none or both. A clan member here may be as they wish: man, woman, or other.”_ Bist’ri clicks. Her heat signature stiffens when Vayuh’ta resumes laughing. _“What is it?”_

 _“Gahn’tha-cte is… fascinating. That is all,”_ Vayuh’ta shakes her head. Her orange gaze returns to Bist’ri’s heat signature and she squints. _“You’re adept at deflecting, nurse. My question remains. What did you do?”_

 _“I gave you an answer. It isn’t your business.”_ Bist’ri’s clicks are more defensive, sharper and more aggravated.

Vayuh’ta clicks, sweet and melodic in comparison, _“Are you an ic’jit, nurse? Are you even a nurse anymore?”_

 _Ah._ Vayuh’ta thinks when she gets no answer. She watches Bist’ri’s heat signature move to the corner of her containment chamber, where the nurse— _former_ nurse—sits back and avoids looking her way.

 _“We are ic’jit now. A clan doesn’t execute honorable Yautja.”_ Vayuh’ta intones. She hears Kwei-Bezas protest from their cell, but the ic’jit ignores them. The former nurse fascinates her more than the engineer. _“Do you know why I have no honor in my clan’s eyes? Bist’ri.”_

 _“M-di.”_ The former nurse clicks once.

 _“The current matriarch of Ka’Torag-Na murdered a huntress mid-labor. She and the pup met the final rest,”_ the memories of that day almost three-five cycles past continues to haunt Vayuh’ta. Her hands tense into fists. _“—I was blamed for their deaths.”_

 _“A lot of murderers think they are innocent.”_ Bist’ri growls. Her heat signature slumps against a wall of her cell.

Vayuh’ta does not miss the tiny movement. She clicks melodically, something closer to a songbird than the rough sounds of Gahn’tha-cte’s clan dialect. _“—A mar’cte. You’re a mar’cte? You brought someone the final rest?”_

The former nurse freezes. _“I…”_

 _“There’s no way,”_ Kwei-Bezas interjects from their cell. _“You were the Adjutant nurse! Always yapping ‘bout the importance of health n’ life n’ cjit!”_

 _The Adjutant nurse..._ Once more, Vayuh’ta is reminded of the title the Yautja across her once held. To lose it is a great insult to pride, but that alone does not explain the loss of the other Yautja’s locs. Bist’ri’s hair has been cut crudely near the base.

 _“What else did you do, ic’jit?”_ Vayuh’ta breathes aloud.

 _“Probs somethin’ with the other Adjutant. Former Adjutant, my bad.”_ Kwei-Bezas clicks from the side, provoking a hiss from Bist’ri’s containment chamber. The Yautja pauses before adding on. _“What? It’s true, ain’t it? Guards been talkin’ of it incessantly when you sleep, Bist. I dunno how much I believe.”_

“What are they saying she did?” Vayuh’ta indulges in conversation with Bezas since Bist’ri refuses to answer any questions.

Kwei-Bezas is quick to supply, _“They claim she ‘fessed to raping the other Adjutant. Forcing him into a relationship. Abusing him. Real nasty cjit—”_

 _“Did you?”_ Vayuh’ta asks the former nurse directly. When she doesn’t get a response, the ic’jit stands and snarls. _“Don’t give me this cjit! Answer me! Least you can do after I saved your ass on the Echinos!”_

 _“It doesn’t matter anymore.”_ Bist’ri clicks quietly.

 _“It does,”_ Vayuh’ta howls. _“If you are truly an ic’jit of that nature, I will find a way to break these walls and rip out your th’syra myself!”_

The former nurse draws her knees up to her chest. She sits with her arms wrapped around her. The pose is unusual for a Yautja. It implies vulnerability. It conveys _fear._ Vayuh’ta tastes the fear when she breathes in. It quells some of the anger, replaced with a just smugness to know someone as foul as a rapist fears her. Yautja who stoop to such levels _should_ fear her. She does not care the gender; she will _gladly_ bring the final rest to anyone who participates in the dishonorable acts.

 _“I did those things. I am guilty.”_ Bist’ri’s mumbling confession is not convincing. It doesn’t _need_ to be anything more than what it is, an admission to the dishonor, but something strikes the clicks as odd.

Vayuh’ta pauses. Her anger dissipates for the time being. _“I really will take your th’syra. Not worthy of keeping as a trophy. Not worthy of a title or name.”_

 _“You’re Vayuh’ta. Correct?”_ The former nurse looks up, heat signature angled her direction.

Vayuh’ta snarls _. “Keep my name out of your mouth, ic’jit!”_

_“Even if its about Ivon?”_

The question invokes a wave of nausea and rage inside the huntress’ gut. She howls in fury and screeches at Bist’ri, furious the woman dares to speak Ivon’s name. _“Watch yourself, ic’jit!”_

 _“Ivon’s in the medical bay,”_ Bist’ri speaks anyways, talking over Vayuh’ta’s hisses. _“They had a translator chip implanted into their body, and the engineers want to run experiments on their brain, but they’re otherwise safe. The other ooman is with them.”_

It isn’t a threat but simple, blunt statements. Facts Vayuh’ta desperately clings to. She stares wide-eyed at Bist’ri’s heat signature.

_“You may not be aware of it, but you are Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s and M-di-H’chak’s half-sibling. We thought you might be the late Setg’in-bpide’s and Akrei-non-Daga’s pup.”_

_“Cetanu.”_ Vayuh’ta growls out, exasperated. _“Who dumps information like that on someone?!”_

Bist’ri turns away. She clicks over her shoulder, _“I thought a Yautja bound for the final rest should know who they are. That the ones they care about are—"_

 _“It doesn’t matter to ic’jit like you!”_ Vayuh’ta fumes, more furious and baffled than surprised. _“You are the lowest of the low! You have no reason to care!”_

 _“You’re Guan’s sister! Why wouldn’t I care?!”_ The former nurse finally _snaps_ , her roar loud enough to make Vayuh’ta’s head _ring_.

The containment cells and the corridor flanked by them fill with a deep, disconcerting silence. Minutes pass where neither Yautja speak.

 _“…Why’d you use his nickname…?”_ Kwei-Bezas trills, the first to break the ice.

Vayuh’ta blinks. She did not catch it initially, but it dawns on her the former nurse did use her half-sibling’s nickname. That, and the woman’s recent statements, confuse and confound her. She clicks at Bist’ri, _“You should answer them.”_

 _“M-di.”_ Bist’ri hisses.

Kwei-Bezas clicks, _“C’mon, Bist’ri, ya know we’re all gonna meet the final rest soon enough. Yah? Yeah?”_

Vayuh’ta does not understand why Kwei-Bezas rattles on with their questions and inquiries. In her eyes, someone as foul as the former nurse does not deserve recognition or sympathy, kindness or compassion, or even the right to honorable combat. Not anymore.

But it doesn’t add up. Something is missing from the picture. What should be so easy to accept is a struggle Vayuh’ta does not know how to handle. The former nurse confesses to her crimes; it should be enough to dismiss her entirely and carry on the boring waiting game until Ka’Torag-Na drags her back.

 _But why tell me those things?_ Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes narrow. _Why give me the luxury of knowing whether Ivon’s okay? Guilt? Pity? Obligations? Regret? What are you playing at, ic’jit? Guilt is no excuse for your dishonor!_

It is then something strange catches her eye, drawn to the former nurse’s heat signature _again_. Bist’ri does not produce _n’dui-se,_ leaving the containment area filled with the musk of Vayuh’ta and Kwei-Bezas. The absence would not be notable if she did not think of the reasons _why_. The answer is found in the other woman’s heat signature, where her legs are once more drawn to her chest. There is enough room and variation in the heat signature for Vayuh’ta to know the rough area of the woman’s lower torso.

The huntress’ eyes widen in realization. Her mandibles pull tightly over her inner jaws.

 _“They don’t know—”_ Vayuh’ta begins with a start, leaping to her feet. _“They don’t know—Where is your clan’s leader?! He needs to be told! This execution cannot be carried out while you’re in this state!”_

 _“What state?”_ Kwei-Bezas clicks lazily.

 _“You don’t know,”_ Vayuh’ta ignores the Yautja adjacent her cell and speaks directly to Bist’ri. Already, her instincts of a _Lou-dte Kale_ kick in. She narrows her eyes. _“You don’t know, or you haven’t told anyone. Which is it?”_

 _“Impossible,”_ the former nurse begins, picking up on the underlying meaning.

 _“Someone tell me what we are talking about.”_ Kwei-Bezas clicks.

Vayuh’ta snaps at Bezas, _“Shut up! Bist’ri,”_ the huntress stares at the woman’s heat signature. _“You are carrying pups—"_

 _“S’yuit-de! I am not,”_ Bist’ri cuts her off. _“I can’t be. Guan said—He can’t sire pups!”_

 _“Then who’s the sire? Gotta contact them. If you meet the final rest, then… Then… Then they’ll have to rear them. In your place.”_ Kwei-Bezas sounds like they shuffle around their cell. Bist’ri does not answer them.

The former nurse has gone very quiet. Vayuh’ta watches her heat signature closely. She considers pointing out how the latter has exited heat but determines the former nurse can reach her own conclusion on that matter. Vayuh’ta exhales softly. She ignores her own disgust for the ic’jit and tries a less heated approach, _“Who is the sire?”_

 _“I’m not with pups,”_ Bist’ri repeats, but she sounds less sure of herself this time. _“I can’t—I can’t. I’m not.”_

 _“Why not?”_ Vayuh’ta clicks a little more softly.

 _“Guan was my only partner,”_ Bist’ri shrinks where she sits. The confession startles Vayuh’ta.

_“Hey, c’mon, ya’re already gonna go belly up, as they say on Terra! No shame admitting ya slept with someone else since then—”_

_“I only wanted him!”_ Bist’ri snaps at Bezas before stilling and covering her mandibles with both hands.

 _“Uh-huh. Well. That’s… quite a statement, Bist’ri,”_ Kwei-Bezas clicks politely. _“Ya don’t mind then if we tell the guards and ask them to pass the news—"_

 _“You can’t do that.”_ Bist’ri snaps her head back up. She sounds worried.

Vayuh’ta grimaces. So much is unfolding but so many questions remain. It gives her a headache, and she knows the evening cycle is far from over.

“Why not?” Vayuh’ta eventually asks. She squints at the other Yautja’s heat signature.

 _“Because—Because.”_ Bist’ri repeats the words.

 _“It’ll get back to Guan. He’ll try and do something, cause the man’s a s’yuit-de and ya know that. He tried to jump unto a flaming spacecraft to get ya!”_ Kwei-Bezas chimes in. _“I don’t think you’re being truthful to us here. I question if ya’re truthful before. Dishonesty is dishonorable, as they say.”_

“Kwei-Bezas. You are more familiar with her than I,” Vayuh’ta remarks, clicking briskly. “I am willing to extend a… degree of trust to you. Since we are bound for the final rest,” she growls faintly before chirping again. “What is going on? She is with pups, I know that, even if she refuses to admit it—”

“Why can’t you leave the topic alone?!” Bist’ri hisses softly. “Leave it alone—Leave me alone! Please! Please. I don’t,” the woman shudders. “I don’t want him to get hurt. Not more than he already is—"

 _“I am a Lou-dte Kale, Bist’ri. The gods blessed me with the sacred duty of protecting bearers carrying pups. I am trained to notice them early, perhaps earlier than the methods your clan uses,”_ Vayuh’ta clicks bluntly. “ _You cannot be executed while carrying pups. One way or another, this information will spread to the sire—”_

 _“Daga will have him lashed for disloyalty! His body cannot tolerate the injuries! He can’t be given serum…”_ The former nurse begins to ramble, clicks melding into the background as she stops speaking to sob into her arms.

 _“Oh! Oh, I get it, yeah! She’s doing it to protect him,”_ Kwei-Bezas erupts into a string of chirrups. _“Gahn’tha-cte has charges of disloyalty for unfaithful, paired Yautja! Guan is one of the few paired Yautja in the clan—”_

 _“—You made him out to be your victim, not your partner,”_ Vayuh’ta exhales, then begins cussing incessantly. She doesn’t stop until her throat is raw from her ranting. The woman sits in her cell and stares at Bist’ri’ still form. _“Cetanu help me, what made you think this was a good idea? You meeting the final rest is worse than—"_

 _“I’ll meet the final rest anyways,”_ Bist’ri clicks softly.

Vayuh’ta pauses. She remembers earlier. _“You are truly… a mar’cte? Murderer?”_

_“Sei-i.”_

_“Does he know?”_ Vayuh’ta asks, not needing to use names.

 _“M-di. I didn’t tell him before… all this. I understand I am an ic’jit without honor, but—I—I cannot stand to face him as one. I cannot stand the thought of his disgust. Let him hate me for this,”_ Bist’ri returns to hiding her face in her hands. _“I can’t—I can’t be carrying his pups. That will—He… The gods can’t be that cruel—"_

* * *

_“Gods have been crueler.”_ _The ic’jit looks to the side._

Elder Tyioe lifts a hand and motions for Yeyinde to kill the feed of the containment area and the cells. The Yautja leans back in her seat and grits her teeth. She crosses her arms. _“Tell the guards to return to their posts.”_

 _“Ki’sei!”_ Yeyinde bows her head. Tyioe nods approvingly as her Adjutant straightens upright. At the door to the private quarters, the Adjutant’s wrist computer pings. Yeyinde pauses and looks back. _“Elder Tyioe—”_

 _“Speak.”_ Tyioe grunts.

_“What are we to do about Ikthya-De? Her father just contacted me asking for her release from the interrogation room.”_

_“—Tell him I want to meet him at the interrogation room,”_ Tyioe growls. _“I have questions for both of them.”_


	73. fallen from honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sad chapter. The final stretch of drosera’s final arc is full of things going wrong. Trying to stay on top of updating this story because it is SO close to being done. Unsure if it will all fit into the 80 chapter lengths I'm going for but I'll do my best! 
> 
> The section with Bist’ri features a flashback involving the time she spent being trafficked. That section covers a lot of dark things like trafficking, degradation and the alien equivalent of dehumanization, implied torture, heavily implied past assault and rape, self-deprecation, suicidal ideation, self-blaming, imprisonment, implied forced pregnancies / past pregnancies, infertility, loss of offspring, current (not forced) pregnancy, dissociation, trouble perceiving past from present reality

On the eighth day of the expedition team’s return, at the cusp of the evening cycle passing into the early morning of day nine, those who lurk in the darkness begin the annihilation of Clan Gahn’tha-cte.

* * *

_“The test is positive.”_

_She exhales slowly, the relief of success pouring out like water from a splintered dam. Though the huntress is a woman of fire, full of vigor, life, honor, and embodying strength, she is just as susceptible to the tiny whispers of fear as any other hunter. She carries the weight of failure on her back; it is almost as damning to her as the title of Arbitrator. But just as she surpassed the role of Arbitrator and regained her honor, she has finally achieved what she wants so desperately, and she is_

_Yeyinde does not cry in front of the nurse, a tall woman with brown locs but a pelt of the night sky. Guan-Tjau’ke is kind enough not to mention Yeyinde’s break in composure. The head nurse clicks calmly. “Do you want the news shared with others? Should I mark this as private on your patient file?”_

_“Private, sei-i.” Yeyinde puts a hand on her belly. She struggles not to shake or throw her head back and roar with vigor, torn between a somber sense of shock and sheer jubilance at the outcome. Her brown eyes soften as she imagines what the pups will be like. Nothing short of perfect, her pups._

_Hers._

* * *

Clad in white body armor befitting the Adjutant, the golden Yautja known as Yeyinde follows behind Elder Tyioe with her head up and resolve seething behind her mask. She shares her Elder’s fuming rage, but like Elder Kwei-Tyioe, Adjutant Yeyinde is careful not to show it. Her composure remains intact. She flanks the Elder as the two ride the main lift to the ship’s lower levels.

The destination is the containment area. The stretch of corridor is flanked on either side by cells built to contain Blooded _kv’var-de_ and denounced _ic’jit_ , with the latter existing only to hold the _ic’jit_ until execution or transfer. At the end is the interrogation room: a soundproof chamber with fluctuating internal pressure and white noise. It is rarely used, yet it holds a running streak of brute efficiency without straying into overt physical harm. A suspected clan member is _still_ a clan member just as a Yautja is still a Yautja; until one is deemed _ic’jit_ they cannot be grievously maimed but increased intracranial pressure and light hyperacusis may be applied during interrogation.

Not now.

She follows Elder Tyioe into the interrogation room, where the two figures of Gahn’tha-cte’s leader and his pup wait idly, with Akrei-non-Daga’s ivory form standing while his daughter sits in a hover chair with her legs crossed and head cocked to one side. The two are a strange pair. It is clear _thwei_ does not link their lives, but the duo does not demonstrate a familial affinity or kinship with another to any degree beyond it. Adjutant Yeyinde has never seen Akrei-non-Daga offer a sliver of sympathy or compassion. While some may argue a sire has no place to govern and rear pups, Yeyinde cannot help but question why Leader Daga treats Ikthya-De so coldly when she is meant to be his daughter.

 _Meant to be, but not. A title without substance to back it up._ Yeyinde reminds herself, her brown eyes narrowing on the two. She flips through different optical filters as she trails Elder Tyioe to designated seats.

There are no guards inside, having already been dismissed by Kwei-Tyioe on the way in. Ikthya-De is unarmed. Should things escalate, Yeyinde has no doubt she and Kwei-Tyioe can defeat the woman together.

 _“Elder Tyioe,”_ Daga clicks in greeting, a stiff nod of acknowledgement. He extends his hands palm-out to Tyioe. _“I trust you possess an… explanation?”_

Ikthya-De’s face is covered by her mask, but for a moment Yeyinde swears she smells the adrenaline begin pumping through the woman’s veins. She tenses instinctively and shifts her weight from one side to another.

 _“Your pup is a traitor, honorable leader,”_ Tyioe hisses and chirps.

Ikthya-De begins to laugh softly, her chittering causing Yeyinde to stiffen. The disrespect is _heinous_.

 _“I have proof.”_ The words make Akrei-non-Daga pause. Elder Tyioe holds a hand to Yeyinde; the Adjutant quickly taps a command into her wrist gauntlet. The hidden compartment inside ejects and Yeyinde hands over Ikthya-De’s memory chip.

Ikthya-De does not emit fear, but the woman stills.

Yeyinde returns her wrist gauntlet to normal. She cracks her neck and straightens upright.

Elder Tyioe growls at the clan leader. _“Take a seat.”_

 _“You do not give me orders, Elder Tyioe,”_ Daga intones, but he sits. _“Make this quick. Ka’Torag-Na has decided to send a representative to oversee M-di-H’chak’s trial. They are expected to arrive at any time.”_

* * *

The ship _Pteros_ docks at the clanship. From within, the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na rises from the pilot seat and waits for the okay to disembark.

The equally armor-clad figure in a passenger’s seat, a young Yautja with smooth teal scales and yellow eyes hidden behind the vantablack suit, lifts his head and peers at the Shadow. The man says nothing, but he takes the hint and rises. His steps are silent as he trails his mentor, a shadow of a Shadow seeking praise.

 _“There are two among them you cannot harm.”_ His mentor intones.

 _“The poison of Ka’Torag-Na and the one who aids her,”_ Tarei answers. His bright yellow eyes narrow. _“The fallen of Ka’Torag-Na will be avenged.”_

 _“Restrain yourself. You are not here to massacre them. Leave that to the Phanes.”_ The Shadow clicks melodically, a song in their voice.

 _“Can a single entity defeat that many Yautja?”_ Tarei’aguja pauses, contemplative.

“My _halkreath,_ ” the Shadow whispers. “ _When you look at a mountain, do you attempt to move it on your own?”_

 _“M-di. That is foolish.”_ The hunter answers.

 _“Phanes will not wipe out Gahn’tha-cte on its own. It is a mole… It will dig enough tunnels in the bodies it slays for the mountain to collapse on itself. The rest… falls upon those who lurk in the darkness with us,”_ the Yautja’s voice is somber. _“Our duty is to ensure Akrei-non-Daga does not meet the final rest here.”_

 _“Why?”_ Tarei pauses, the hunter sincerely curious.

The Shadow faces forward. _“Clan Gahn’tha-cte is not Akrei-non-Daga’s executioner.”_

* * *

_“We were made aware of the possibility of a Ka’Torag-Na plant by the trial of Kwei-Bezas,”_ Tyioe clicks curtly, no hesitation in her voice. She maintains a strong presence, demanding the full attention of _everyone_ in the room. _“Kwei-Bezas… admitted to aiding a Ka’Torag-Na plant during the recovery mission led by then-Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

 _“They did,”_ Daga confirms.

iTyioe lists off the details of Yeyinde’s work, going over how Yeyinde spoke with multiple Yautja on Ikthya-De’s behavior, the samples brought back by the recovery team, and the reports filed and submitted by the then-Adjutant Bist’ri. Daga nods along to her trills and chirrups, never interrupting or flinching as more and more evidence is unearthed. _“—Your daughter has a record of strange incidences within the clan—"_

 _“I would not be his pup if I did not.”_ Ikthya-De clicks abruptly.

Elder Tyioe glares. _“Cease speaking out of line or you will lose your tongue today.”_

Ikthya-De shuts up.

Akrei-non-Daga crosses his arms where he sits. His mask hides his face as he begins, _“The ic’jit Bist’ri… Is she not more likely to be the plant? The sins she confessed to are… damning.”_

 _“M-di!”_ Elder Tyioe snaps. _“She was under duress! Under duress from another party! Why would the head of a division throw away rank and respect like that? If she committed such acts and felt remorse to tell, would she not have committed honorable suicide given the same damn outcome?”_

 _“Let us say, hypothetically, Elder Tyioe, you are correct,”_ Daga looks around the room, scanning the other Yautja but returning his gaze to Tyioe. _“Perhaps the ic’jit was under… duress. It does not change what she confessed to.”_

 _“Circumstances like that call for independent investigation!”_ The Elder doesn’t back down from her words. She grows in volume as she growls and _roars_ at the clan leader. _“—You did not order a neutral party to oversee her trial! You did not collect adequate testimony nor investigate the possibility of such! What have you done, Daga? Besides sit on a chair and overlook the rest of us?”_

 _“The evidence was substantial. If she did not confess, I would have played it for you.”_ Daga is calm, never flinching or emitting fear even as the tension in the room _stews_.

 _“What evidence?”_ Tyioe demands.

 _“A recording of Bist’ri committing the act,”_ Daga clicks. _“Murdering her twin, Tarei-Jehdin.”_

 _“Where did you obtain this video?”_ The Elder tenses and drops her hands back to her sides.

 _“…If I may, honorable Elder Kwei-Tyioe,” there_ is nothing honorable about Ikthya-De when she interjects. At Tyioe’s growl, the woman goes on. _“—I supplied the recording to him. Honorable Leader Daga was not privy to this information until then. Do not put blame on a man who is innocent.”_

 _“Tell me,_ ” Tyioe snarls. _“Tell me where you found this recording, Ikthya-De-th’Syra.”_

 _“I didn’t find it. I had someone else find it for me. I imagine that is what this is about, sei-i? My correspondences with Kwei-Bezas?”_ The huntress chirps.

Yeyinde tenses again. She debates activating her _dah’kte_ and drawing her combistick with her free hand, but the Adjutant refrains. Pulling weapons on a Yautja, even if she holds rank over Ikthya-De, will escalate the situation past a line she does not wish to cross unless necessary.

Tyioe growls again, deeper this time. The woman stalks forward, seizes Ikthya-De by the collar of her mesh bodysuit, and hauls her up until only the tips of her feet touch the ground. The Elder snaps, _“You confess to manipulating your influence as the clan leader’s pup and using an ic’jit for your own personal gain?”_

 _“What would I have to gain from it?”_ Ikthya-De muses aloud. _“Why would I want the ic’jit Bist’ri dead? She has never done anything to me…”_

 _“Elder Tyioe—Put my daughter down!”_ Akrei-non-Daga _roars_ at the woman. Kwei-Tyioe roars back but releases Ikthya-De. The Elder’s hands ball into tight fists as she seethes where she stands.

If not for Ikthya-De clearing her throat and soaking up the attention, Tyioe might have thrown fists at the clan leader. Instead, she snaps her head at Ikthya-De, the latter of which returns to lounging in her hover chair with a languid posture. _“—You are correct that I used Kwei-Bezas to obtain the video. They were all too willing to help after I pretended to offer a pardon for their crimes. S’yuit-de. I would never free them, much less ask my sire to excuse them of their dishonor. I am… not a kind woman, Elder Kwei-Tyioe, Adjutant Yeyinde. I hold my grudges close to heart.”_

The two huntresses quiet. Yeyinde remains on edge while Tyioe waits to hear Ikthya-De’s spiel out before she decides to arrest the woman.

 _“As you know, Bist’ri confessed to terrible things with my life partner. Perhaps you hold doubts of her crimes now, but regardless of whether she forced him to mate or not,_ ” Ikthya-De sits up in her seat. _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan swore himself to me in a sacred partnership for as long as either of us live. He kept himself loyal all this time… but the moment Bist’ri entered the picture, he abandoned our oaths to one another and let the woman bed him. Bist’ri insulted my honor a lifetime over by stealing him from me. I won’t tolerate others taking what is mine—"_

 _“A Yautja is not property, Ikthya-De-th’Syra.”_ Adjutant Yeyinde clicks from the side, disgusted.

 _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan belongs to me!”_ The woman replies _immediately_ , irate.

 _“What video did you give Leader Akrei-non-Daga?”_ Elder Tyioe narrows her eyes on the huntress.

Ikthya-De hisses, her calm façade cracked from the comments about the former Adjutant. _“—You want to see it?”_

 _“If it is proof of the ic’jit’s crimes—I must see it with my own eyes.”_ Tyioe snaps.

 _“Very well. Daga,”_ Ikthya-De nods at the man. _“Show Elder Kwei-Tyioe the truth.”_

* * *

A soft ping sounds from the man’s wrist computer. The tall, lumbering Elder pauses in his steps. He stands off to the side in the main docking bay, pulled out of his uneasy stupor when he realizes he receives a message from the clan leader. Elder Migo’s one good eye squints into his mask. He taps the command to bring up the details; his mandibles draw taut across his inner jaws when he realizes what the leader asks of him.

 _How inconvenient._ The Elder thinks, glancing at the side where the feared _Pteros_ landed moments ago.

 _“You there—Nok Nok, is it?”_ Migo-Kujhade has a rough voice, heavy with the weight of his worry for his lover’s wellbeing; H’dlak has yet to return from the medical bay or respond to his messages.

The engineer lifts her head from where she stands filling a canister with a glowing blue liquid. The Yautja pauses, her maskless face calm but blank. Her green eyes are a sheer contrast to the rest of her coloration, with the engineer donning a heavy mesh suit over her bumpy blue scales. Her vivid red locs are twisted three ways down the back, mimicking a series of braids made up of smaller braids.

 _“Sei-i. I am Nok Nok.”_ The former huntress answers plainly, without inflection. _“You are Elder Migo-Kujhade.”_

The dark gray Yautja tenses. He squints at her with his one red eye, unable to discern or remember if the engineer was always this blunt or if this is a true display of disrespect. He glances at her legs, suddenly recalling her in greater detail when he identifies the two prosthetic limbs beginning just below the hips. She is frequently apathetic, with little care for what occurs beyond her, or so he recalls of her. Whether she is truly void of warmth or simply possessing a different view of the world and her fellow Yautja is beyond Migo.

What he knows is that she is a trustworthy individual. She is one of the few from the recovery team not to be reprimanded or disciplined in any way upon returning to Clan Gahn’tha-cte. Her track record is flawless.

 _“Escort the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na to the containment chambers. Let them see the ic’jit in the flesh,”_ Migo clicks. _“Clan Gahn’tha-cte offers her as a token of peace. This is a sensitive matter we take seriously.”_

The engineer bows her head and begins walking in the direction of the _Pteros_.

Migo-Kujhade grimaces as he turns back to his task at hand. He reflects on the message Akrei-non-Daga sent him once more, before turning and heading for the exit of the docking bay. The _why_ is not a question for him to ask; if Daga wants the Elder to bring a group of armed Elite guards to the interrogation chamber, he will find the best available and see to it Daga’s expectations are met.

* * *

_Ic’jit._ Spoken like a whisper in her head, the voice of her dead twin repeats. _Ic’jit._

 _What do I do now?_ The once honorable woman holds her head in her hands, unable to think of anything in the overwhelming reality falling out of the sky around her.

 _Why are the Gods so cruel?_ She asks herself.

If, somehow, she is pregnant again, carrying pups to a man she cannot face—

If, somehow, the woman survives long enough to give birth—

 _They will be the offspring of an ic’jit. An ic’jit. Will Guan be able to rear them in my place? Will he even want them? Will they be discarded when no one looks? He wouldn’t do that. He is… He is… He is…_ For a time, her mind loops, lost in the agonizing thoughts of what if’s and when’s and everything fearful in-between. The _ic’jit_ weeps into her hands, unable to hold back her tears once more. Her mandibles press into her palms, but she doesn’t care, not even when one punctures her smooth blue pelt and _thwei_ begins seeping out.

Bist’ri sobs.

Part of her hopes Guan never hears about her. Part of her hopes he believes she is dead, gone, deceased, among the Black Hunter’s pack. If he thinks she is dead, then he does not have to deal with the grief of losing her again should he receive news she is alive for the sole purpose of carrying pups to fruition. She cannot fathom how he might react, both to the news she weeps over and to the truth pouring out of her in great, heaving waves of guilt.

If he learns she has not yet been executed, if Gahn’tha-cte-Guan does not yet know she is an _ic’jit_ without honor, Bist’ri fully believes the man will throw dishonor upon himself and try to break her out by force. 

_Please, don’t. Not for me, Guan._ She holds herself tighter, knees drawn up to her chest in the corner of her cell. _Forget about me. Forget me. Please. Please. Let me go. Forget I exist. Forget… Please…_

The agony of _he looks so handsome caked in starlight, the galaxies reflected upon his armor where he stands in the cockpit of the Kukulkan_ takes over. Her mind dissociates, lost to the echoes of a long-dead man and the cruelty suffered before she took his life. She zones out of her surroundings; spatial awareness slips and fades into the fog enclosing in on her. The woman begins to choke for air. She gasps and clutches her neck, unable to inhale what her body needs to survive. Her mind blanks and the world flashes different colors until she is back where she was one-six-zero cycles past.

Her eyes snap open and she sees herself in the confines of _that_ ship once again.

It is the end of the suffering, but there is no peace. There is no justice. There is nothing but the terrified whimpers and crying of many Yautja. Men, woman, individuals of all genders, they are found in the same state: barely clothed, in _tiny_ cells, with thick explosive collars hanging from each Yautja’s neck. They are scrawny and weak. The ones lucky enough to stop resisting after the first _why are the Gods so cruel_ retain their eyesight and tongue. The unlucky ones are husks nearing death, as the captors do nothing but feed the ones favored by patrons.

She and Tarei are favored.

She fights back the bile in her throat at the memories stirred by the flashback world around her. The woman is two-six cycles again, eight since her _chiva_ , eight since _the Gods are not fair_ , eight, eight, _eight,_ and she is but a pitiful shell of who she once was. The confidence she carried herself with through her training years and her _chiva_ is gone, stripped by _the Gods have forsaken us_ after what she saw _please help me_ do to Huso.

The captors, several _ic’jit_ she never knew names of, favor her as much as customers do. Sometimes they do unspeakable things to her, like _I dream of sweet marigold blossoms_ and _I dream of a world full of light_.

She cooperates to keep Tarei alive. To keep Tarei alive. To keep Tarei alive.

He’s alive. He’s with her. They are all the other has, two twins lost to grievous suffering forced upon by dishonorable _ic’jit_. There is no Clan Gahn’tha-cte _She cooperates to keep Tarei alive_ coming to save either of them. She doesn’t try to fight her captors. Tarei is punished in her place, beaten and flogged until his back is as green as the eyes she carries. She stops resisting.

Tarei-Jehdin is alive and with her.

_Tarei’s dead._

_You killed him._

She reaches for her brother, desperate to cling to the one shred of hope let in the bottomless pit. She throws her arms around him, recalling all the times she berated him, spat on him, treated him with disgrace, thought of him as lesser _before she killed him. She killed him. She took the light from his eyes and fed him to Cetanu._

Tarei-Jehdin is dead.

Tarei-Jehdin is dead.

She clings to a corpse, to herself, to nothing.

Tarei-Jehdin is dead when it should be _her._

The two of them are together in the shared cell, both as weak as the other. There is nothing kind about her brother anymore. He is dead but he is alive _._ He is a man of hate and spite and the pain of existence.

She does not call herself a survivor because she is not. She did not survive. She barely lives.

Tarei-Jehdin is dead and _everything_ is her fault.

 _“I’m not interested in renting.”_ The voice of a Yautja from long ago sounds in her aural channels. She looks up where a group of patrons, guards, and one of the _ic’jit_ hosts behind her imprisonment speak to a strangely familiar Yautja. The voice carries on as her green eyes widen. _“I want to buy.”_

_The cargo hold is silent. Bist’ri stares at the dark, obsidian-esque pelt of the potential buyer. To be bought is a sentence of the final rest; no one returns from wherever a buyer takes them. Occasionally, one of the ic’jit captors informs the prisoners of the Yautja’s fate. The nightmares of the last tale spun by the slim ic’jit continue to haunt her memories._

_She tries to shrink into the back of her cell, as does Tarei and every other Yautja chained like ill-behaved cattle. She tries to hide part of Tarei behind her, but the man pushes her away with a violent glare. His eyes are dark. He has not looked upon her with any degree of familiarity since… A long time. A long time._

_She misses her brother. She misses who he was. She misses Huso. She misses herself._

_The gods are cruel. They have forsaken her. The Yautja buyer stops in front of her and Tarei’s confinement. She cries silently, pleading to be spared, begging the woman to look elsewhere for someone to turn into a toy or prey, but the woman remains standing at the cell. A mask hides the piercing eyes she imagines the buyer to have._

_Maybe the woman will kill them both quickly. A fast death into the embrace of Cetanu is better than what the two’s captors claim happens to most Yautja after being sold. Bist’ri knows from experience; she and Tarei have passed through many hands in a short time, cycled in and out of different spatial territories during the first eternity of horror._

_She wishes the captors slaughtered her instead of Huso._

_“These two…” the Yautja buyer trails off, affording only a tiny hand gesture at the twins before calling over her shoulder. “How much?”_

_“Oh, the twins! Ah, yes, they are popular among our patrons! A bold proposition! Mere credits do not appease our loss in revenue,” The host explains. Some of the other patrons talk among each other while the host takes the Yautja buyer to the side and speaks directly with her. “But I could arrange something if the offer is right. It won’t be cheap, especially with the breeding season but a moon’s worth away. I already have several offers on the right to breed either.”_

_“I don’t offer unless I want it. These two,” the voice is there again, deeply familiar and resonating with Bist’ri in a way her mind no longer knows. “I want. I will offer ten percent above your highest. Credits are not… important. I want these two, today.”_

_“Twenty percent.”_

_“Fifteen.” The woman negotiates a price while the two twins are forced from the shared cell and made to stand before the guards, patrons, and host._

_To Bist’ri’s surprise—and visible relief—neither she nor Tarei are made to strip so the woman can examine them. The collars on the two’s necks are unlocked. The relief Bist’ri feels when the collars are wrenched from the two’s necks is enough to make her eyes water. She does not know if she yearns to cry in momentary relief or sob in fear at what the future holds._

_When the price is decided upon, she and Tarei and manacled by the ankle to one another and made to march from the cargo hold to a much nicer, well lit room. There Bist’ri and Tarei are seen to by attendants who separate them with a warning not to resist._

_The duo are then bathed, given fresh clothes, and fed before being shackled back together. They are taken directly to the woman’s ship: a large spacecraft ironically tiny in comparison to her and Tarei’s pervious captors ship. Tarei says nothing but begins trembling when armed guards force both prisoners into the buyer’s ship. The two are shoved into a tiny cargo hold, no more than twenty by twenty in dimensions. A small light is turned on and the two are left alone for the first time in what feels like centuries._

_“We’re going to die,” Tarei breaks in the silence, a mess of a man long before the present._

_She snaps her head up and stares at him. Her green eyes are wide, mandibles weakly twitching while the woman scrambles to think of something to say, do, be—Nothing. She has nothing to offer him when she is lost in her own exhaustion. The two have survived for so long. The two have suffered for so long. The two have lived where others perished. Over. And. Over. And. Over._

Then she is in the cell again. The real cell. The reminder of her failures as a Yautja, as a nurse, as a mother, as all she once aspired to be. The _ic’jit_ ’s eyes are dull when she stares up at the heat signatures of multiple Yautja. She breathes in and smells several she knows, yet no names come to mind.

 _“A panic attack and… a flashback. Nothing more. She’ll recover. Ignore her if she does this again.”_ C’it-na’s voice is… strange. Not comforting. Not kind. Not like him.

 _Not kind._ Her eyes water. _Not like Guan. Guan. Guan._

She misses Guan. Her entire body aches in unfulfilled need to be close to him, to seek out comfort in the arms of someone she _knows_ she can trust.

She does not deserve him or his affection. She does not deserve his warmth. She does not deserve to have his eyes soften on her when the two are together in a room. She is not worthy of carrying the pups of a man infinitely kind and considerate. She isn’t worth anything close to what he deserves. But she still wants him. She shuts her eyes and imagines the calmness he invokes, and the _safety_. She feels so safe with him. She feels so _protected_.

But that is conditional, rooted in the fact he does not know she is an _ic’jit._ Now he will know. He will know, and he will despise her, and he will despise the fact a disgusting _ui’stbe_ without honor carries his pups. He will resent any pups she births. He will hate her for forcing him into this situation. He will hate her for other things, too, like how she went out of her way to make sure he couldn’t intervene while she threw herself to Cetanu at trial. He will hate her. He must.

Hating her is easier than mourning her.

She doesn’t focus on C’it-na’s words as the latter rattles off something about her “condition” and then leaves. One of the individuals present—identified through the musk she emits, a woman named Nok Nok—is from the expedition team sent to retrieve M-di-H’chak, but Bist’ri doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. There is no point. Nok Nok is honorable, and she is nothing.

But the other two confuse her. She can’t make heads or tails of who the individual next to the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na is. She smells something familiar about him, like she should know _him_ , but with his body covered in armor and her without a bio-mask, Bist’ri slinks deeper into the corner of her containment chamber. The two heat signatures of Ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow and accomplice stand outside her cell and talk in soft, hushed tones.

All she catches is the Shadow clicking faintly to their companion, _“…she has fallen from honor.”_

 _“Don’t remind her,”_ Vayuh’ta’s crude, blunt voice cuts into the moment. _“She is with pups, Dto. The woman is stressed enough with this cjit.”_

 _Dto?_ The term doesn’t ring any bells with Bist’ri aside from the literal translation of _forest_ or _woods_.

 _“She is an… ic’jit…? Yet… With pups?”_ When Vayuh’ta clicks affirmatively, the Shadow’s heat signature turns back to Bist’ri. _“Cetanu does not look favorably upon you.”_

* * *

When the video ends, there is a cloud of melancholy hanging over the room. Kwei-Tyioe is without words, because nothing describes what she witnesses in the recording with enough shock.

 _Guan-Tjau’ke… You don’t know your former Adjutant as you once did._ The Elder exhales. She doesn’t like being wrong.

 _“You see, Elder Kwei-Tyioe,”_ Ikthya-De clicks and trills melodically. _“—She is guilty of the things she confessed to. If you want to peruse this further—Yes, I am guilty of using Kwei-Bezas to access the late, Honorable Elder Sa’ud’s database. I won’t deny it. But that is the end of my involvement with Bist’ri. She committed the dishonorable act herself, and now it has come out into the light—"_

 _“M-di,”_ Yeyinde breathes from the side. The Adjutant speaks out of line, but Tyioe is too solemn to reprimand her. Her Adjutant steps forward and gestures at Tyioe’s wrist gauntlet, where the woman’s private computer is synced with Ikthya-De’s memory chip. _“Elder Kwei-Tyioe—Something is wrong with this picture.”_

 _“And what would that be, Adjutant Yeyinde?”_ Ikthya-de sits upright and cracks her neck. She angles her mask to face Yeyinde.

The Adjutant hesitates. Elder Tyioe clicks once, _“Speak._ ”

 _“It does not account for the fact Bist’ri is not the Ka’Torag-Na plant. My investigation began because Kwei-Bezas levied accusations against Ikthya-De. She just admitted to using them to collect evidence,”_ Yeyinde tenses where she stands. The atmosphere in the room shifts from somber to strained as she goes on. _“—Who are we to say she is not manipulating us to have Bist’ri killed?”_

 _“She would be executed anyways.”_ Ikthya-De reminds the woman, growling softly at the end before reverting to her calm, collected persona. _“She is an ic’jit.”_

 _“That is a false statement. We no longer have proof of her guilt.”_ Yeyinde challenges the claim.

Ikthya-De throws her head back and begins laughing. Tyioe stills and Akrei-non-Daga remains silent where he sits. It takes a moment for Umbra Skull to cease her chortles and focus once more. Ikthya-De gestures vaguely at Yeyinde. _“The recording is there, Adjutant Yeyinde. Forgive my outburst but you are no more than a bat if you cannot see the truth in front of you. Should we have Elder Kwei-Tyioe replay it for you, or are you wise enough to admit to your mistakes?”_

 _“—M-di!”_ Yeyinde’s _dah’kte_ extends. Daga freezes and Tyioe exhales sharply. The Adjutant points the extended blades of her gauntlet directly at Ikthya-De. She snarls. _“I worked under Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin for two-zero cycles before asking to move to Elder Kwei-Tyioe’s division of labor! You think us s’yuit-de? Fools? Oblivious? That I cannot recognize a doctored video when I see one?”_

 _“Excuse me?”_ Ikthya-De snaps in response, composure wavering. She sits upright and hisses. _“I would never give my sirer a doctored video feed—”_

Ikthya-De’s protests grow louder. Tyioe’s mind spins as she pieces together what her Adjutant implies. Her eyes narrow and she roars for the two bickering huntresses to _cease_ speaking.

 _“—Before Adjutant Yeyinde served under me, she was fourth in command to Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin and assisted in surveillance and reconnaissance of enemy clans and hunting quarry! If she says this video is altered, I trust her judgement! Akrei-non-Daga—”_ Elder Tyioe turns to the clan leader and points. _“Your pup submitted falsified evidence in the trial of then-Honorable Bist’ri! We cannot move forward with the conviction until a new trial takes place! Call for ka’rik’na, now!”_

Her words are a means to see whether Akrei-non-Daga is truly corrupt. For as much as she _feels_ it, Kwei-Tyioe cannot act on the feeling alone. Part of her hopes Daga refuses, if only to confirm the suspicions of his guilt. To her surprise, the man stands up, turns to Ikthya-De, and snaps, _“You disappoint me. An honorable woman may be suffering… because of your lies! You will face the Elders for this!”_

Ikthya-De balks and snarls. She holds her hands up but slips away to a corner of the room when Yeyinde moves to grab her. She hisses at the Adjutant, _“She killed him! She strangled her own brother! S’yuit-de! S’yuit-de!”_

 _“We will see it soon enough. All of it,”_ Kwei-Tyioe narrows her eyes on the woman. _“For your involvement in that cjit of a trial, you are hereby charged with tampering of evidence. Adjutant Yeyinde—Put her in one of the containment cells; we will see her in the council hall when her trial comes!”_

* * *

A silent notification alerts Akrei-non-Daga to Migo-Kujhade’s location. He inhales silently while Yeyinde grabs and restrains Ikthya-De.

 _Timing is critical, Daga._ The man reminds himself. He shuts his yellow eyes and imagines a great canyon stretched out before him. The tribulations he has faced over the years to stay alive reach up like gaping maws and spindly hands from the valley below. The clan leader imagines himself on the other side: alive, intact, whole.

He wants to live at any cost. Even if he _must_ silence an Elder. 

With no honor left to lose and his life on the line, the clan leader makes the first blow sealing Gahn’tha-cte’s fate.

He draws his Elder blade and brings it down with a gleam of veritanium metal.

Elder Kwei-Tyioe stills, her eyes glazing over in shock. Yeyinde snaps her head up and freezes in time to witness the Elder's head fall from her body and hit the ground.


	74. a traitor walks among us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -reflections and discussion about false accusations / rape  
> -physical abuse / torture (once ikthya-de shows up in the first section is where it begins)  
> -nonconsensual touching 
> 
> Slowly moving toward the end of the story.  
> H'chak's trial is coming up, either next chapter or the chapter after that depending on pacing.

It all happens so quickly.

His brother is with him in Elder Kwei-Tyioe’s quarters, where the two have been instructed to wait for her and Adjutant Yeyinde’s return. In the early morning hours of the ninth day since returning to the clan, the man snaps his head up at the sound of a commotion outside. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan registers, faintly, the scents of multiple _n’dui-se_ blurring together.

Among them is the smell of Akrei-non-Daga. It alerts Guan. He forces his body to stir and stumbles to his feet while yelling for his brother, _“H’chak!”_

The door to the private quarters slams open. A dozen Elite Yautja file in, to the surprise and shock of the hunters in the room.

 _“By Cetanu, what is going on?”_ H’chak roars in confusion just before weapons are drawn and the clan leader comes marching in.

Akrei-non-Daga dons a bio-mask, his face hidden by the curved metal alloy, but there is an undeniable smugness to which he carries himself as he walks into the common area and gestures at the guards, _“I trust the two of you will not resist?”_

Guan’s orange eyes simmer with hate behind his mask. He looks around at the guards, each fully donned in armor and wielding a variety of melee weapons. There are too many to feign having a chance to fend them off. Fuming, he lifts his hands into the air, but his gaze never leaves Daga. _“Where is Elder Tyioe? Adjutant Yeyinde—”_

“They are the reason we are here.” Leader Daga clicks quickly, gesturing at the two twins. “The two of you are hereby… charged with collusion M-di-H’chak, you will be taken into clan custody pending trial within the hour. Take him away.”

To Guan’s relief, and H’chak’s irritation, the latter opts not to resist or fight back when four Elites charge him and wrestle him into cuffs. H’chak glares at each of the Yautja, not offering more than a soft hiss and sullen expletives under breath before he is marched out of the quarters. Guan does not see where the guards take his brother, only that he is marched somewhere to the left. When the sound of footsteps fade, Akrei-non-Daga chirps at Guan and walks over to the man. He stops in front of the shorter individual, leering like a great cat cornering a mouse.

Guan feels like the mouse: tiny and small. Not fast enough or strong enough to knock the man from his pedestal. How quickly his opinion of Daga has shifted; prior to the Terra expedition and recovery mission, Guan would have defended Akrei-non-Daga to the final rest. He cannot fathom uttering a word in defense of the traitor.

The hate simmers between the two Yautja. Guan grits his teeth and tenses his four mandibles. _“And? Do you plan to drag me to the cells and dump me there?”_

 _“Contrary—I understand you have been recovering from injuries without the aid of… ah, what does your patient file say? The serum?”_ Daga’s mandibles chitter behind his mask. He clicks slowly, methodically, dragging the humiliating scene out while his guards remain tense and ready to strike should Guan attempt to fight back.

He glares, but does not resist. _“Sei-i.”_

 _“You are injured. I will not allow an injured man to... stand trial.”_ Daga chirps and rolls his shoulders. He straightens upright, tall and dignified, before the man gestures from one guard to Guan. The guard grabs hold of Guan’s wrists and wrenches them behind the man’s back, a pair of veritanium cuffs locking his arms in place and leaving him seething with a nigh-controlled rage. To cage a Yautja is an insulting thing, especially if no dishonor has befallen the individual.

The guard who cuffed him stands back and trills at the clan leader. _“Honorable Clan Leader! He is ready to be moved.”_

 _“Walk with me, my former Adjutant, walk and listen to what I have to say,”_ the leader orders before all the Yautja begin filing out.

Guan is forced to walk behind the clan leader, flanked by Elites who occasionally click cordially at him to stop dawdling and get a move on. Some of the Yautja he knows, as many have come to him in the past for assistance resolving personal and professional problems alike. Some he is not so close to, but he recognizes all the less. Though the guards are not overtly harsh to him, it is evidence they do not hold much sympathy. He cannot fathom how Daga has seized the loyalty of each Yautja to the point of seeming no return; something terrible _must_ have taken place after Adjutant Yeyinde and Elder Kwei-Tyioe left to confront the leader.

 _“A lot is set to change in Gahn’tha-cte,”_ Akrei-non-Daga speaks softer now, every syllable precise and possessing a terrible calm, like a shore before the hurricane. He pauses as himself, Guan, and accompanying Elites pile into the main lift of the clanship; the lift begins to move while he explains. _“Elder Kwei-Tyioe and Elder M-di-H’dlak have met the final rest. Elder M-di-guan-Lar’ja is Elder no more. Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin, Migo-Kujhade, and myself are Gahn’tha-cte’s only Elders. And yet… I question how long that will last.”_

 _Elder Tyioe and Elder H’dlak are dead?_ Guan freezes, cold chills skittering up and down his spine.

 _“You see… Elder Tyioe believed me to be a dishonorable man, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. Such hateful words… Such facetious claims… She believed I was traitorous enough to fake the trial of former head nurse Bist’ri,”_ Daga chuckles softly when Guan snarls at him for saying the dead woman’s name. The clan leader looks down at him, body otherwise facing forward. _“You do not believe me. Foolish. S’yuit-de. You cannot fathom the complexities I navigate Gahn’tha-cte with in our daily cycles.”_

Guan stays quiet. He is fuming inside, a pent-up bottle of calamity waiting to erupt, but he cannot do anything. He has no power over the clan leader, much less the Elites present. Technically, he is only a lowly _kv’var-de_ , the basic rank of Blooded with no other merits or honors to his name.

 _“Elder Kwei-Tyioe’s insistence on my treachery is the reason you and your brother are charged in collusion. We are not s’yuit-de, my former Adjutant, this is not the first time a Yautja has colluded against me,”_ Daga trills. _“To challenge my leadership through the processes of our clan laws… That is honorable combat! Respectful! But to ambush me and hold my pup captive, to use her no more than a bargaining chip…? M-di! We won’t stand for this!”_

 _Say nothing. Don’t fall for the bait._ Guan reminds himself.

 _“As you are injured—I will put you in the care of a Yautja capable of keeping you under control.”_ The words take the anger simmering under Guan’s skin and morphs it into dread.

It does not take an Elder to guess who the leader refers to. Guan’s hands shake. No matter how brave he wants to be, or how courageous he longs to embody, the thought of being presented to his mate in this humiliating fashion _terrifies_ him.

He hesitates enough for Daga to notice and trill an order to the guards. A hand on his back shoves him forward. The Elites are hastier now, marching him through the medical bay’s waiting area and through the network of corridors full of empty rooms. There are few nurses on staff at this hour, and fewer patients. He has no one to back him up or watch his back when Daga leads the group to a far back room. He puts a palm on the door and opens it. One figure stands: an _especially_ heinous huntress.

Ikthya-De breathes in deeply, loud enough to hear. She chitters with humor as she strides to where Guan is pushed in. _“Are you worthy of the title of my mate, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan? Colluding against my sirer is… Dishonorable business.”_

 _“I am putting my trust in you, Ikthya-De. Control him.”_ Daga clicks, apathetic to Guan’s discomfort and growing fear. The clan leader orders the guards to hand Guan, now unshackled, over to his mate before the man and accompanying Elites depart. No sooner does the door slide shut does Ikthya-De throw her head back and begin _laughing_.

Guan wants to glare. He is in too much horror to consider it.

 _“Oh, Guan, Guan, Guan,”_ the woman clicks softly. She stops in front of him and caresses his masked face. He tries to lean away from her but her free hand seizes his twisted locs and forces him to remain still. Ikthya-De chirps with approval when he freezes. _“Ah, better. You’re remembering how to behave around me. A step in the right direction, my mate.”_

“You disgust me,” the man chokes out, only to curse at the air when Ikthya-De seizes a handful of his locs and drags him to the metal table protruding from the floor. She smashes his masked face into it. The clang of metal on metal rings and pierces the man’s aural channels. Guan hisses in pain, but he repeats the phrase.

Ikthya-De promptly removes his mask and smashes his face into the table directly. The man roars in agony, one of his mandibles giving way to the sound of a terrible _crack._ Bone protrudes from the mandible while bright green blood oozes from where the broken bone pierces his dusky pelt. Ikthya-De calms after, smearing the man’s blood over his face while Guan’s eyes water at the edges.

His mate clicks softly. _“Did you really think you could get away with it, Guan? Get away with disloyalty? That you could forget the oath you swore to me, that you could move on with that ic’jit?”_

 _“She’s not—”_ His first instinct is to defend the dead woman he loves. It makes Ikthya-De chuckle.

She releases him and begins rubbing his back. There is nothing gentle about it. Her hands are rough and controlling, a domineering force which scratch through his patient’s robe and bandages into the healing flesh beneath. Guan tries to squirm away, but the woman pins him to the table before plunging talons into his injuries.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan screams in pain. He struggles against the larger, stronger woman, but she keeps him still long enough to bend down to his head and growl against his temple, _“How do you feel knowing you bedded an ic’jit? Knowing you submitted for a dishonorable murderer? Committing those acts of disloyalty—When you knew—All along— **You belong to me!”**_

 _“I belong to no one!”_ Guan retorts.

 _“No. Guan. You are my property. You swore yourself to my flesh. Your blood, your skin, your seed, all of it—Mine. I want every part of you to remember who owns you. I want your spirit to kneel and beg forgiveness.”_ She releases him and steps back, much to his shock and relief. Ikthya-De gestures at him. _“You are a sorry man, Guan. You feel guilty for so many things. Soon you’ll feel guilty for trying to leave me. You’ll see the error of your ways. You’ll realize it was futile.”_

He clambers to put on his bio-mask. The pain of reopened and aggravated wounds in his back rips through him, but he fights against the waves of pain. He struggles to remain conscious and avoid blacking out. Guan almost stumbles and falls when he tries to take a step away from his mate. He shoots out a hand and feebly props himself up against the metal table.

 _“—Don’t,”_ he croaks, the pain worsening. _“Don’t—Make—Assumptions—About—Me.”_

 _“I can and will.”_ Ikthya-De replies, trills smooth as silk. Her dialect is flowy and melodic, like the notes of a songbird. The woman steps toward him and Guan clenches his teeth in fear. His mate chuckles again, then returns to his side and cups his face. _“Guan…”_

 _“Let me—Let go,”_ the former Adjutant, the former Elite, the former _everything others wanted him to be_ squirms and pushes away Ikthya-De’s hands.

He hates how helpless she feels. Guan cannot remember being so _useless_ , not since before the trip to Terra, since before Bist’ri.

He despises his mate viciously now. The hate has never been so poignant, diluted only through spikes of fear. Guan does not cry, but he hisses when Ikthya-De effortlessly pulls him to her arms. It is a mockery of intimacy, of her pressing her forward against his masked face and cupping the mask as if she cares for his well-being. It is also the manner he remembers best for displaying affection for Bist’ri on the ships. His gut churns with nausea at the thought; in a second, Ikthya-De has tainted a beautiful and precious gesture.

She must know, for the woman clicks with satisfaction at his silence. Guan’s gaze falls to the floor. He feels defeated.

 _“I know you—As the oomans call it—You ‘loved’ her. But you could never have her, Guan. I would rather kill you than let you go,”_ Ikthya-De clicks gently, caressing his mask. Her hands slowly move to his shoulders, where she rubs them up and down his arms and squeezes his muscles.

Again, a gesture he once used to display comfort and connection to Bist’ri.

Again, a gesture now muddied by the traitor before him.

 _“I hate you,”_ he clicks softly.

 _“You should. But I am not the reason she’s dead. She is._ ” Ikthya-De drops hands to his waist. _“She murdered her brother—”_

The woman squeezes the flesh just above his hips.

Flashbacks of the night and subsequent morning he spent with Bist’ri flood the man’s mind. Guan growls and tries to shove Ikthya-De’s hands away, but she suddenly brings her knee up and rams it into his gut. Guan chokes on spit. He keels over and dry heaves on the ground next to his mate. He clutches his abdomen and curses. _“Ell’osde pauk! I don’t believe you! You had her framed for your cjit! For everything **you** did to me!”_

 _“If you had done what you were told I wouldn’t have disciplined you. I want you to see things from my perspective, Guan. I do all of this because you’re mine, and I am possessive of what’s mine,”_ the huntress clicks and nudges him with her foot. _“Up, now. I have something to show you. Call it... proof.”_

 _“Proof of what?! Your lies?! Deceit? Abuse?”_ Gahn’tha-cte-Guan cries out when the kick connects with his stomach. He rolls to the side.

Ikthya-De walks over, lifts him up, and leans close to hiss in his face, _“Watch how she murdered her mei-hswei.”_

* * *

He is quiet when the video ends.

The disbelief lingers, but with it comes the sting of agony, of a betrayal deep and heart-breaking, of the knowledge what he knew of the woman is a lie.

It is, perhaps, the first and only time Ikthya-De has ever spoken the truth.

Guan’tha-cte-Guan is left alone in the room a time after the recording ends. He crumples into a ball on the floor, the pain of being physically tortured by Ikthya-De mixing with the shock and sorrow and _everything_ else around him.

Bist’ri was an _ic’jit_ after all. A Bad Blood. Dishonorable. Below the worth of a Yautja.

By the laws dictated in both Gahn’tha-cte and the Code of Honor, he is already pledged to exterminate _ic’jit_ he comes across. By the laws of old, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan should have cut the dead _ic’jit_ down earlier.

But he didn’t. He knows. He reminds himself this long before anyone else visits the room. He reminds himself he was not privy to the speck of information Bist’ri hid from him. He was not trustworthy, and the fact he yearns for a dead _ic’jit_ ’s trust in the first place disgusts him. As much as he wants to say the recording is fake, he cannot. There is a petrifying familiarity with the pale, almost white Yautja in the video and what he recalls of Bist’ri during her earlier cycles. It is the nail in the coffin to his undoing; everything he knows is false, and he can trust no one to look out for him or care.

Maybe his mate is right. What is he without her? What is he on his own? Has he ever done something right? Has he ever been worthy of respect or honor?

 _No. No. No._ He feels the self-deprecation return to him. It spreads like a toxin in his blood, numbing his body from all but the physical pain currently ailing it. _I’m not… I am not… I am nothing._

* * *

 _“What is the reason, Bist’ri?”_ He remembers a conversation he once held with the now deceased woman.

The two were in his bedchamber, where her sudden entrance took Ikthya-De by surprise long enough to cut off a mandible and several locs. It was after the _ka’rik’na_ determining if his twin was to be deemed an _ic’jit_ then, or if M-di-H’chak could stand trial for aiding the _ic’jit_ Vayuh’ta. She had volunteered to go with him and Ikthya-De to Terra.

The two were barely acquaintances then. Not yet tangled wildly in mind and spirit.

He didn’t understand.

_“—When I came to your residence to escort you to the ka’rik’na—I saw the wounds on your body, Guan. I saw what she's willing to do to control you. I knew—In the meeting—If you did not have someone on that ship with you, watching your back, she would find a way to kill you. I remember the Challenging, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. I was there to witness the fight between you and M-di-H’chak. And I thought…”_

He had suspicions back then. Suspicions of her motives being dirtied by Ikthya-De. He was wrong. It appears the deceased _ic’jit_ ’s motives were a result of her own tormented past.

_“Ikthya-De has tormented you for cycles,_ _” Bist’ri had hissed at the time, fuming at the audacity of his mate._ _“How many Yautja see her actions and ignore her? I refuse to be one of them. I do not care if others perceive me as ‘weak’ for possessing empathy. I decided to care about your wellbeing, and the wellbeing of everyone effected by this disgusting woman. I volunteered to protect you because in ka’rik’na no one else would, or could, and I find that unacceptable.”_

_Unacceptable._ Guan shuts his eyes.

He remembers what he said. It was a protest, a denial of weakness, a statement about himself, _“—I don’t need—I’m not weak!”_

_“You don’t have to be weak to need assistance, Guan,”_ _she felt so kind and calming, not_ _fake. “I know you’re strong. I believe you are strong. Yautja do not earn the rank of Elite on looks and luck alone.”_

Even in the darkest moments of his life, the deceased woman went out of her way to encourage him.

* * *

“How much of that was a lie, Bist’ri?” He clicks at the corner where two walls meet. “How much of it did you… pretend? Did you take pity on me? Did you want to use me? I gave you everything I had left, and you… You…”

He holds his head in his hands. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan mourns.

He knows the answer.

_When we get to Gahn’tha-cte—There are things you will learn about me I wish no one knew._

_Dishonorable things, Guan…_

She tried to tell him the morning the _Kukulkan_ arrived at Gahn’tha-cte.

But she hadn’t. She didn’t. She forgot, she chose not to, she failed.

In that way, Guan mourns too; he mourns the woman he thought she was, and the awareness he must face a lifetime without her.

* * *

She listens as Leitjin shares, in their own blubbery tears, what the head nurse did to them. FLORA listens, and FLORA waits, and when the Vekin thinks the Yautja has said their piece, she cocks her head to one side and nods. She cannot make the words necessary to reassure them, but she tries regardless, sounding out harsh, raspy clicks and chirping incessantly to no avail.

When Leitjin stares blankly at her, the Vekin exhales and begins looking around for any trace of a mask or wrist gauntlet. Even a humble micro hologram projector would suffice to aid in crossing the language gap between the two, as she remains capable of translating the Yautja’s vocals, but unable to repeat anything beyond broken words and fragmented syllables. Though FLORA attempts simple hand gestures, she soon realizes Leitjin does not know any of them.

 _“Trust,”_ it is one of the few words she can sound out coherently.

 _“I do,”_ Leitjin clicks softly. The Yautja shivers when FLORA pats their wrists soothingly.

It won’t be easy. She needs to move them to the medical bay without rousing attention or suspicion of Yautja, much less provoking the ire of any of the nurses. She does not _fear_ C’it-na, but she questions the extent of his influence and whether his corrupted, tainted claws are embroiled in the flesh of any other Yautja.

She badly wants to ask Leitjin if they’ve seen C’it-na bring anyone else into his quarters for… _this_. FLORA holds back, too worried about potentially retraumatizing the nurse.

She wants to take them to Gry’Sui-bpe-de. _Elite_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de. If he won’t do shit, then at least Jo and Ivon will be around to help protect or hide the nurse. Once Leitjin is settled, then the Vekin can work on figuring out how to collectively move the individuals she cares about back to the _Kukulkan._

Gahn’tha-cte is not safe. Not for _her,_ not for a Vekin who murdered a clan Elder once upon a time ago.

FLORA picks up one of the lancets used to cut through Leitjin’s shackles. She takes Leitjin’s hand—the height difference is astounding—and presses the flat of the blade into the Yautja’s palm. FLORA stares at the Yautja until Leitjin nods warily.

 _If it comes to it… If we must fight… Protect yourself, Leitjin!_ FLORA yearns to convey.

She lets go and leads them out of the room, unlocking the doors with bursts of electricity. The woman hears GHOST remind her of remaining critical mass.

 _Four eight percent, FLORA._ The expired Vekin warns.

 _I can recover. Now that I know the Yautja serum regenerates lost mass, expending mass to achieve a goal is a viable option._ FLORA inhales slowly. She leads Leitjin slowly through the private quarters of the head nurse, never stopping to look around aside from dipping into a seeming abandoned armoire full of dust-laden armor and weapons. C’it-na is not a strong fighter, but the man also neglects his equipment. FLORA stops long enough to seize an unused bio-mask and wrist gauntlet, then passes both to Leitjin.

 _“No translation software found.”_ Leitjin reports, aware of the one-way communication the two are forced to acknowledge.

FLORA exhales. She takes a _dah’kte_ and hands it to Leitjin, then methodically begins dressing the nurse in C’it-na’s armor.

The two nurses are close enough in bone structure and size for the pieces to fit, albeit a bit awkward in places. Leitjin doesn’t protest, silent throughout the ordeal. FLORA imagines they understand why she does this; Leitjin _must_ not look like themself or a commotion will erupt the second the nurse enters the medical division’s waiting area.

It is a desperate ploy, but it seems to work. With their mask obfuscating their face, Leitjin draws no more than glances when they take the lead and stride out of C’it-na’s living quarters and through the residential floor’s snaking halls to reach the main lift.

FLORA trails behind them and lets Leitjin drag her by the wrist. She keeps her head bowed and clear eyes on the floor; the guise of a weaker species, of an _Im-Gen,_ is essential for Yautja to not care about the Vekin’s presence. She doesn’t care if they think she is _nothing,_ if she is _expendable,_ provided the deceptive act continues working.

She isn’t sure if she believes in a deity, but she acknowledges the two’s luck when no other Yautja step unto the lift. FLORA tugs on Leitjin’s armor. “When we arrive—”

 _“I still can’t understand ya,”_ Leitjin clicks quietly. _“Sorry.”_

“Right.” FLORA purses her lips. She tugs on their armor again. When they angle their mask toward her, she attempts to sound out the long, drawling clicks of, “Gerrr-rye. Grrrgh-righ.”

 _“Gry?”_ Leitjin clicks it effortlessly.

FLORA nods. She repeats, _“Trust.”_

 _“I… I dunno. If we can trust him,”_ Leitjin visibly tenses. They sigh and look away. _“I’unno if he even—If he even cares. That I’m gone. Doubt he’s noticed...”_

FLORA wants to say many things, but she holds her tongue. Even if Leitjin doesn’t trust their sirer, _Jo_ does, and FLORA values Jo’s judgement.

* * *

FLORA cannot locate Roja, and she doesn’t trust other nurses enough to ask for directions. She follows Leitjin around the medical bay until the two are deep within the back halls of the division. The nurse, shaken as they are, proves a reliable navigator: after a bit of time settling uneasy nerves, Leitjin recants the room Gry-Sui-bpe-de is located in. No sooner than the two reach it does Leitjin make it open and Vekin and Yautja alike duck inside.

“Sundew!” Jo is on her feet in a second, surging forward and wrapping her arms around the Vekin.

FLORA holds in her sigh of relief. She smiles calmly, “Greetings, Jo. Ivon. _Gerr-righ—”_

 _“Leitjin?”_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de is still in a thin patient’s robe, not quite fully recovered. _“How—Why are you in that armor? Where did you get it?”_

Something Leitjin said when she came to and found them shackled in C’it-na’s quarters repeats in the Vekin’s mind. She distinctly recalls the younger Yautja speaking of C’it-na saying things like _no one would miss them or remember them._ It is a cruel concept, that the world can so easily abandon someone and overlook existence. FLORA wonders, briefly, if C’it-na was right. She questions whether anyone would have noticed Leitjin’s absence. She doesn’t share her thoughts; the woman knows saying such aloud will only bring Leitjin pain, not healing.

Her mind shifts to the problems on the horizon. She needs to get everyone to the Kukulkan and off the clanship. _Everyone,_ which means convincing H’chak’s brother to trust her and getting H’chak and Vayuh’ta alike away from whatever cells or guards they are in or around. As she has no idea where H’chak has been taken, the Vekin decides to sort out Vayuh’ta first. She lets go of Jo while the latter moves to Leitjin’s side. Jo, brave and foolish she is, is also an individual with a big heart; Leitjin is in good hands under her supervision.

It helps to see Gry’Sui-bpe-de not ask too many questions. In time, perhaps Leitjin can answer them, but FLORA does not want the man to force answers out of his pup, no matter intentions. If what she suspects is true, then Leitjin’s emotional wounds run much deeper than the physical drawbacks of being imprisoned.

 _I trust you with them, Jo. Gry’Sui-bpe-de. You two will protect them. Or… Jo will._ FLORA turns the thought over in her head. Jo will find a way to keep them safe, and if anything happens to Jo then she will personally spare no one involved in hurting the human.

Which leaves the matter of Vayuh’ta. FLORA finds Ivon tucked away in a corner, visibly exhausted and apparently passed out. Her lips purse. She glances at Jo and leans toward the human, “Is—Has Ivon slept sufficiently since I saw you both last?”

“Nah.” Jo grunts, crossing her arms. Her brown eyes dim. “They’re… They aren’t doing the best, Sunny. Really worried about their girlfriend. Kinda paranoid. Not that I blame them—I’m scared, too. Worried. This’s… This is a real mess, huh?”

FLORA looks back to Gry’Sui. The Elite is quiet now, but he _seethes_ with worry. He moves to stand closer to his pup, mask angled to keep a sharp eye on herself and Jo.

The Vekin walks to Ivon’s sleeping form, the dozing human curled up in a corner with their mess of hair bunched up around their face. Up close, the deep wrinkles of stress and exhaustion are _especially_ prominent. FLORA extends a hand to touch their shoulder but before she can, the human’s brown eyes shoot open and they flinch away from her. “Don’t—! Please—I—I don’t want to be dissect—Oh. Um.”

The human blinks slowly. Their eyes are bloodshot, reflective of remaining exhaustion.

FLORA smiles calmly and tilts her head to one side. “Greetings, Ivon.”

“Sundew. Um. Hey. Hey.” Ivon pushes themself up to a sitting position while FLORA kneels at their side. A quick lookover confirms the human doesn’t have physical injuries. “Did—You meet Mercy’s brother? The two don’t, uh… They really don’t look much alike. Just the eyes. But his brother looks like… Maelstrom…”

“Forgive me, Ivon, but now is not the time for analyzing the three’s familial links. Something has happened. The clan is no longer safe—” FLORA begins, but Gry’Sui snaps upright and leers at her. His suspicion is warranted, but the Vekin has no time for these games. “I need to move you and Jo to the _Kukulkan._ It is not safe for two humans to wander these halls—”

 _“What about my clan isn’t safe, Im-Gen?”_ Gry’Sui interrupts with a hiss, tense and straining. He does not sound offended, not in the sense of his personal pride being hurt by her comment. He sounds… off.

 _Concerned? Suspicious?_ FLORA wonders. She exhales and begins wringing her wrists. “Leitjin can share when they are ready, but it is not my place to tell you.”

 _“You’re an Im-Gen—”_ Gry’Sui begins arguing, but a wince from his pup shuts the man up. He growls loudly. _“I expect a good story.”_

 _“It’s not good,”_ Leitjin clicks softly. The nurse wraps their arms around themself, _“He—We—We can’t—We can’t trust the… The nurse… head nurse… He…”_

* * *

Leitjin’s tale comes out sooner than FLORA expects them to speak of it.

By the time the nurse finishes, Gry’Sui-bpe-de is a fuming, _furious_ wall of muscle ready to kill.

“Woah, woah—Hey, _Gry,_ ” Jo holds up her hands, standing as a buffer between the man and the door. “—If—If all this’s true—And I _believe_ Ash here—Then—You can’t just go out and smash a guy’s face in!”

 _“—He manipulated my pup! Held them hostage!”_ The Elite roars in his rage. _“Yautja are not to be bound! Only ic’jit! Only those sentenced for dishonorable actions! You don’t cage a hunter!”_

Leitjin shrinks into the corner. Their discomfort is obvious enough for FLORA to step in between Jo and Gry’Sui. “—Jo is correct. _C’it-na_ holds a respected position of authority within your clan. You cannot expect others to believe you over him if you attack him out of the blue. We must approach this as you would a hunt.”

 _“Anyone,”_ Gry does not hesitate in his response. _“Who lays a hand on my pup—Deserves what I’ll do to them.”_

 _“I don’t want C’it-na hurt,”_ Leitjin clicks, quieter this time. The ash colored Yautja flinches when attention shifts to them. _“I know—I know—He’s a… I know he’s a traitor, but… But I don’t… I don’t want him to get hurt… I don’t…”_

It is clear to FLORA the Yautja has complicated feelings to sort through and process. She frowns and turns to Gry. “You heard your pup.”

The man throws his head back and curses loudly. _“What do I do, then? What can I do? A traitor walks among us—”_

“I need to borrow your equipment,” FLORA interjects before the conversation strays off course. She straightens upright. “Your cloaking device, specifically, but your mask will greatly aid Ivon.”

 _“Aid… Ivon…?”_ The man stiffens, confused.

Ivon snaps up. The human clambers to FLORA’s side and grabs her hand with both their own. “Is—Are we—Y’know—”

“We need to,” FLORA tells them. “Now is our only chance. The head nurse wants my expiration and the expiration of _Leitjin_. I want everyone to get to the _Kukulkan_ as quickly as possible. We will determine our plan of action once we are far from the clan—”

 _“You’re leaving?”_ Gry'Sui pauses.

“You are free to join us, but staying on this ship is not safe for those I care about. There is dishonor in the ranks of your clan, and I will _not_ risk the wellbeing of my mate and friends.” FLORA is firm on her stance.

 _Nor is it safe for you._ GHOST reminds her.

 _I have stolen an Elder from their clan, GHOST. I must worry for others before I consider myself. H’chak does not deserve anything less._ FLORA exhales deeply, drawing glances from the humans and both Yautja.

 _“Gry.”_ FLORA stares at the Elite’s mask. “I ask to borrow your cloaking device. I request you permit Ivon to borrow your bio-mask. I swear on it by the honor of my mate—"

 _“Your mate may not have honor.”_ Gry’Sui clicks in response, torn between caution and anger.

“Mercy is an honorable man,” Jo comments, narrowing her eyes when the Elite clicks at her to clarify. “He is! He has… He may not be perfect, sure, but who the fuck is? We got off to a rough start, but we’re on good terms again. You can take Sundew at her word. _I_ swear it on _my_ honor.”

 _“Your…”_ Gry’Sui trails off.

“Uh-huh,” Jo jabs a thumb at her chest. “So help me, if I’m a fucking liar then you can—Uh—I’unno. You can do the purring thing? Or—I can… uh.... Cook? I can cook, kind of, a little. I guess.”

“Purring thing?” FLORA and Ivon repeat in unison.

Attention shifts to Gry’Sui-bpe-de. The man freezes in place. _“Pauk—That—It—It was not—Not what you thought it was! Only meant to—To—Comfort—And—And—"_

“Doesn’t Mercy do the same with you, Sundew?” Ivon speaks softly to the Vekin.

FLORA cocks her head to one side. She whispers back, not wanting to draw more attention to a subject clearly flustering the Elite, “—He does, but it can be indicative of many things. Comfort. Amusement. Those are the two primary ones.”

 _“I want it back,”_ Gry’Sui ignores Jo completely when he begins unclasping hoses from his mask. The Yautja tears it off and thrusts it at Ivon, who hands it to FLORA for the time being. FLORA shrugs and holds it under arm. She takes the cloaking device from Gry’Sui when the man pulls it from a drawer and shoves it at her.

“Are we gonna try this, then? Sundew?” Ivon asks as they work on hooking up the cloaking device with FLORA’s thermal mesh suit.

FLORA nods once. “We do not have a choice, Ivon. It is now or never. We have enemies here.”

“Be careful,” Jo huffs from the side, arms crossed. The woman gestures at Leitjin and Gry’Sui-bpe-de, “I’ll keep them safe. Even if one of the two thinks I’m a fucking flower.”

 _A flower…?_ FLORA makes a note to inquire further when matters are not so pressing. She smiles instead. “We will be careful.”

“Extra careful,” Ivon mumbles, fidgeting and eager to get a move on. Just like her.


	75. rise, fall, rise, repeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for:  
> -talk about pregnancy and abortion  
> -talk about trafficking  
> -physical torture

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

From the side of the metal table sits the former head nurse. Now an honorless Yautja, not even considered a huntress, Guan-Tjau’ke’s icy gray eyes remain locked unto the unconscious form of the former Elder.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

M-di-Guan-Lar’ja has not woken yet despite being brought off sedatives. Her physical form is recovering, but she is far from conscious.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

 _What should I say when you wake up?_ The woman wonders in her head. _Lar’ja._

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

Under orders of the head nurse, Tjau’ke witnesses Lar’ja be given multiple injections of serum. She does not administer the doses herself—she is no longer a nurse—but the woman keeps tabs on the nurses who bring in syringes full of the regenerative liquid.

It perplexes her initially. She doesn’t understand why Honorable C’it-na believes injecting serum is a solution to Lar’ja’s injuries. Lar’ja’s pup has a documented reaction to the serum, and due to the biological link, Lar’ja is at risk for experiencing reactions to the serum. No nurse in their right mind would allow the injections.

Guan-Tjau’ke realizes, with a degree of horror, Honorable C’it-na is not the honorable man she trained.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

Nine days since the return of the expedition crew assigned to retrieve her pup from Terra.

 _“Tjau’ke.”_ The voice tears her from her thoughts, where the weary Yautja looks up. Her bio-mask hides her face, but Tjau’ke’s demeanor reveals her own exhaustion. Worries over Lar’ja, over the state of her own pup, of Bist’ri, Tyioe, Guan, and the future of Gahn’tha-cte as a whole, it shows in her posture and sharp exhale.

Elder Ju’dha’s presence does not help. Just seeing the older Yautja makes her nauseous. She knows she should not hold anything against Ju’dha for their actions with Lar’ja, but it is difficult to brush off the pain which returns whenever Tjau’ke remembers what she heard in Elder Ju’dha’s quarters. Her hands instinctively tense, to the point her claws dig into her pelt and draw blood.

Tjau’ke forces herself to calm as she greets Ju’dha. _“Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin.”_

The Elder is without a mask today. Their murky green blue pelt is once more dressed in flowing garments, but the shining silks are not as heavy as past attire. The outfit looks closer to casual wear, a bit baggier around the torso and easily adorned or discarded. The sashes and belt used to conceal the Elder’s midriff are unusually plain. In a way, Tjau’ke cannot help but wonder if Ju’dha seeks to present themself as simultaneously modest but elevated.

Ju’dha runs a hand through their long green locs. They push them off their shoulder as they approach and stand near Tjau’ke’s seat. There, at the table where Lar’ja’s unconscious form breathes— _rise, fall, rise, repeat—_ Ju’dha speaks quieter. _“You should take a break, Tjau’ke.”_

 _“I cannot—Will not.”_ Tjau’ke grunts. She faces forward and exhales. _“Honorable C’it-na—He insists on providing Lar’ja serum. I will not—I won’t leave her alone.”_

 _“Leave her with me.”_ Ju’dha crosses her arms and chirps sharply. _“You must rest. Eat. She would not… want this for you.”_

It stings to hear Ju’dha lecture her. Tjau’ke takes a deep breath and soothes her nerves. _“M-di. We do not know what she wants. Neither of us—”_

_“It doesn’t stop you from assuming you know what she wants. You act like she wants this of you. Is that not an assumption in of itself?”_

Tjau’ke flares her mandibles behind her mask. She holds her tongue.

 _“Has Elder Tyioe given you anything on my pup?”_ Ju’dha switches the subject quickly.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Repeat.

 _“M-di.”_ Tjau’ke answers. _“It is as she told me initially: Bist’ri is in the custody of Adjutant Yeyinde, likely within a containment chamber on the lower levels of the clanship. But she is alive. I pray she has not met the final rest.”_

Ju’dha nods stiffly. _“If… Elder Tyioe updates you…”_

 _“You will be the first to know.”_ Tjau’ke swears on it.

 _“What of…”_ The Elder goes on with some hesitation. _“…Gahn’tha-cte-Guan?”_

 _“M-di. He doesn’t know. I worry about him, but—But he does not know. I worry what he might do if… he knows,”_ the former head nurse clicks. _“We don’t know what will become of Bist’ri. Your pup is—She’s dug a grave for herself. Confessed to heinous things. Murder of another Yautja is… She will be killed for it. Elder Tyioe will not put off executing an ic’jit forever.”_

 _“—Do you truly believe she slaughtered her twin, my pup, so freely? Willingly?”_ Ju’dha growls suddenly. The Yautja hisses after and looks to the side. _“She is… She is soft. She is soft, Guan-Tjau’ke. Softer than a Yautja should be. As a pup, she took on a… interesting perspective of the worlds. Perhaps that is what… pushed her from me. I tried to shape her how I thought a kv’var-de should be.”_

 _“Now is not the time for self-pity.”_ Tjau’ke clicks briskly. _“I don’t believe I know the full story of whether she murdered Tarei-Jehdin. The late and Honorable Elder Sa’ud did not show me everything she documented as evidence—”_

 _“You know her. She is closer to you than to me—”_ Ju’dha begins, but Tjau’ke clicks at them to silence.

 _“Ju’dha,”_ Tjau’ke begrudgingly looks at the Elder. Her gaze is solemn _. “It does not matter what I believe. She is marked ic’jit. Her life, even if proven innocent, will never be the same. She needs a… m’lagro. A miracle, Ju’dha.”_

 _“—She is my only pup—There must be some way—Some strings you can pull, favors you are owed, debts to collect upon,”_ Ju’dha-Jehdin growls sharply. _“You are much more than you seem, Guan-Tjau’ke! You were not birthed into Gahn’tha-cte—”_

 _“A wise kv’var-de knows when to hunt and when to rest. I understand the extent of my connections. I cannot keep her alive, not more than I have already done. In truth,”_ Tjau’ke turns back to face Lar’ja’s unconscious form. _“I question if… Any of it matters. The Ancients do not care about tiny hiccups in the Honor Code… One innocent Yautja marked ic’jit is… Nothing. Even if proof is found, they will not care. Enforcers may still be sent—”_

 _“She is the only pup I have left. I won’t give up on her.”_ The Elder exhales loudly. Ju’dha straightens upright.

Something they say strikes Tjau’ke as strange. She clicks at the Elder. _“—You are carrying pups, Elder Ju’dha.”_

 _“Not for long. I… I have given it some thought, Guan-Tjau’ke. I do not… I cannot carry these pups to term. I will not,”_ Ju’dha’s hands clench into fists. They shake their head, mandibles chittering and clacking together with displeasure _. “It would make me… a blessed Elder… To carry pups in my old age. But—But I will not bring more to this world. I will not risk it.”_

 _“Risk it?”_ Tjau’ke’s chest tightens. _“Elder Ju’dha—What happened with Bist’ri and Tarei was not your fault.”_

 _“Sei-i. But it revealed a horrible truth in the stars. There are ic’jit who will turn on their own for power, for… wealth,”_ such a concept clearly disgusts Ju’dha. _“Bist’ri and Tarei were targeted for their pelts. What if I carry pups to term and they come out the same as Bist’ri? As Tarei? What if they are targets for traffickers?”_

 _“You are going to… Ah. That is,”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly. _“—That is surprising. You sounded certain before. I thought you would carry them to term.”_

 _“I have… scheduled the procedure with one of the nurses. I am early enough in the pregnancy to not require a more… invasive surgical procedure,”_ the Elder turns away. _“Bist’ri and Tarei were my last pups. I will not bring more into this dishonorable world—”_

_“Even if it means the end of your lineage?”_

She sees the pain in Elder Ju’dha’s gaze. It is evident, marred in the Yautja’s verdant green eyes.

To give up a lineage, to _willingly_ forgo producing descendants, is rare.

 _We carry only our flesh into the afterlife._ Guan-Tjau’ke shudders where she sits. _We leave behind our descendants and worldly possessions. The Black Hunter embraces us into his fold. And you want to leave behind no one, Ju’dha…?_

She wonders how deep the pain runs to lead Ju’dha to this conclusion. She remembers, hundreds of cycles past, how Ju’dha birthed many pups and trained each individually. Ju’dha’s pups were a source of pride for the Yautja.

 _“Tjau’ke,”_ Ju’dha’s words stir the woman from her thoughts. The Elder’s green gaze lingers on Tjau’ke once more. _“The… My pup. Bist’ri. You are closer to her than I am—You’ve been closer since the cycle Elder Sa’ud agreed to help her—”_

_“Ju’dha…”_

Ju’dha shakes their head. Their long green locs sway feebly. _“M-di, it is true. You are closer to her than I was. Closer than I have been since she and Tarei-Jehdin took their chiva.”_

 _“Why bring it up, Elder Ju’dha?”_ Tjau’ke approaches the question a different way.

 _“Because—I—I want to know,”_ Ju’dha grits their teeth. _“If she is going to be executed—Did she experience happiness, Tjau’ke? Did she know life is more than suffering? The gods are not fair—M’di, m’di, they can be cruel and unrelenting. I do not want my pup’s memories to only be full of… pain. Even if she might be an… an…”_

Ju’dha struggles to click further, but Tjau’ke understands what the Yautja yearns to convey. They want reassurance. The former nurse leans back in her seat. _“She… found her own happiness. In herself and others.”_

 _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan...?”_ Elder Ju’dha trails off.

Tjau’ke bows her head. _“Ju’dha, I could not tell you in certainty how happy he makes her. The two were not gone long, and they departed on good but friendly terms. I would not say your pup finds all her happiness in Guan, because that happiness is short-lived, and Bist’ri has proven herself capable of achieving happiness long before then. But I know this,”_ her eyes open. She knows Ju’dha cannot see them, but her gaze flickers back up to the Elder. _“—She values him enough to damn herself to a final rest to spare him. She values his happiness. His wellbeing means something to her.”_

 _“He should be okay. He should. Even if brought before trial for disloyalty,”_ the Elder grits their teeth, spines bristling along the back of their neck. _“—He is alive. He will remain alive. And… And that will make Bist’ri happy?”_

 _“You know more than I do. I am a Yautja without honor,”_ Tjau’ke’s four hearts feel heavy. _“and even if I was not, I am told nothing. I do not know what Elder Tyioe did with Bist’ri. I do not know if she lives, or if… She has met the Black Hunter.”_

 _“What about Guan?”_ Ju’dha hesitates. _“Will he be alright?”_

 _Oh, Ju’dha._ No jealousy can tinge the pain Tjau’ke feels for the Yautja. _You feel so much guilt… You are a Yautja with weights on your back, on your shoulder._

 _“I don’t know.”_ Tjau’ke chirps the words. She looks away. _“He… Guan is not your responsibility—”_

 ** _“M-di!”_** Tjau’ke snaps her head up at the Elder’s sudden exclamation. Ju’dha surges forward like a rising wave, leaning down until the former nurse’s mask is eye level with the Yautja’s gaze. _“He is my responsibility now! I have failed Bist’ri! I have failed Tarei! I have failed my pups, Tjau’ke, I have failed the greatest gift the Gods blessed me with—I cannot carry more, no more! But I will not fail this pup, even if he is not mine, I will not fail him as I have Bist’ri and Tarei!”_

The outburst causes nausea to twist in Tjau’ke’s gut. She exhales sharply. _“Ju’dha—What happened to them is not your fault. You could not… How could anyone predict a group of ic’jit were planning to kidnap three chiva attendees? How could you protect them? They were light years away—”_

_“I should have searched more! I gave up too quickly, too soon, too—”_

_“Stop this,”_ Guan-Tjau’ke snaps, her patience wavering. She rises to her feet and _growls_ as she spins around and faces the Elder. _“Cease this nonsense! Stop blaming yourself for the actions of others!”_

 _“I can’t,”_ Ju’dha-Jehdin hisses back. Tears fill their eyes. To see a Yautja openly weep is a terrible thing. To see _Ju’dha_ weep is especially heinous. Tjau’ke falls quiet while the Elder shakes their head. _“—I can’t stop—I can’t—I will never stop, Tjau’ke. I cannot separate myself from that guilt. I cannot remove the feelings from my head. It makes me a weak warrior. I acknowledge my shortcomings and failures. I am not a true sain’ja.”_

_“Ju’dha…”_

_“Migo-Kuj’hade once asked me… the best planet to host the chiva on. I selected that planet—I sent Bist’ri and Tarei and Huso there with the man—It could have been anywhere else, and then—Then maybe—I might have one living pup instead of two dead ones.”_

_“You couldn’t have known.”_ Tjau’ke doubles down on the statement. She puts a hand on each of Ju’dha’s shoulders. _“You didn’t know ic’jit stalked them.”_

 _“They have my pelt. I should have… I didn’t consider it, think of it. Believe it a legitimate threat.”_ The Elder rattles on anyways, eventually ending with, _“—She could be dead by now. Maybe—Elder Tyioe sent her to meet the final rest, to face Cetanu. Maybe—”_

 _“Go check, Ju’dha. Confirm if she is… If she has met the final rest. You are still one of Gahn’tha-cte’s Elders. You have authority to check the containment cells,”_ Guan-Tjau’ke says after a moment, trying to distract the Elder. _“If Bist’ri is there—”_

 _“Will she want to… see me?”_ Ju’dha questions. _“You are closer to a pa-e than I ever was, Tjau’ke.”_

 _“Don’t say that! S’yuit-de, she is your pup,”_ Tjau’ke turns back to Lar’ja’s tableside; she exhales deeply. _“Go see her. See if she lives. And…”_

Ju’dha says nothing, waiting for her to continue.

 _“Be careful.”_ Tjau’ke clicks. She bows her head. _“There are those who seek our heads, Elder Ju’dha. They seek our heads as trophies of our spirits. Be careful who you trust. I suspect the new head nurse is not a man of honorable intentions.”_

* * *

The scream is terrible.

Cold sweats cover the man’s body. He thrashes against the veritanium cuffs pinning him to the table while his bright green _thwei_ oozes sloppily down his body. Laughter comes from the one onlooker; the wretched woman stands to the right of where the head nurse is busy holding up Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s claw to examine. The removed talon will grow out eventually, but for the time being a gaping, mangled hole protrudes from the end of the man’s right forefinger.

 _“Ell’osde pauk!”_ Guan spits out, cursing and screaming again when the head nurse calmly picks up another set of forceps and begins rummaging in the open wound.

 _“Do we need to take another tooth?”_ Ikthya-De’s comment makes the man growl in pain-fueled rage. His mate cocks her head to one side, heat signature as terrifying as she is when he dons a mask. “ _C’it-na.”_

 _“Honorable C’it-na.”_ C’it-na clicks at her, waving forceps around. He turns to a rolling table, neat and tidy like the parts of the room not yet stained by Guan’s blood and drops Guan’s talon on a piece of soiled gauze. Next to it is three teeth and another claw, each wrenched out as violently as the last despite his struggling.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s anger returns at the dishonorable _traitors_ , but rage is not an antidote for the hold his mate has on him. When Ikthya-De shushes C’it-na and steps forward, Guan clams up and bites back rising fear. He oozes it, as terrified as he is furious. This time, there is no Adjutant nurse to step in and save him. He roars and screams in agony as Ikthya-De grabs hold of a mandible and nonchalantly snaps it off. It dangles limp at the sides of his inner jaws. Tears streak down the man’s eyes; his mandible stays connected by tissue and skin, but the pain surges through his head.

 _“He’s spent for now.”_ Ikthya-De barks when C’it-na moves to one of Guan’s intact fingers with his forceps. The wretched woman clicks when C’it-na doesn’t move. _“I’m his keeper, Honorable C’it-na. His beloved mate. He swore himself to **me.** You take a hand without my blessing and I’ll have your spine.”_

 _“Yes m’am,”_ C’it-na sputters quickly. He draws away, but the nurse’s lack of torture doesn’t bring Guan any comfort.

He feels something close to death. It is not a final rest, not an eternal slumber or comatose finale like he remembers learning from his bearer as an adolescent. It feels like the opposite, like something not even a void embodies, so utterly _wrong_ and pained and _awful_. Everything is at its end in his world. The only reason his spirit has not given out is because his spite and hate for his mate keeps him clinging to life.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan wants to live long enough to see Ikthya-De-th’Syra die.

 _“Guan, my mate,”_ the huntress croons at him, clicking and chirping away in disgusting melodies. Ikthya-De leans over him and caresses his face. Guan glares at her heat signature; the woman growls lowly and digs nails into the side of his head _. “Listen here, ui’stbe, you are nothing! Nothing! You are nothing. As long as I live,”_ Ikthya-De snarls into his face, showering the crest of his forehead and his inner jaw with drops of saliva. _“You will know your place as the dirt I crush underfoot.”_

 _“Cet….”_ Guan cannot click the rest, his throat and face and everything too pained to finish the sentence, _Cetanu take you._

He wants to live long enough to see his mate die.

 _“C’it-na, watch him until I return.”_ Ikthya-De straightens upright, sneers at Guan, then walks to the door.

The head nurse clicks quietly, _“That—I’ll do that. Why, though?”_

 _“His sirer is dying. Pity poor Lar’ja is about to meet the final rest from an unexpected… complication,”_ Ikthya-De laughs when she hears Guan curse her between ragged breaths. _“Don’t pretend you didn’t expect this, Guan. C’it-na is the head nurse. If he decides on a course of treatment—”_

 _Murderer! Mar’cte!_ Guan screams in his head, repeating the words and writhing weakly even as the metal digs into his flesh. The dozen bands restraining him to the table feel like they constrict.

 _“I am going to fetch the only item Lar’ja ever gave him. I want to see the look in his eyes when I crush it into nothing.”_ His mate clicks the thought calmly. _“You are nothing, Guan. I will rid you of everything you care about. You don’t deserve your lot in life.”_

 _Maybe I don’t._ The restrained Yautja fumes, torn between a new fury and the agonizing pain of bleeding fingers and broken bones. _But neither do you._

He doesn’t have the strength to tell her anything before the woman prompts the door to open and slips out from the room, disappearing into the quiet corridor beyond. C’it-na engages the door’s locking system the second it shuts.

 _“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_ The head nurse straightens upright and grunts. C’it-na’s green pelt is muddied by the drying, luminous _thwei_. _His_ luminous _thwei_ , still oozing out of injuries.

Guan says nothing. C’it-na deserves no words or acknowledgement.

 _“I don’t understand why… This? This?”_ C’it-na grits his teeth as he walks to the table side and gestures at Guan’s body.

He lays there, immobilized, almost stripped nude, every physical scar present to be scorned or mocked or emasculated.

 _“Even after they stripped you of your rank—Your title—Your prestige—This is what she wanted? This?”_ C’it-na grabs the man’s pectoral muscles, claws digging in and drawing blood.

Guan hisses, weak and worn but stubborn.

 _“Answer me!”_ C’it-na spits at him. _“Why did she want you? Why?!”_

 _“I don’t—”_ The once Adjutant fails to shake C’it-na off. C’it-na rakes his claws over Guan’s torso. The man curses in pain. _“Pauk!”_

 _“Bist’ri, s’yuit-de,”_ C’it-na draws his hand back and wrenches Guan’s head. The head nurse snarls until Guan looks at him. _“Why did she want you? You?! You who barely knew her?! A paired man! Disloyal! Grievously incompetent! After you lost everything—She still wanted you!”_

 _Bist’ri._ It clicks in Guan’s mind. The head nurse hates him because Bist’ri wanted him, not C’it-na.

Against better judgement, Guan’s first instinct takes over and he laughs. He curses and sputters a moment later when C’it-na punches his face and something breaks in one of his two intact protruding mandibles.

The door unlocks and slides open. A sickeningly sweet smell fills the air, something not quite familiar yet distinctly nostalgic tugging at Guan’s mind. Old memories flicker to the surface. He struggles against C’it-na’s grip, trying to turn his head to look at the door. C’it-na punches him again and Guan loses his train of thought in the flash of pain.

 _“Tell me why,”_ C’it-na snaps _. “Why? Why? Why you?”_

“Because he is an honorable man. And you,” a voice filters through the door, disgusted and furious. Soft footsteps follow. A crackle of electricity sounds nearby, and with comes the latter part of the sentence, “—Are not my friend, _C’it-na_.”

* * *

_“Sun-Dew—That’s really—How? You—"_ The Yautja spins on his heels, bio-mask hiding the fear FLORA knows he emits. She understands this opponent well: a coward, tricking and scheming and pretending to be soft and smooth and mellow when a greedy heart lays underneath.

C’it-na canot be her friend. C’it-na is no one’s friend. C’it-na wants what C’it-na wants, not what is the best for others. Perhaps FLORA is wrong: perhaps C’it-na has _other_ reasons for his behavior, but it is no excuse for his treatment of Leitjin, or—upon looking in—the apparent treatment of her mate’s twin brother. FLORA does not know Guan, but the notion C’it-na lays a _finger_ on the man fills her with a visceral, primal need to remove him from life.

“You are not worth integrating into my system, _C’it-na._ ” FLORA informs the man as she steps forward. She calls over her shoulder, “Ivon—”

“I don’t know how to turn this off? Wait—Wait—I got it—” Ivon suddenly appears following a crackle of energy and dissipating invisibility cloak. Their blondish hair is partially obfuscated from the bio-mask attached to their face. “Sorry, I forgot for… A moment… And…”

The door to the room slides shut the second Ivon is inside. FLORA ignores the human’s squabbling ramble while she stares down C’it-na.

 _“How?”_ The head nurse blurts out. _“I snapped your neck! Watched your body fail! I made sure—I—”_

“You are not very good at forcing your prey into early expiration.” The Vekin answers blankly as she strides forward, stopping only when C’it-na snaps upright and extends a set of _dah’kte_ wrist blades.

 _“Don’t come closer—”_ C’it-na grits his teeth. He jams the blades against his prisoner’s neck. “ _I’ll bring him the final rest—"_

“Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.” FLORA identifies, noting the orange eyes straining to look her direction. “No, C’it-na. You will not lay a hand on him if you value your life.”

 _“You’re an Im-Gen,”_ the head nurse exhales sharply. _“You’re—Nothing—To a Yautja! Nothing!”_

“I am glad your species continues to believe nonsense. GHOST is right in that endeavor; a clever and admirable tactic.” Seeing C’it-na struggle to process her words, FLORA lifts her hands up, palms out, and steps forward. “I am here for my mate’s _mei-hswei_. Step aside, C’it-na, and I will consider sparing your life.”

 _“You can’t have him—He’s—He belongs to Ikthya-De,”_ C’it-na growls, straining.

“He belongs to no one. Yautja are not meant to be… restrained. Imprisoned.” FLORA feels her body shudder from the coldness which rises at the memories of the Tucson facility. She despised seeing H’chak there, drugged against his will and tested on like cannon fodder. She feels a twisting, churning nausea strangle her critical mass deep inside, all a symptom of how ill she thinks of it all.

 _“I can’t let you have him,”_ The head nurse snarls loudly. _“I’ll kill him first—Ikthya-De will have my head if I don’t!”_

“Unfortunate it came to this, C’it-na,” FLORA states, her façade of neutrality cracking as her voice becomes frigid. “Ivon, remind me to apologize to Leitjin later.”

“What? Why?” Ivon asks, confused.

FLORA breathes in deeply: an unnecessary gesture, but one mimicked to convey how she feels when she answers, “I am about to make them very unhappy.”

* * *

_Go see her, Ju’dha._ The Elder repeats the words in their head as they begin their trek through the medical bay corridors, steps soft as still water. _I should… see her. If she lives. If the Black hunter has yet to take her…_

Once, Ju’dha thought themself a tidal wave. A rolling, surging swell of force, never displaying their ferocity until time came to rise over a shoreline and wash away the scourge of foes. They were stronger than _this_. They were strong—once.

Going out of their way to see an ic’jit for means beyond execution is… not a sign of a _sain’ja,_ or of a warrior’s strength. Others will speak of it. 

_Does it matter?_ Ju’dha draws their mandibles taut across their inner jaws. _They will talk... and I will crush them for showing disrespect to their Elder._

They want to see their last living pup before she dies. Perhaps she has already been sent to walk with the Black Hunter, but Ju’dha cannot rest until they know. Their steps lead them through the medical bay: slow, steady, but with a swell of resolve rising inside them.

A distinct, _buzzing_ roar in the distances makes them and others around them pause. Several nurses stop mid-conversation to look in the direction the sound comes from. Ju’dha’s green eyes gaze down the corridor, hairless brows furrowing with confusion. They look at one of the nurses and click briskly, _“Is that expected of this division?”_

 _“If it were an injection of serum, sei-I, Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin,”_ the nurse bows her head. She is a foot shorter than Ju’dha, giving the impression of subservience. _“The cellular regeneration serum is regarded as inexplicably painful for even the toughest of sain’ja to endure—”_

 _“That wasn’t the roar of a maimed hunter,”_ Ju’dha corrects the nurse in a long-winded growl. _“What was it?”_

The nurse looks at her companion, a fellow nurse donned in the typical vestments of Gahn’tha-cte’s nurses. The second Yautja clears their throat and straightens upright. _“Perhaps—An injection of the restoration serum?”_

 _“—Which is scarcely used and highly regulated.”_ Ju’dha finds themself annoyed by the two Yautja’s answers. _“S’yuit-de! Both of you. Are you not nurses? What nurse is unaware the intricacies of the medical division? Are you not in communication with the head nurse?”_

“Honorable C’it-na is not keen to share details with us, Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin.” The first nurse chirrups, stiff as a board. “We are given a list of duties to fulfill. His communication is subpar—"

 _“Do not give me excuses! If you do not receive directives from the head nurse, it is your responsibility to become aware of what goes on in your division. Had you been under my authority, I would cut your locs in shame at this incompetence.”_ The Elder cuts off the nurse, irate. _“You two, with me. We will investigate this ourselves, then I will have a word with Honorable C’it-na.”_

 _And then… Bist’ri,_ Ju’dha considers as they take off marching down the hall, the two nurses following in silence. _I will say my goodbye._


	76. the trial of m'di-h'chak part i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, been busy with classes and work!! 
> 
> tw for:  
> -flashbacks, including one to physical torture  
> -character death and talk of past character death  
> -very brief mention of needles  
> -grief/mourning
> 
> if you've enjoyed the story up until now please leave a comment ^_^ I love reading comments so much, they are incredibly encouraging even on my worst writers block days!!!
> 
> this chapter is part i of a larger chapter I decided to break down into two smaller chapters because.... No more 16k word chapters here

_“This room,”_ the Elder instructs them and Luar’kjuhte.

Than-guan’ta keeps their mandibles still and jaw shut. They say nothing even as the brash Elder orders them to unlock the room. Luar’kjuhte steps forward; the beige-scaled nurse fumbles with her wrist computer while typing a command into the gauntlet.

Than-guan’ta’s ruby red eyes narrow behind their mask; they stare forward, not daring to look at Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin in fear of saying or doing something wrong. The Elder is notoriously traditional, in a way Than-guan’ta cannot fathom. They hold respect for the old Honor Code, but the punishments handed out by the Code are too extreme for their taste. They take after the old head nurse Guan-Tjau’ke, who once instilled a notion of respect begetting respect into their skin.

If they ever have a say in anything, they imagine a world where second chances are more freely given. Some Yautja think them soft for their stance but Than-guan’ta doesn’t care.

 _One day… The Gods will bless me with a long life._ The nurse decides, straightening up as their fellow nurse pauses.

_“—The head nurse locked this door, Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin—”_

_“Then unlock it.”_ The Elder is tense; they sound aggravated and strained.

Than-guan’ta feels a sliver of sympathy for the Elder. They are clearly not over the recent loss of their pup. 

Luar’kjuhte clicks softly and reenters the command into her gauntlet. She exhales and steps back while the door unlocks and slides open. The nurse gestures for the Elder to go first. No sooner Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin is inside does the strange buzzing noise the trio heard minutes prior begin again. The _bzzzzzz_ is an obnoxious rattle; it sends a shudder through Than-guan’ta. Luar’kjuhte angles her mask at them before trailing the Elder inside. Than-guan’ta takes a deep breath and follows—Only to stop just beyond the door, narrowly avoiding running into their fellow nurse.

 _“Luar’kjuhte,”_ Than-guan’ta clicks abrasively, not wanting to piss off the Elder nearby further. _“Luar’kjuhte—Move!”_

 _“—What?”_ Luar’kjuhte flinches.

“Move—” Than-guan’ta is about to shove the nurse aside when Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin hisses for silence. The buzzing sound continues. It is vaguely natural in nature, far from machine and reminding the Yautja of a fly. They look around the other nurse’s wide-framed body and pause at the sight.

_Red._

_“You are…”_ the Elder trails off, a visceral growl leaving their mandibles. Their flowing silks sway dangerously. _“—Third-in-command—Nurse Roja?”_

The buzzing pauses.

_Red scales._

It is not blood, for the _thwei_ of Yautja is a luminescent green, but the red triggers a violent disgust in Than-guan’ta. The smell picked up by their olfactory receptors is acrid: a pungent odor burning itself into their mind. They try and step forward, to move beyond their fellow nurse and the Elder in front of them, but Ju’dha-Jehdin thrusts out an arm in their path.

 _“Nurse Roja.”_ Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin repeats.

The sound increases. In front of the trio, twitching and disorderly, the form of the third-in-command looks up from where she is slumped against a great metal table stained of _thwei_. The maskless Yautja’s eyes are glazed over, and her mandibles droop and sag lifelessly. The woman’s chest twitches; Roja’s head falls back and she lets out a roar infused with the same deep buzzing noise. Than-guan’ta’s eyes widen and they lift their hands, recalling every tactic of de-escalation and damage control taught by the once head nurse Guan-Tjau’ke.

 _“—Nurse Roja,”_ Than-guan’ta begins. _“You—Are you ill?”_

That is when the flesh of the third-in-command gives way. The spray of red is unnatural, far from _thwei_ yet distinctly organic in its own twisted fashion. The pelt tears along with strips of scales of the third-in-command’s body, cracking and splintering in spurts of muddied green until a glistening red carapace emerges. Great chitinous armor plates the vaguely Yautja figure as a creature tears itself free and leaves behind a skin-like molt in the shape of Roja. The buzzing noise _thrums_ louder, ringing through the aural canals of all three Yautja present.

Elder Ju’dha-Jehdin hisses at the creature. When it doesn’t cease its sounds, they _roar_ furiously at the abomination. It triggers the beast to snap a disgusting, pincher-like head in Ju’dha’s direction. The beast’s eyes twitch and blink, slowly coming around the room and focusing on the Elder. The two pinchers split, revealing four individual jaws on each side of the monster’s mouth. It _screams_ a battle cry at the three and surges forward.

* * *

He knew the trial was coming. It was inevitable: there is a price to pay for committing a crime in any Yautja society.

 _I am not ui’stbi. Not ic’jit._ The man reminds himself. _I’ve done nothing wrong!_

 _“M-di-H’chak…”_ The clicks fall from the clan leader’s mandibles. Akrei-non-Daga sits in his chair in the council hall and overlooks the chamber. His seat is surrounded by dozens of empty ones which descend in a circle around the round stage-like center of the room.

 _“Leader Akrei-non-Daga,”_ H’chak does not hide his growl. His manacled hands ache in pain from how the veritanium cuffs dig into his pelt. _“You have nerve to walk me here like a common ox. Are you afraid of me unbound?”_

 _“It is… Wise to do things this way, kv’var-de. Surely you understand,”_ Daga cocks his head to one side. _“Things change on a whim. Yautja live… and Yautja die. I will not meet the final rest by your hand, M-di-H’chak. Even if you and Elder Kwei-Tyioe conspired to remove me from power through dishonorable means—”_

 _“You have no evidence of this,”_ M-di-H’chak grits his teeth. His orange eyes wheel around the hall; the Yautja looks over his shoulder at the heat signatures of the two Arbitrators guarding the door of the room. _“You stand for this, both of you? Garra! Chi-var’tei!”_

He remembers them.

Garra. A Yautja whose arrogance and longstanding youth led him to immaturity and dishonor. Not the dishonor worthy of the brand _uist’be_ , but dishonorable enough to be stripped of his title and made Arbitrator.

Chi-var’tei he knows less, but he knows the man the same. He is a younger Yautja: a hunter of approximately one-nine-five cycles. He is a man with a tendency to overthink things and jump to conclusions. The Hunt demands caution, but the rash impulses of Chi-var’tei has not served him well; the man supposedly injured another Yautja two cycles back during a joint Hunt.

 _Say something! Speak! Stand your ground against this dishonorable man!_ M-di-H’chak roars in his head.

The two Arbitrators say nothing. H’chak feels his four hearts slowly sink into the pit of his stomach.

They don’t care. _No one cares._ Daga is clan leader, and the traditions and authority vested in him because of clan laws puts him in a position of nigh-unchallenged power.

H’chak wonders when Gahn’tha-cte became overcrowded by greed and suffocated by a lust for power and show. He wonders if it has always been this way, or if he only now sees it for what it is because of his time spent as Arbitrator and a prisoner of oomans on Terra. He wonders, and he wonders, and he wonders, but no answers come. Daga growls at him to step forward. H’chak obeys silently. The weight on his shoulders increases as he stands in the all too familiar place, under the all too familiar stare, and waits. 

_Where are the Elders? What happened to Elder Tyioe? Why are we the only ones here?_ His mind repeats on blast. Though he says nothing, H’chak continues to dwell on the subject as Daga announces the start of his trial.

* * *

Electricity crackles and the hunt begins. C’it-na is a fast opponent; a Yautja has great speed, even a nurse who doesn’t exercise to the strict regiment of hunters, and when he surges forward it is like a great flow of land coming down upon her. FLORA ducks the first jab and narrowly avoids the swipe of his _dah’kte_ ; she expels a great surge of electricity and throws it at him. It leaps from her fingertips and curls into the attacking nurse. C’it-na lets out a great cry of pain and fumbles in his steps.

 _Four seven percent,_ GHOST warns her, and FLORA thanks the fragment of consciousness before she spins on her heels and slams the ball of her foot into C’it-na’s side. His thick pelt absorbs most of the impact, but the force throws him off his feet long enough for FLORA to put herself between him and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. She ignores the latter’s surprised balking and snaps at Ivon, “Help him—”

“On it,” Ivon nods and scurries past her. C’it-na has risen to his feet and eying her down by the time Ivon is at Guan’s tableside.

FLORA squares her shoulders and lifts her hands. She puts one foot back and bends her knees to lower her center of gravity. She feels GHOST’s consciousness wrap around her in her mind. The remnants of the other Vekin whispers into her mind, _Trust me. Let me fight._

 _I trusted you once. We are who we are now because of that mistake._ FLORA shuts down the idea.

When C’it-na swipes and lunges, she converts critical mass to energy and throws him to the side. It tears something in her physical composition’s arms; a human body isn’t made to fight a Yautja’s strength.

 _Four six percent,_ GHOST voices. _Four six percent, FLORA._

To fight the head nurse on equal terms she must discard the physical composition a time. It is a grotesque process; she hears Ivon’s screams even as she sloughs off her physical composition’s flesh and frees the silvery mass beneath. A spray of clear liquid covers of the ground; the Vekin’s mass absorbs her scores of artificial blood. Her senses shift and once more FLORA does not see the world with the beautiful colors it possesses, but as its own unique shapes, forms, and features. Her vision shakes and shudders as she leaps forward in a glob of shining liquid and splits into multiple phalanges—

 _Three nine percent. Three nine percent._ GHOST repeats in her mind. _Quickly, Flora. Quickly!_

It is not like the last encounter.

She didn’t want to expire C’it-na last time. She didn’t believe her _friend_ was complicit in dishonorable actions. These beliefs reflect the very human attributes integrated into her system. FLORA _knows_ she is not a true Vekin, not in the way GHOST or her hive wanted her to be. It is time to reject the side of humanity she adopted.

She hears a garbled roar and screams come from the side even as she dances with C’it-na around the room. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan thrashes against veritanium restraints and cuffs while FLORA waltzes forward in an assault of frigid limbs impaling where C’it-na was. The Yautja fends her strikes off by dodging; he possesses enough knowledge—rudimentary as it is—to know not to get caught in the Vekin’s grasp.

 _“You won’t survive the others! Even if you—Strike me down,”_ C’it-na snarls at one point, ripping through and severing two tendril-like limbs while the silvery form of FLORA’s mass recoils. The pain is dismissed; her system compartmentalizes the pain as she bolts for the Yautja.

Her goal isn’t to hit; she slides under his readied stance and snags the severed globs of her mass. They reattach like powerful and opposing magnets: they snap together, meld at the seams, and the wicked waltz continues. GHOST screams _three two percent_ in her head and FLORA snarls mentally for her to _shut the fuck up_ while she whips back and slams a hardened, blunt end of one tendril into the head nurse. C’it-na grabs it and the two _smash_ into the side of the room from the momentum.

Suddenly, she isn’t in Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division.

She’s in the cargo hold of a ship.

 _This is a memory._ The Vekin knows, but when her—not _hers_ —eyes open, the cargo hold and the other Yautja are all she sees. In this moment she is not FLORA, not Sundew, not S or Synthetic, but someone else entirely: the once head nurse, the former Adjutant nurse, the one called _Bist’ri_. She knows this because it is taken from the _thwei_ she once leeched from the former nurse: a memory of the past, locked away and not intended to be shared. She considers it _suppressed;_ the sudden transition into reliving this memory, this _flashback_ , is violently sudden and hints at the nature of its contents.

She doesn’t understand. Not yet, not entirely, not until she sees the lookalike attempting to wrestle her to the floor. The entity snaps and she—not her, none of this is _hers_ —kicks him in the face, snapping a mandible and provoking a blood-curling _roar_ of pain as the heat signature sprays blood.

 _How strange._ FLORA wonders. _This memory sees in thermal signatures, but this individual knows the Yautja personally. She knows his appearance._

The fight is real. She learns this when great, elongated claws rip at her limbs. She throws “arms” up to protect her face, but it does nothing to stop the blades cutting deep into her arms. Over and over: the marks plant themselves into her arms, etching a flesh canvas in the pattern of repeating lacerations. She screams a silent scream, but in her head the flashback plays itself in _full_.

 _“We don’t have a choice—You don’t have a choice!”_ The other Yautja is distraught, as much as she is, but it doesn’t stop FLORA from expelling enough energy to force him back and slip out of his grasp. Her movements are shaky. She feels blood running down her limbs, and despite the knowledge she— _in_ _reality_ —exists in a liquid state, FLORA begins to tremble. She feels the fatigue of blood loss loom overhead. She can’t curse; words escape the mouth not belonging to her as she feels the memory play out.

 _“Tar—Tarei—Please,”_ Bist’ri’s voice contains choked pleads. _“Please—Don’t do this—”_

 _“I can’t, I can’t fight anymore, Bist’ri, I can’t, I won’t—I’m not—Cetanu take me,”_ the other Yautja begins to cry, eyes welling up with tears in the uncharacteristic display of pain and sorrow. When she tries to take a step further, arms bleeding heavily, the other Yautja snaps his head at her and bellows. _“—You—You’ll do it—I’ll make you! You—End this—End it for me! Bist’ri!”_

FLORA is seized once again. There is nothing but a thrashing of limbs as the memory unfurls. The other Yautja intends to kill her. She cannot—doesn’t—die, but she fights as if her life depends on it. Over and over, blood covers the floor in a disgusting display while the two Yautja strike the other and each of them bleed. The memory comes to its end only when the other Yautja is beneath her, beneath the owner of the memory, with her hands on his throat. The choked wheezing fades and the other Yautja ceases his struggles.

The memory ends with Bist’ri—FLORA—collapsing at the side of the dead man. Only she is not a Yautja, and she does not bleed into unconsciousness. Oblivion lets her remain alert as her senses return to normal and the flashback ceases. C’it-na’s body lays limp at her side: his neck broken by the force of her shining silver limbs.

GHOST informs her she is at two-one percent critical mass by the time she finishes slugging her way to her physical composition. Mending it reduces the percentage of critical mass to one three percent. FLORA doesn’t care. She begins to splurge on the remains of the head nurse; her lust for new knowledge and information briefly possesses her. The Vekin, a human once more, gorges on the flesh and blood and everything contained in the complex cellular structures within. It is enlightening in many ways. It satisfies the itch she and GHOST feel together.

 _This is what we are._ GHOST whispers, and FLORA wonders if it is true.

She feels multiple sets of eyes on her, human and Yautja alike. FLORA ignores the human and the Yautja now sitting upright, tense, at the table he was restrained at. She fetches a new thermal mesh suit from a broken drawer hanging haphazardly out of the wall. It feels nice peeling off the suit and pulling a clean one on. The Vekin hunts for serum after. She doesn’t offer it to Gahn’tha-cte-Guan until she injects herself with two doses; her critical mass rises to two nine percent. Only then does FLORA willingly look at the beaten, broken form of her mate’s twin.

 _“Gooo…auhn._ ” She practices the name as her clear eyes skim his form. She sees the damage imposed by Ikthya-De-th’Syra and the late C’it-na. She notes the broken mandibles; the absorption of C’it-na’s brain fills her with the knowledge necessary to set the bones in a splint.

But when she takes a step toward Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, the latter snarls at her, _“Get—Away—From me!”_

“No.” She decides, taking another step. The man hisses at her before cursing in pain. FLORA’s gaze narrows and she snaps, “We do not have time for this. You are injured and this is hostile territory.”

“Wait—Sundew,” Ivon fiddles their thumbs. They remove their mask, hissing when the cranial sensors retract with streaks of red at the end. Ivon offers it to Guan, who stills in confusion. The brilliant orange eyes focus on Ivon suspiciously. FLORA waits for the wounded Yautja to put the mask on.

When it is on, FLORA holds up her hands with the palms outward in attempt to convey that no harm will come to him. Her voice strains as she intones, “—I will not hurt you. I am your twin’s mate, but if I were not, I would be wholly foolish to ask my friend to release you if I intended to attack and consume the knowledge you possess.”

 _“Cetanu take you,”_ is all she gets in response before the injured man begins to cuss louder and louder. It is clear he cannot click but FLORA observes his stubbornness in substituting growls and chirps in place of the clicks of his language.

“You could say thank you,” Ivon mumbles from the side. “We didn’t need to come here. Maelstrom’s waitin’ for us.”

“It was not on the way,” FLORA confirms. Her head tilts to one side. Though soaked in Yautja blood, she feels a great deal calmer. “We do not have time to discuss this. We are taking you to the _Kukulkan_ —"

* * *

Hundreds of cycles ago, he and H’dlak would spend days on the outskirts of Yautja Prime. The two hunted constantly in attempt to outdo the other; each Yautja’s honor fueled a fierce but cordial rivalry. It settled and simmered into a deep friendship in later cycles with the two often perusing the same prey, attending joint Hunts, and enjoying the other’s company with food and _c’ntlip_. There hadn’t been physical attraction in the beginning, but after a close call with a great-winged _vy’drach_ , and the duo’s subsequent victory, everything fell into place.

It had felt natural and right to take H’dlak as a mate. It was not on unofficial terms; the intricate strings of clan politics governed the two’s lives as both rose through ranks and became more and more accomplished. The line of mates never ended come mating seasons, but outside it he would find himself taken and devoured by the other Yautja’s raw passion. And, in turn, Migo-Kujhade remembers consuming every _nok_ of flesh and skin and scales M’di-H’dlak had.

As Elders, he thought H’dlak and him had made it. They were both respected, each with dozens of offspring, and both possessed authority and influence to carve out a niche for each other in their own lives.

H’dlak was a sanctuary and he their zealous believer.

 _I made a mistake permitting Ikthya-De to join our activities._ He reflects on it mournfully.

He doesn’t doubt Ikthya-De or Daga or _both of them_ used Ikthya-De’s proximity to the Elders to poison M-di-H’dlak. It is the only explanation he knows of. It fills him with an ichor the likes never seen before; he debates, constantly, whether H’dlak would want him to throw his life away to take out Ikthya-De in one sudden swoop.

H’dlak has met the final rest. Migo wants to believe otherwise, but he is too old and wise to know better; the Ka’Torag-Na Clan has imposed itself in planting one of their own among Gahn’tha-cte’s ranks.

 _We made… so many mistakes,_ Migo thinks. The cold conflict with the Ka’Torag-Na clan is but one of many he looks back on. Accepting Ikthya-De was a mistake. Not pressing to hold _someone alive_ accountable for the conflict which claimed the lives of a Ka’Torag-Na clanship was a mistake. He has many mistakes in his repertoire.

 _Am I about to make another one, H’dlak?_ He questions to no one. There is no rowdy or gruff comment to fall back on, no snark or silver-tongued remarks, nothing, because H’dlak is gone.

 _I know you took him from me. You let Ka’Torag-Na take him from me,_ Migo’s hands tense into fists as he stops at the doors of the council hall. They open and his one good eye stares at the heat signature of his leader, sitting and overlooking the Arbitrator on trial. _Akrei-non-Daga._

 _“You’re late,”_ the clan leader remarks when Migo-Kujhade climbs the rows of seats and takes his place at a seat lower than Akrei-non-Daga. _“How… unlike you, Elder Migo.”_

 _“I was overseeing the transport of an ic’jit. Do not place blame on me where it is undeserved.”_ He clicks back instinctively.

 _Undeserved._ He deserves a lot of blame, perhaps more or equal to Akrei-non-Daga. _How callous of us!_

 _“Is this true, Shadow?”_ His clan leader chirps at the figure looming near the council hall door. The two Arbitrators serving guard flinch and back away from the suit of armor encasing the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na. Even at a distance, it is no easier to see the Shadow now than before; the Shadow blends easily into the shadows of the room.

 _“…Sei-I, Akrei-non-Daga.”_ The Shadow’s voice is soft and easy to miss. 

_“And what of the… one accompanying you?”_ Daga growls impatiently and gestures at the Shadow with one hand.

Migo’s good red eye catches the Shadow’s stiffening form. The figure pauses before their muffled voice seeps out, _“—Tarei is not the representative of Ka’Torag-Na. I will observe the proceedings.”_

_Tarei._

The name makes Migo’s blood run cold. He stiffens within his thermal mesh. His scales suddenly feel clammy, like he is about to drown in his own sweat. It is not fear which torments him at the memories invoked: it is regret.

 _They put you in charge of the chiva?_ H’dlak’s conversation from the day before departure rakes his mind.

_Ju’dha-Jehdin… Approved it. I leave in the morning._

_Ki’sei, I understand now. You do not wish to be the target of their wrath should their pups fail the tests ahead of them._

_These are not chivas like the kind we took in our youth, H’dlak._ He remembers becoming irate with the other hunter. _Our laws dictate newly Blooded must prove themselves with no less than three skulls of the r’ka. Given Bist’ri’s and Huso’s assessments, Leader Daga requested I seed the trial grounds with a queen._

 _I envy them. This will bring… It will bring glory to all three. Should they survive._ H’dlak had laughed; they expected two of the three to survive, with a favorable outlook on the third.

 _H’dlak,_ Migo told the Elder. _This chiva—It puts us in contested territory. We may find more than r’ka waiting us._

He wishes he hadn’t been right. What the Elder found in that section of pace, what happened to the chiva attendees, what transpired in the trials…

The man absentmindedly touches one of the ceremonial pendants hanging off his neck. It is the bleached bone of a _vy’drach,_ but a piece of his half of the trophy taken from the hunt which brought him and H’dlak together. The memories bring a pungent loneliness and accompanying desperation to avenge his fallen lover. He needs to bring those responsible the final rest. He needs—and he wants to—but need and wants are not enough to sway fate. Migo’s good eye shuts and he exhales silently.

 _“M-di-H’chak…”_ He clicks softly. _“You were overseen in your chiva by my predecessor, the late and honorable Elder Ma’or?”_

While speaking, Migo unclasps his bio-mask from a belt around his kilt and puts it on. The world fills with colors as his eyes focus through the optical filters.

 _“Sei-i.”_ The man’s vibrant orange eyes stare his one good eye down. _“He was murdered on his own ship following the events of… the events of Scutum-186f.”_

 _“He was a true sain’ja. A fierce believer in the next generation of Yautja,”_ Migo reflects on the fallen hunter. He shuts his eyes. He knows the man is a sore topic for the Arbitrator on trial; Elder Ma’or’s murder propelled events which ended in the execution of the Unblooded _Chirp_.

Another life thrown away. For what, not even Migo knows.

He shifts his attention back to M-di-H’chak. Migo’s long locs fall as he straightens upright and shakes them out. He chirps loudly. _“You are on trial, M-di-H’chak. Do you know why?”_

 _“I have an idea, but it is not my place to say.”_ H’chak’s head bows. The tone of his clicks and growls remain strained. The Arbitrator’s body posture betrays the man’s composure: it reveals his tense demeanor and brewing outrage. But those feelings, the ones Migo remembers H’chak expressing openly in his early cycles, are kept under control. Migo notes the younger man’s restraint.

 _“Allow me to repeat the opening of this trial for Elder Migo-Kujhade,”_ the clan leader interjects. Daga points a single clawtip at the Arbitrator in the center of the council hall. _“M-di-H’chak! You are on trial for the dishonorable actions taken during the kv’var taken up as Arbitrator! For aiding an ic’jit, murdering two Arbitrators of the Ka’Torag-Na Clan, and colluding with others to dishonorably depose of established leadership and bypass the laws sacred to Gahn’tha-cte! As a member of Clan Gahn’tha-cte, your trial may take place here instead of the Court of Ancients. Due to the interclan nature of several of these charges, Clan Ka’Torag-Na has lawfully decreed the use of a representative to ensure this trial is fair. The Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na, Dto-Bhu’ja, honorably stands in as the one chosen by Ka’Torag-Na’s matriarch—”_

The formalities prattle on. Migo observes H’chak closely while the latter stands under the scrutinizing gaze of all in the hall. When Daga’s words do not incite a response, the clan leader clicks abruptly and looks down at Migo.

Migo clicks abruptly, _“Sei-I?”_

 _“The other Elders are not joining us.”_ Daga says.

It’s a warning.

Migo feels a plume of hate swell up inside him. Daga’s words confirm the truth of what he already knows: H’dlak is gone. Whether Ka’Torag-Na is involved or not remains to be seen, but H’dlak is _dead._ He doesn’t know where the body is, and he doubts he can find the corpse before it is disposed of.

 _“Ki’sei,”_ the Elder nods once. _“The trial must proceed without them.”_

Daga grunts, satisfied with Migo’s cooperation.

* * *

_Forced to his knees by the blade of a wrist gauntlet, his head is wrenched up and mask ripped off. The man roars in fury and lashes out against the two ic’jit holding him down. He is a fighter, but numbers are against him; no sooner than he smashes one off him does another step up to take his place. Broken bio-mask sensors dangle from his cranium while the ic’jit in front of him chitters in laughter and steps forward._

_“Cetanu take all of you!” Migo snarls at the lot._

_Laughter swells up among the dishonorable warriors. Like a herd of hyena, the cackling and clicks grows until the raucous moment drowns out everything else. The ic’jit in front him—ui’sybi, ui’stbi, ui’stbi!—uncaps a vial. A hand with razor sharp talons shreds part of his eyelid. Migo’s thrashing doesn’t stop, but the ic’jit hold him down as their leader tips the liquid into his eye._

_Half his sight bleeds out with his screams. The other half blurs from the tears springing into his eyes. The action feels dishonorable, but he knows even sobs are more honorable than the c’jit of these ic’jit._

_“You could’ve picked another planet.” The leader chirrups away. “Any other planet but this one. This one’s ours. And we don’t let anyone off our planet without paying a price. Your head will do nicely—”_

_“I want the spine,” one of the ic’jit grappling Migo and holding him still calls out._

_“You may have it,” the leader of the ic’jit nods. “We’ll make good profit off your ship, kv’var-de. Good, dishonorable coin, the way life is meant to be. No more c’jit about honor. But we’ll toy with you first. Tempted to see how long it takes for your vocals to tear once we cut you open.”_

_They will kill him. They will torture him first, then they will kill him._

_He knows he has faced death many times. He has fought and hunted and lived the life of glory, of honor, of everything a sain’ja dreams of! He has mated and produced worthy hunters, spread his seed across dozens of lines, and established a legacy fitting a man of his stature! He has experienced every high life can give._

_He has lived and faced the final rest._

_He has lived, and he knows one day he will die._

_But his idea of the final rest is not this: beaten beyond recognition, with a group of ‘cjit slicing him into tiny pieces and letting his body bleed out. It is a fate worthy of ic’jit, not for him! Not for him!_

_He doesn’t want to die yet._

_He wants to return to H’dlak._

_He wants to enjoy the comforts of food, of honor, and of c’ntlip among bed sheets and warm bodies._

_He will do anything to survive._

_The leader of the ic’jit group springs a dah’kte and reaches for him._

_“Stop—Stop!” Migo howls. “Wait! Wait!”_

_“The Elder wants to beg!” One of the ic’jit jeers. “A coward!”_

_“Disgraceful!”_

_“You call yourself honorable?! Hypocrite! Liar!”_

_“I want,” the Elder chokes out. “To live—To—”_

_A hand smashes into his mandibles. He hears something break. The roar of pain is agonizing. The humiliation that follows stings his pride worse than the deepest r’ka wound._

_“Ballsy. Real gonads there.” One of the ic’jit, a younger one judging by the vivid coloration of their pelt, calls from the side. More laughter ensues._

_“Humor us, Elder. Put yourself at our feet and offer us the universe.” The leader clicks, amused at the idea._

_He’s thrown to the ground. Migo bows and grits his teeth. His body shakes in pain while the man rakes his mind for anything worthy of his life._

_“I can… I will…”_

_To betray his honor and will and everything he has? All to live? To see H’dlak again?_

_“I hold influence in my clan—In Gahn’tha-cte,” his clicks are rushed and messy. “I can—I can supply weapons—Ammunition—Food—Ships! Training!”_

_It is beginning of the end of Migo-Kujhade’s honor._

* * *

It is disgusting to watch Akrei-non-Daga force the man through the rhetorical wringer. Every action taken, every thought voiced, an endless torrent of questions: something new rises with each passing second and nothing is enough to satisfy the clan leader. The farce is embarrassing to watch and degrading to acknowledge when he considers why Daga does it. It is all a flex of power, a means of forcing his clan members to acknowledge their position as subordinates, and a way for Daga to revel in his own authority. Migo now understands why Daga punished the other members of the expedition team.

Whether influenced by Ikthya-De or not, Akrei-non-Daga enjoys exerting control.

M-di-H’chak is the only target to the leader’s humiliating questions and insulting verbal jabs. He does not try to defend himself. Migo watches him curiously as Daga goes on and on, pointing out new inconsistences in the man’s initial testimony or underhandedly commenting on his status as Arbitrator. There is no recognition for the Elite rank H’chak supposedly retains. There is no respect offered to a man not yet deemed guilty.

 _This is a mistake. This is all a mistake._ He knows, he knows, he knows.

He is making a mistake allowing Daga to continue this c’jit show of a trial.

* * *

 _“Get away from me! Ui’stbi!”_ The roars are full of deep-rooted hate and a pain she knows she cannot understand. Her clear eyes look back and she stares at the trembling, bleeding form of her mate’s twin brother.

He is a broken man, but her sympathy conflicts with the offense she feels at the comment. _Ui’stbe._

Abomination.

“I am the Vekin FLORA. You may call me FLORA, or address me as Sundew. We need to move—” She tries to explain her reasoning, her judgement, but all her words fall on the floor as Gahn’tha-cte-Guan howls and tries to lash out at Ivon. FLORA is there in a second; she converts critical mass to energy and throws herself between the human and attacking, bleeding Yautja. Her hands catch Guan’s weak blow and she shoves him backward with a hiss. His blood stains her hands and arms as she shouts, “Stop this!”

The man doesn’t listen. FLORA yells in pain when a punch throws her into the wall. She cannot absorb the blow fast enough to respond before Gahn’tha-cte-Guan is upon her. FLORA grits her teeth and electricity crackles; she throws out an arc of energy and forces him back. More electricity burns at her hands and arms; it burns through her mesh sleeves and _hurts_ like no tomorrow but the Vekin holds it steady and squares up at the much larger individual.

“Do not make me do to you what I did to Ma’or.” She spits the words. “Do not make us repeat the past.”

“The past?” Ivon stares at her from the side. They snap their head back and forth, blond hair astray as FLORA remains locked on Guan.

 _“Ui’stbi, Vekin! Ui’stbi! Keep the honorable Elder’s name out of your mouth!”_ Guan snaps. _“Chirp died because of you! Because your murderous kind preyed on an Elder!”_

“Your Elder was knowledge we sought to possess at the cost of multiple expirations,” FLORA pries the information out from ancient memories lodged into the core of what she is. The Vekin’s consciousness shakes and for a moment she feels GHOST’s presence grow stronger. She holds GHOST back while mentally juggling her response to Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. “It was a fair trade.”

“Yautja do not trade with lesser species.”

FLORA cocks her head to one side. She makes a point to remain upright, injured but moving, and lift her hands to her mouth. She stares Guan down while licking each one of her fingers dry of his blood from earlier.

“You are unworthy prey.” She whispers.

Gahn’tha-cte-Guan takes a step forward but crumples and howls in pain. Ivon stands behind where his body lays, holding a metal tray in both hands.

“I got your back, Sundew,” the electrician nods. “Let’s get out of here.”

 _“Pauk ell’osde!”_ Guan cries out from where his body lays sprawled on the floor. _“Chirp died because of you—Ui’stbi! Ui’stbi!”_

She opens her mouth to retort, but FLORA stops at the recollection provoked by one of Guan’s earlier statements. _Chirp died because of you._

_Chirp._

_Died._

_Because._

_Of._

_You._

In her head, she hears the late head nurse’s voice; the memory involves her. Her clear eyes widen. Sundew doesn’t expect the late Bist’ri to know anything of the encounter involving Elder Ma’or and the Vekin.

“Beee…st…err…eeee,” She mutters the name slowly. It is slow enough for Guan to pick up on it, as the man’s head snaps up and he angles his mask at her, aghast. FLORA looks at him with a mixture of pity and agitation. “Did you tell her about the Vekin? Did you tell her about my kind?”

 _They want to hunt us, FLORA._ GHOST warns the Vekin. _They want to turn us into livestock! Prey!_

 _I can not let you hunt my species to nigh extinction. Not even if you are my mate’s brother._ FLORA turns the thought over in her head. Her hands clench into fists. She turns to Ivon, “Please—Do not judge what I may do here.”

“What I may do… What are you—What do you mean?” Ivon sounds confused and rightfully so.

 _I am sorry, H’chak. I cannot put his life before all of my kind._ FLORA’s eyes water.

 _“How do you know her name?”_ Guan’s voice stirs her from her consciousness.

FLORA exhales. “It does not matter—”

 _“It does!”_ The man barks, weak but defiant. _“It does—She—She deserved the world—Why—How do you know of her?”_

“I am an entity of memories. I consume and take and leech from those around me. The late head nurse… I took her blood and the memories stored within. But this one,” FLORA shakes her head. Her thin white hair feels nauseating to have. Part of her wants to rip it all out, along with her flesh, and build a new physical composition from scratch. “You are… You know too much about my kind. Too much for an enemy to know. I cannot allow you to keep existing when my kind struggles to continue.”

“What? You’re going to kill him?” Ivon balks openly at the idea.

FLORA nods once. “What other choice do I have? My kind was almost hunted to extinction because of Yautja clans. We were spared because the clans of that time wanted to hunt us in greater numbers. They wanted the Vekin to rebuild so they could tear everything from us again.”

 _“Pauk.”_ Guan curses softly.

“But he’s—He’s—Mercy’s brother—Sundew—Mercy—Maelstrom—Their brother!”

“What do you suggest, Ivon Yurvchik?” FLORA doesn’t mean to snap, but she does. Her hands tense into fists and she bares her teeth, fully aware her mouth remains stained green from C’it-na’s corpse. “I allow him to live and nurture a pack to hunt my species down and eliminate us from the universe?”

“Yeah, and Mercy used to threaten to fucking rip my spine out! But he—He didn’t. Not in the end. He,” the human hesitates. Their brows furrow a moment later and Ivon meets FLORA’s gaze. “—When we thought you were dead—He did everything he could to help protect Jo and I. The two—The two humans who—Who he’s called nothing. Unworthy fuckin’ prey, Sundew! He changed, and… Maybe his brother can, too.”

“I can not leave him alive and to his own devices—”

“You said we’re taking him with us, right? Have Mercy watch him. He’ll never forgive you if you kill his brother.” Ivon’s words sting.

FLORA turns away. Her hands drop to her sides. “…He will not forgive me when he learns of my involvement in Chirp’s death.”

She knows her words baffle Ivon. The latter is too innocent and oblivious to the tragedies she’s inspired.

“But I… I…” FLORA holds her head in her hands. “I do not want to hurt him again—Hurt him more—Why was I—I was willing to force his brother into expiration! The man he—He realized—He could not hate any longer—”

It is a mess. She does not know what parts of herself fuel the torrent of emotions welling up and bubbling forth. Her cries are soft but pained and every bit evident of the guilt she feels for causing H’chak so much pain. She knows she is responsible for sparking the encounter which led to Ma’or’s death. The old Yautja in her mind has always been right; she is a terrible entity who should have expired long before now.

She wonders if H’chak will expire her by his hand when he learns the truth.

She loves him.

She doesn’t want him to hurt because of her.

 _Chirp died because of you._ The memory burns in her mind. She staggers and drops to her knees, weakened both by the fight with C’it-na, the roughhousing with Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, and the emotional strife invoked by the knowledge she cannot atone for. 

“I am a monstrous thing, Ivon,” FLORA whispers to her friend. She feels the hot streak of tears roll off her cheeks. “Vekin are monstrous things.”

“I don’t believe that.” Ivon argues. They inhale deeply and look at Guan. “—Sundew—We—We can talk about… About all _this_ later—We need to get out of here. We need to get Maelstrom and Mercy and Jo and go—With or without him.” They gesture at Guan.

By this point, the Yautja has crawled several feet away and dragged himself up using the wall. He leans against it and shakes violently. His face remains concealed by his mask, but the pain is obvious in his trembling posture. The anger and pain and raw, raw _sorrow_ hurts to look at; FLORA averts her gaze a second later.

 _“—How? How—How do you know her?”_ He snarls at her.

“Bist’ri?” The name is easier to say this time.

Guan growls at her.

“I took her blood to confirm she spoke truth when meeting with my mate—”

 _“Disgusting,”_ Guan retches and hisses at the thought.

FLORA shakes her head. “Your answer is there. Bist’ri spoke with my mate, your brother, and then I took her blood to confirm she was not lying. She… Her memories… Contain unprecedented suffering.”

She hears the man curse and cry, then curse again, this time directed at himself.

“She wanted to protect you.” The Vekin adds after a second. “She—”

 _“I know she did! She met the final rest for it! For—”_ Guan breaks down into another series of sobs.

FLORA does not know what else to say. She shuts her eyes and turns from him.

_Chirp. Died. Because. Of. You._

Her eyes snap open. She knows where the words are from. They come from a memory belonging to Gahn’tha-cte-Guan, one where he is a patient with a communications line connecting him to the then-head nurse Bist’ri. It is recent and fresh, frighteningly so, and she recalls how Bist’ri was executed mere day cycles prior.

“She did not believe what she said,” FLORA tells the Yautja sitting against the wall.

Guan growls at her again.

“She was—She knew what she was doing—But it had a purpose—”

 _“Don’t remind me!”_ He tries to stand again and collapses against the wall.

Ivon freezes nearby, unsure what to do.

“Why did she do it? To protect you?” FLORA imagines a series of dots joining like the outline of a constellation. “Tell me—”

 _“She drove me away so I couldn’t testify against her words,”_ he breaks, but FLORA cannot convey sympathy when her attention is being pulled by the picture unfolding in her mind. _“She testified I was a victim to her actions—Then she—She confessed to murdering her brother.”_

_Tarei._

Tarei is the missing piece.

FLORA ignores the man’s recoil when she springs forward. She doesn’t care; her hands go to his shoulders and she grips them tightly. Her brows furrow. “—She did not murder her brother.”

Guan tries to shake her off, but he is too weak and pained to fight back. _“Ikthya-De possesses video of—"_

“I possess memories of the event,” FLORA cuts him off. “She brought Tarei expiration—But it was not murder as defined by your code of honor; it was not the actions of a Bad Blood. Her brother was the one who attempted to murder her—” The pieces line up and FLORA’s mind spirals into a frenzy of hunger. She yearns to feed on new knowledge, but her self-control holds long enough for her to whisper the revelation, “It was an act of self-defense.”


	77. the trial of m-di-h'chak part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gihjgfihjifghjifghifghigfhi
> 
> tw for:  
> -jo is roughly handled  
> -talk of cheating  
> -talk of pregnancy  
> -character death implied

_“I don’t believe you,”_ the man chitters softly, his intact mandibles straining against his broken ones.

Anger doesn’t override the emptiness he feels at the thought of Bist’ri. Hope cannot take him when he is so numb. His mind remains a mess of heavy emotions and conflicting information. He cannot believe his brother mated the same bastard species which murdered the late Elder Ma’or and led to Chirp’s demise. He cannot believe the same species is now here trying to convince him to trust her! He can’t believe Elder Kwei-Tyioe could be defeated, or that Bist’ri didn’t tell him about killing her brother, or… Or…

He feels confused. He feels grief. He feels everything well up inside of him, hapless against the intense feelings seizing him from the inside out. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan leans weakly against the wall where he has fallen to one knee. Without adrenaline, his energy wanes. Without rage, he doesn’t find motivation to move, let alone shake off the Vekin’s ooman-like hands. She feels cold, _freezing_ cold, and her grip invokes terrible tremors which set off pain receptors all over again.

“Look at me.” The Vekin says, tone firm.

He does not, but a hand moves from his shoulder to his head and _wrenches_ his head up by the edge of his bio-mask. His eyes stare at the silvery entity he saw long ago, on the extraction trip from Scutum-186f. He feels hate for everything she is.

“Sundew—” The ooman nearby speaks but the Vekin shakes her head.

Her grip tightens on his mask. Guan hisses softly at her. The Vekin shuts her clear eyes and leans down to whisper into one aural canal. “—You have every right to hate me. I am not asking to be allies. I care about _H’chak._ What affects you… ripples unto him.”

 _“H’chak deserves to meet Cetanu.”_ Guan snaps, too overwhelmed by a new surge of grief to think straight.

“He does not. He is a different man. You two have already met on due terms and agreed to work together. You do not need to care for him, but he now expresses concern for you, so I will extend the same.”

She lets go of his head and stands upright. The Vekin extends a hand, which Guan doesn’t take. The man glares at her from behind his mask. _“I don’t want your concern, Vekin.”_

“You will if it clears Bist’ri’s name.” The entity states, nodding stiffly when Guan shudders.

 _“She’s gone,”_ he repeats. _“She’s gone.”_

“As I said before—That is… improbable. Unlikely. I do not believe it, but even if it was true: if you had the chance to clear the name of someone you love, would you not take it?” The word _love_ stirs something inside the disgraced hunter. His face fills with heat at the ooman concept flitting through his head. The Vekin nearby cocks her head to one side and waits for a response. When he gives none, she kneels next to him. “Your testimony… It proves you and she held mutual desires for the other. It was a series of interactions equally yearned after by both parties. If those charges brought against her were dismissed—What makes her a Bad Blood? What fouls her name?”

 _“Her… brother.”_ Guan’s eyes widen.

“Taaah-rghhhhh-eigh,” The Vekin struggles briefly with the pronunciation. She gives up on it eventually and clears her throat. “Her name can be cleared. Is that not enough for you to put aside the past? To find a semblance of closure or of peace? Or,” the entity purses her lips, pale and void of color. “…do you hate me more than you loved her?”

She stands but extends a hand to him and holds it there.

His orange eyes water. _I… Bist’ri…_

By Paya, by _the_ payas, by Cetanu, by every god of old and new, by the stars in the sky and the glory of the Hunt, by the beautiful skies and throes of space and the eternity lost to the void, _he loved her._

 _“They wouldn’t spare her. Ikthya-De—Daga—Wouldn’t.”_ Guan chokes on his own words.

“There is a way to find out.” The Vekin offers.

“Oh—Oh, Sundew—You can—Can’t you look through, um, his… Memories? Not his as in—Not—Not Mercy’s brother—” the ooman nearby sputters and stumbles over words while ‘Sundew’ looks at them. It’s a strange sight: a lethal alien lifeform confiding in one of the soft meats for advice. “—The nurse. The one who… The green one.”

 _C’it-na._ Guan shudders involuntarily. He does not look at the head nurse’s remains. Even if he doesn’t feel sympathy for C’it-na, he cannot fathom the dishonorable death a Vekin brings.

“We do not have time for me to peruse his memories,” the Vekin sounds apologetic, and she frowns when she looks back at Guan. “—But—If she is a prisoner—She would be held with the other prisoners in the containment cells. Correct?”

He says nothing.

Sundew’s lips quirk up in a false smile. “Do you hate me more than you love her?”

 _“M-di,”_ Guan hisses. He grits his teeth and bows his head. _“But I hate you the same.”_

Her hand remains outstretched: cold and small, a trick to play weak until prey is close enough to ambush. But Guan is a predator, not prey, and when Sundew does not withdraw the offer, he reaches for her hand and takes it.

* * *

The clips play again in front of the Yautja present. The Amazon Rainforest splays in beautiful greens and vivid browns, with several distinct, muscular figures present. In one clip, the Arbitrator M-di-H’chak attacks and murder Kwei-Luar’ke, a former sniper in the Ka’Torag-Na military force. In another clip: M-di-H’chak is an angry, furious warrior who catches, subdues, and defeats the brawler T’gou in a quick but intimidating display of physical prowess. As the latter clip ends, the mask of T’gou records H’chak returning to the injured ic’jit Vayuh’ta and the strange silvery lifeform at her side.

A _Vekin_.

It has been a long time since they heard of a Vekin outside their wife, or beyond the Ka’Torag-Na whispers of _Vekin_. A worthy prey, far from the worthiest but worthy indeed, with abilities to adapt and shift mid-fight, giving the species a harrowing advantage over _most_ predatory species. The species resilience was once widespread, but a period of intense hunting reduced the numbers of Hives to nigh zero. Supposedly, those that remained devolved into the lesser capable and unworthy prey known as the Im-Gen.

They know that isn’t the case for _this_ creature. The silvery creature in the recording taken from T’gou’s mask proves the Vekin is there. No Im-Gen could survive what the Vekin puts herself through, or what the ic’jit Vayuh’ta does to her before T’gou and Kwei-Luar’ke find her. A Vekin has resilience, but an Im-Gen does not.

 _Is that what… they want us to think? Im-Gen… Vekin… Are they all faking their ineptitude and inabilities? For their own survival?_ Dto-Bhu’ja, Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na questions as they stand at the side in Gahn’tha-cte’s council hall and observe the proceedings.

There is only one Elder present aside from the clan leader. Migo-Kujhade is an interesting fellow with one bad eye and one good eyes, supposedly from a hunt but never proven. The Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na contemplates as they listen; they turn possibilities over in their head, never proven or conclusive but enough to pass the time. The trial is a tedious, tiring process which bores the Shadow. They yearn to be done with it all and return to the world of light where their wife and unborn offspring await. Returning to Photon with a prisoner will be a difficult task, but they have confidence in their abilities to talk things through with the matriarch.

They need to take the ic’jit to the planet of light. FLUX needs medical personnel for the eventual birth. Dto-Bhu’ja is not a frugal individual; they will seize whatever necessary to provide care for their beloved.

 _Bist’ri. A former head nurse and former Adjutant._ The Shadow feels… _satisfied_ with accepting the ic’jit and putting her in Ka’Torag-Na custody. They question why Clan Gahn’tha-cte is eager to rid itself of such a valuable prisoner, but they decide not to bring it up mid-trial; Akrei-non-Daga is drawling enough as is and when the plasma charges begin detonating everything will go to _c’jit_.

 _“—I told you twice, Leader Akrei-non-Daga,”_ the stubborn Arbitrator on trial reasserts himself. He growls at the clan leader. _“I am not—I was not protecting the ic’jit! My concern was the Im-Gen!”_

 _“And why would you concern yourself with a lesser species?”_ Daga asks, voice silky smooth.

 _“Multiple Yautja claim he has taken her as a mate.”_ Elder Migo-Kujhade leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. He angles his mask to the side and clicks, _“You cannot take an Im-Gen as a mate! The indecency—”_

 _“I have already done so. I have seeded her, marked her, sworn my body, heart, and life to her name. She is mine, and I am hers.”_ H’chak looks to the side.

 _That’s a mistake._ The Shadow keeps their words to themself as both Elder Migo and Leader Daga make disgusted faces and irate clicking noises.

 _“Disgusting.”_ Daga hisses. _“You seeded prey. This is beneath you.”_

 _“I did so willingly.”_ H’chak clicks. _“I would do so again! In front of the whole clan if necessary! I swore myself to her and I will uphold that vow!”_

 _“That’s… hysterical, given you weren’t upholding it when I was beneath you. H’chak.”_ The voice comes from the council hall’s double doors. A dark-pelted figure strides forward, donned in extravagant silks and ornate, ceremonial pieces of veritanium armor. Ikthya-De’s gleaming yellow eyes stare H’chak down while she approaches the ascending chairs and bows before Akrei-non-Daga. “ _I have testimony, Leader Daga.”_

 _“What is it?”_ Daga drums fingers on the rests of his seat. _“Speak, Ikthya-de!”_

_“This man claims to have devoted himself to an Im-Gen in life partnership. But that is incorrect. Just days ago, he chose to lay with me and reciprocate the carnal desires he possesses. He mated me, and I have been taken by his seed and blessed to announce—”_

_“You aren’t with my pups!”_ H’chak howls at the woman. The two Arbitrators serving as guards step in between H’chak and Ikthya-De before the latter can attack one another.

In this time, Dto-Bhu’ja notes the presence of an old, ornate sword shoved into a sheathe and clasped at Ikthya-De’s waist. It is older than anything they think of.

 _“We do not have time to confirm these allegations.”_ Elder Migo looks up the ascending rows of seats and stares at Daga.

Daga clicks, _“Ki’sei. Continue with the trial.”_

* * *

In the morning hours of the day cycle, Guan-Tjau’ke sits at the side of her unconscious friend. She watches over M-di-Guan-Lar’ja like a hawk; her heightened vigilance is out of new distrust for the nurses of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division. Her bio-mask is affixed to her face, and a wrist gauntlet holds her computer to her left wrist and arm. She taps a command into the computer while she sits. There is no more information on her son’s trial; her gut remains twisted with worry, but she knows she cannot change the outcome. She has no other leverage or strings to pull upon.

 _Perhaps… today is the day I too bid farewell to my pup._ She thinks, reflecting on Ju’dha’s recent departure.

She feels rough, calloused fingers brush her own, then return to her hand and linger. Her eyes open and she snaps her head in the direction of the Yautja sprawled out on the metal table next to her. The soft, glossy white irises looking back at her is enough to steal her breath. Then—The pain comes back, fueled within Guan-Tjau’ke by jealousy she is painfully aware of. She leans over nonetheless and puts her other hand on top of Lar’ja’s. The first words she clicks are, _“Can you hear me?”_

Sleepy blinks inform her _yes_. Tjau’ke’s four hearts shudder in her chest. She feels her eyes grow wet behind her mask, but she does not break down or sob. She nods stiffly; her long, twisting locs shift and fall to cover the front of her shoulder. In a way, her locs act as a barrier between herself and her old friend.

 _“Tj…Tjau…”_ Lar’ja fails to click her name.

 _“I know, I know, I’m here, I can hear you,”_ she reassures the woman, nodding once more. Tjau’ke squeezes the former Elder’s hand ever-so-gently, as if afraid _she_ might break the injured woman. When she gets no response, Guan-Tjau’ke exhales. _“Lar’ja—What do you—Can you remember anything? Before the fight?”_

The other Yautja’s white eyes are beautiful, like a shining celestial body come midnight.

 _“…M-di.”_ Lar’ja moans in pain and fails to sit up. Tjau’ke carefully helps her back into a laying position. Lar’ja stares somewhat indignantly at the former head nurse’s lack of help. _“…need… Must… Gu…an?”_

 _“He’s alive,”_ Tjau’ke hushes her. _“He’s alive, Lar’ja. Him and H’chak have not met the final rest yet.”_

The words appear to soothe the former Elder. M-di-Guan-Lar’ja’s eyes slide shut and she groans in agony once more. Her breathing is pained. Without serum, the healing process is drawn out and every bit excruciating as an injection of serum might be.

 _“If you are—Strong enough to move—I should turn you—”_ Tjau’ke begins to stand and pull her hand back, but Lar’ja’s one hand clings to it weakly. Tjau’ke stills. She cannot deny the heat rising in her face when Lar’ja’s thumb weakly rubs the back of two fingers. _“Lar’ja?”_

 _“I…”_ Such shallow, sharp breaths and hollow words fall from the Yautja’s mandibles. _“…lost…?”_

_“Sei-i.”_

_“Tjau…”_

_“Don’t bring it up now. Don’t, Lar’ja,”_ the woman says, a note of ire mixing into her worry. _“What’s done is—It’s… We cannot change the outcome. Neither of us. You lost, and that is—It is one of the things—We must face—On our own.”_

 _“Own…?”_ Lar’ja trills in hushed tones, confused.

Guan-Tjau’ke looks to the side, though her hand doesn’t leave Lar’ja’s. _“Rest.”_

 _“Tjau… Tjau… ke. Tjau’ke—”_ Lar’ja repeats the name in a daze, half-lidded eyes hinting at the heavy exhaustion possessing her. The grip on Tjau’ke’s hand grows tighter. _“Set… Setg’in—”_

The former head nurse pauses, concerned. Lar’ja has not spoken openly of Setg’in in a time. Perhaps it is what drugs _are_ inside the former Elder’s system, or a questionably coherent desire to share, but Lar’ja’s words draw her focus. Tjau’ke stares from behind her mask; her attention belongs, undoubtedly, to Lar’ja.

 _“Set… She…”_ the former Elder stumbles over her own words. Lar’ja grows frustrated with herself. Her mandibles twitch weakly and she groans again. Eventually, the old Yautja manages to force out, _“Want… me… happy—with—with… With…”_

The hand curled around hers slips away. For a moment, Tjau’ke stares with wide, gray-blue eyes, terrified the other Yautja might've experienced a sudden complication in her body. But the hand does not _fall_ ; it rises. Tjau’ke stops as Lar’ja’s hand caresses the cheek of her mask. Even without the physical sensation of a hand on her face, it is enough to make her swallow and fall silent.

 _“With you,”_ Lar’ja whispers.

Her hands grab Lar’ja’s. Tjau’ke curls both hands around Lar’ja’s one and holds it against her mask, savoring every second of attention, of want, of affection. She craves more of it; she yearns to drown herself in her old friend’s scent and sounds until she herself is but a boat adrift Lar’ja’s ocean. She knows things are so much more complicated than she wants them to be, but she allows herself a moment of respite. Tjau’ke leans into Lar’ja’s touch and grits her teeth. _“—You—We need to talk—Talk about so much, Lar’ja, so much, but—I—I can’t do that until you recover. Until you are of sound mind. I… You don’t remember the day you lost your honor?”_

 _“M-di.”_ The former Elder croaks. Her one arm remains outstretched, hand rubbing circles into the metal of Tjau’ke’s mask.

 _“Perhaps you will—After you rest,”_ Tjau’ke clicks softly. _“I need you to rest, Lar’ja. Rest.”_

 _“Stay. Stay,”_ Lar’ja repeats the two words until she trails off, voice fading in her waning strength. Her chest continues to rise and fall, but the Yautja’s exhaustion and pain appears to spirit her into a new slumber.

Tjau’ke sets Lar’ja’s hand on the table next to the latter’s thigh. Her eyes squeeze shut; she exhales a single name, _“Lar’ja…”_

Initially, she intends to send a message to Ju’dha about Lar’ja waking up, but no sooner Tjau’ke begins inputting the command does she hear a loud, tremulous _roar._ It sounds like a Yautja roaring before a fight, and it jars Tjau’ke enough for her to climb to her feet and walk to the door of the room. She holds a palm to the door; it slides open, disappearing into the wall. Tjau’ke expects to see one of the two Elite guards standing at the door to Lar’ja’s room, but when she looks out and scans the corridor, she sees neither.

Her blue gray eyes widen behind her mask. The woman stills and listens. In the distance, she hears things being thrown aside, crashing and yowling as if others are wrestling in a _kehrite,_ only there is no _kehrite_ on this level of the ship. She hesitates at the open door. The Yautja looks over her shoulder at Lar’ja’s slumbering form, then faces forward. _I can’t leave her._

A terrible cry reverberates through the corridor. The quills on Tjau’ke’s neck and head flatten against her pelt. She stares as the noises become more distant; footsteps take their place and a shadow falls from around the corner. Tjau’ke tenses and prepares to duck back inside Lar’ja’s room and lock the door when she sees the flash of ashy gray peer around the corridor. The black eyes are sunk deep and full of tears; the uncharacteristic display of emotion on the nurse makes Tjau’ke’s four hearts ache.

 _“Leitjin—”_ Tjau’ke calls to them. She clicks in concern and waves them over. _“Leitjin—What is going on? Why are you like this? Your uniform—Vestments—Where are your things?”_

 _“It’s coming! It’s coming! I need help, please, Honorable—Tjau’ke!”_ The much younger Yautja babbles a moment, repeating the last phrase over and over. They grab Tjau’ke’s arms and cling to her. _“I’m not… I cannot fight it. I am weak!”_

 _Poor Leitjin._ Tjau’ke tenses where she stands. _You possess basic skill in combat. You and most nurses… You are not meant for the battlefield. Not you, Leitjin!_

 _“Is something out there?”_ Tjau’ke inquires, urgent but gentle.

 _“Ui’stbi,”_ the nurse clicks frantically. _“A ui’stbi! It—it—”_

They are cut off by the _snarls_ and howls of surprise from outside the room. Great thumping and buzzing fill the air as metal bends and something rips in another part of the medical division. A catastrophic explosion rumbles and shakes the drawers, cabinets, and all objects not tied down. Tjau’ke herself braces against a wall to keep from falling over. She snaps her head at the door then looks at Leitjin wide-eyed, _“Ui’stbi?! Here on the ship? How—"_

 _“I just wanted my sirer! They—They took him away… Took the ooman, too! The nice one! Took ‘em both and…”_ Leitjin rambles again, voice shaking as much as their hands do.

 _“What about the other nurses? The guards?”_ Tjau’ke inquires, increasingly alarmed. _“Leitjin!”_

_“The guards took ‘em both from me!”_

_Why?_ Tjau’ke questions silently.

 _“I can’t—”_ Leitjin pauses in their answer. _“I can’t… Won’t… Trust the nurses—None of them! I—I almost ran from you, but—I thought—You lost your honor when Elder Lar’ja lost hers? You wouldn’t… You wouldn’t work with C’it-na… With… With…”_

 _The head nurse._ Tjau’ke’s hands ball into fists. She snaps at the nurse, _“Where is he now? Did he hurt you?”_

Leitjin begins to reply just as a _crash_ of something dents the metal of the _wall._ Horrid buzzing and screeches fill the room just beyond the walls. Tjau’ke steps between Leitjin and the dent in the wall; she stares in disbelief as thick, hefty claws tear and rip strips of metal froma the wall.

A red, chitinous figure stands beyond, as tall as a Yautja but strangely _not_ Yautja.

Tjau’ke doesn’t know _what_ it is but she knows the figure is not Yautja.

It rips through the wall and throws the scrap metal at her and Leitjin. Tjau’ke blocks it with her arms in time for the monstrosity to jump forward and slam into the floor near her feet. She instinctively kicks at its legs but the buzzing noise—the damn, _damn_ noise—swarms her mind. She howls in pain and throws aimless jabs and kicks in the direction of _red_. Her strikes land; she forces it backward even as the monstrosity’s mouth splits and opens along multiple mandibles to spit her direction. The saliva isn’t acidic, but the act _disgusts_ her; Tjau’ke curses a storm and tackles the monster.

 _“Leave! Alert others to the ui'stbi!”_ She barks the order to her former nurse. Leitjin hesitates and Tjau’ke bellows a roar to emphasize the severity of her words. Leitjin scampers off with a cry. As their steps fade, Tjau’ke wrestles the monstrosity to no avail.

Somehow, some way, the creature is on par with her own strength and training. She rolls over and over with the creature; the two are a mess of flailing limbs, claws, and teeth. Maws bite into her attire and rip at the fabrics. Teeth puncture her pelt. She screams in agony as small chunks of flesh tear from her body, but Tjau’ke does not relent attacking the creature. For as many of her locs are marred and shredded, she rips and slashes the monstrosity in sight until its _thwei_ stains the ground. For as much as her skin is split and cracked and torn open, she gouges out red chitin from the monster’s body and throws it aside. Adrenaline and pain fuel her frenzy until a snap of limbs and hideous roar informs her the monster has broken her left arm.

In the shock of it all, the huntress pauses long enough for the monstrosity to smash the back of her head against the wall. A sickening crack follows. Tjau’ke drops to her knees and groans weakly before the creature descends upon her.

 _Lar’ja…_ Her eyes fall upon the table where the former Elder rests. Darkness swarms Tjau’ke’s vision. _I failed._

* * *

He doesn’t think the clan leader can piss him off more than he already has, but the second Daga calls for the _ooman_ to be hauled out, H’chak’s spirit _burns_ inside him. He clenches his teeth and shudders where he stands as the ooman _Joan Mackenzie_ is marched inside the hall. She looks better than she could be, but it is obvious by the big, puffy eyes and scent of salt and mucus the woman cries.

Seeing the tough, brave, foolish ooman _bawl_ is heinous. H’chak knows most oomans are not worth his time, but he knows Jo is someone who deserves a _sliver_ of respect; there is a reason his mate admires Jo so deeply. He begrudgingly respects Jo; the woman lived through much hardship and survived. She is strong, like a Yautja, and to see her like _this_ , so very _not_ Yautja, is…

 _What did you do to her?_ Is the Arbitrator’s first thought. He imagines a pit of simmering water in his gut: it floods his veins and fills him with hatred. How _dare_ Akrei-non-Daga lay a hand on her! How _dare_ Akrei-non-Daga hurt _Jo._ H’chak knows damn well Sundew would face a thousand suns to keep Jo safe. He cannot deny the flicker of a protective streak within his chest; he cannot stop himself from visibly seething before Akrei-non-Daga, the ooman, and Elder Migo.

The latter faces him, unreadable. H’chak growls lowly, deeply, _threateningly_. _“You brought the ooman here?”_

 _“She was implanted with a translator chip. Speak, ooman... Tell us what this Yautja did during his time on… Terra.”_ Daga clicks at Jo. It is unbecoming to see.

The woman is a trembling mess. Even now, with tear-streaks on her cheeks and her afro messed from Yautja hands dragging her through who knows what, the woman attempts to put together some composure. H’chak’s chest aches. He wonders if it is fear or hate or both which plague her. He wonders if she is angry, or if terror blots out the _rage_.

Daga clicks once at the Arbitrator behind Jo. The Yautja, Garra, jabs a long spear at the woman’s back. Jo flinches and walks forward. Her heat signature continues to shake even as Daga chirps at her to speak.

“He…” Jo begins, but she stops and shakes her head.

The air becomes thick with tension. H’chak stares at the ooman’s heat signature.

“No. No,” Jo’s eyes water. “I can’t—"

H’chak smells the fresh tears long before they roll down to Jo’s face.

His orange eyes widen. _What did they do to you?_

 _“Watch your tongue.”_ Daga warns before falling quiet. His hands tense at the armrests of his seat. His foot taps the ground impatiently.

Jo grits her teeth and bows her head, silent.

 _“You will testify, ooman. If you require… motivation,”_ Daga begins. He clicks once at Arbitrator Garra. _“Take an eye, but don’t kill her. Not yet.”_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ Garra bows his head submissively. He grabs Jo by her hair and wrenches her backward. She screams and punches him, but his armor and thick pelt absorb her blows. What would have knocked an ooman flat does nothing to a Yautja.

H’chak feels numb again. He feels useless as he watches Garra growl at the other Arbitrator to help hold Jo’s head still. In his mind, his memories recant a time where it was not an ooman but his _mei-hswei_ by clan who was the victim. H’chak remembers the day Chirp was unjustly executed; the Unblooded met a sudden end because a Vekin attacked the late and honorable Elder Ma’or. Back then, Chirp was an easy out for the Elders trying to cover up the incident. Back then, Chirp was blamed to avoid a deeper investigation. Maybe the Vekin had nothing to do with it, maybe the Vekin were responsible, but the result remains the same: Chirp, executed.

Now the clan leader seeks the same for Jo. He can do nothing to stop it from happening.

 _I must try!_ H’chak thinks. _I did nothing for Chirp then, but now…!  
_

_“Leader Akrei-non-Daga,”_ H’chak clicks once, just as Chi-ver’tai reaches Garra’s side and seizes hold of Jo’s panicking curses and cries. When Garra extends one _dah’kte_ and moves a serrated blade to Jo’s eye, H’chak _roars_ at the clan leader. _“Daga! Where is your honor?! She is not a prisoner! She is a guest!”_

 _“She is nothing.”_ Daga chirps in response, dismissive. _“She’ll be terminated following your trial.”_

 _“I will plead guilty to everything you accuse me of,”_ H’chak snaps, irate but desperate. _“If you do not harm this woman.”_

 _“Don’t you have a… mate, M-di-H’chak? A ‘mate,’”_ Migo repeats the words carefully. _“One of the prey species—The Im-Gen? You mentioned you seeded her. Did you seed this ooman in addition to your ‘mate?’”_

 _“M-di.”_ H’chak growls. _“M-di! I—”_ He picks up the remains of his composure. _“I did not seed this ooman, but I have seen her skills in combat. She is a stubborn and courageous warrior. Her foolishness has lessened in the time since we first met. I believe she has proven herself to be worthy prey; worthy prey should not meet the Black Hunter through unbecoming means. Let her live to serve as a target in a hunt, or—"_

 _“Silence.”_ Akrei-non-Daga snarls the word. The old Yautja rises to his feet and hisses. _“You do not have a say in determining her fate.”_

 _“Leader Daga—”_ Migo begins, but the clan leader ignores him.

 _“You will meet the same, Arbitrator. You are a… stain on Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Akrei-non-Daga leans back in his seat. His muscles ripple from the tension building up in his body.

“…not…” Jo begins. She swallows when Daga snaps his head to face her. The woman shudders. “Not gonna—Say _shit.”_

H’chak hears the clan leader click in soft laughter. The noise terrifies him. Daga growls at the ooman, _“You are… stubborn. M-di-H’chak is correct in that regard.”_

“He’s correct with—Lots of things!” The woman blurts out. Chi-var’tei tightens his grip on her and Jo squirms. 

_“He committed an act of dishonor aiding a Bad Blood on Terra.”_ Elder Migo interjects, lifting a hand and silently ordering the two Arbitrators to release the ooman. Garra and Chi-var’tei comply without hesitation.

H’chak lets out an audible sight of relief. Jo continues to tremble where she stands.

 _“You know…”_ The slinking voice of Ikthya-De comes as she approaches the two Arbitrators and Jo on the circular, raised stand in the center of the hall. The woman clicks at the ooman. _“—This doesn’t have to end poorly for you, ooman. Your loyalty is misplaced. He is a dishonorable man who cheated on his mate—”_

“What?” Jo sputters and gawks at the notion. She snaps her head and her heat signatures faces H’chak. _“What?”_

 _“It is true.”_ H’chak bows his head. He grits his teeth. _“I committed an act of indecency with that woman, but Sundew and I have since resolved this. It is not—It is not relevant to the trial!”_

 _“But it is,”_ Ikthya-De hisses and cuts him off. _“—He is dishonest! Dishonorable! Tell us his actions on Terra and perhaps your execution can be stayed indefinitely.”_

 **“Jo,”** H’chak struggles to put together the ooman vowels of her name. **“Jo-uhhn—”**

“You really…” Jo holds her face in her hands. “That’s— _Fucked_ up! Mercy!”

 _“His name is not Mercy,”_ Ikthya-De clicks briskly, quick to correct her. _“It is ‘merciless.’ He was named for his merciless nature.”_

_“I was named for being a gift to my bearer! A mercy! Merciless came after my chiva—”_

**_“Silence!”_** Daga _roars_ at the hall. Yautja and ooman alike freeze in place. _“We told you to speak, ooman. You have two choices. You will testify to what you witnessed on Terra, or,”_ the clan leader leans forward in his seat. _“You will meet the final rest here, and it will not be swift or peaceful. Choose wisely—”_

“Then kill me,” Jo whispers. Her voice is less shaky; it hints at a mournful resolve.

H’chak finds something admirable about it. He watches, once more at loss for words, at the _ooman_ who stares down his clan leader despite her fear. He does not know what happened to her in his absence, but it is clear others tormented her prior to her being dragged into this hall.

 _“As you wish.”_ Daga clears his throat. His mandibles click together.

 _“Leader Akrei-non-Daga!”_ Migo interrupts him, rising to his feet. The Elder shakes out his arms and looks over his shoulder and up at Daga’s seat. _“This has taken too much of my time today. We have other problems to address. Former Adjutant Yeyinde’s treasonous actions against you, the investigations of further colluding among the Elite ranks… Do not dwell on a prey species as if she is worth more than a passing glance.”_

 _“What do you recommend, Elder Migo? The testimony is evidence, and the evidence is your duty as Elder to review and collect.”_ The clan leader snaps.

_“—The Arbitrator on trial has already proposed pleading guilty to the charges brought against him in exchange for the ooman serving as bait on a hunting reserve planet. I am willing to accept this offer so we can move on to important matters.”_

_“…Ki’sei.”_ Daga mulls the thought over. He nods once. _“M-di-H’chak, with Elder Migo-Kujhade as witness, do you plead guilty to the charges put forth against you?”_

H’chak stiffens. He feels his four hearts thump wildly. Even if it is not for long, the proposition ensures Jo _lives_. He quickly nods. _“I plead guilty—”_

 _“Then Elder Migo-Kujhade will sentence you.”_ Daga waves a hand at the Elder.

Migo-Kujhade faces H’chak. _“…M-di-H’chak, for your crime against Clan Gahn’tha-cte, and for the dishonor presented in aiding the ic’jit Vayuh’ta on Terra, you are hereby stripped of the title Elite, the title of Arbitrator, and the title of Yautja. From this point forward you are denounced by the clans aligned under the Council of Ancients. You are branded a Bad Blood—"_

 _“Ki’sei.”_ H’chak shuts his eyes.

 _“As with all Bad Bloods among the stars—You are recognized to have committed an act of dishonor redeemable only through the offering of thwei. Your life for your honor, M-di-H’chak.”_ Migo grunts, passive. _“If you cannot voluntarily meet the final rest then you will be assisted by an Arbitrator from Clan Gahn’tha-cte.”_

 _“I will offer my life for my honor, Elder Migo-Kujhade.”_ H’chak clicks softly.

 _“I will escort you to the execution chamber! Arbitrators—”_ Migo begins climbing down the stairs until he crosses to the circular stage and stops near Jo, Garra, and Chi-var’tei. _“Take the ooman to the containment cells. Transport the second ooman from the medical bay to the containment cell and wait for my instruction. We will deliver an ic’jit to the Black Hunter, and two oomans to the hunting grounds.”_

_“Right away, Elder!”_

_“Ki’sei, Elder Migo!”_

* * *

On the side of the council hall, the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na bows their head at the scene unraveling before them.

 _A pity._ They keep to themself as the Yautja file out of the room. _FLUX would have enjoyed the ooman's company._


	78. nothing i say or do will spare you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (noises)  
> been so busy lately but  
> wanted to put something up  
> I'm still trying to finish this by the 31st  
> at least the main story  
> there's a couple corners I've been cutting to try and stay on track and I think it's going to work out.

The alarms blare across the medical division. Loud and boisterous, ringing and screeching enough to flood other levels of the clanship. It sets off every warning bell across clan members. Confusion delves into _chaos_ when the power to the medical division cuts out. Darkness settles and forces most Yautja to pull out bio-masks or rely on heat signatures to see.

 _These are not humans._ GHOST reminds her.

“It is not for their benefit,” FLORA answers, body calming under the absence of ultraviolet light. She flexes a hand, shuts her eyes, and breathes in the sounds around her.

“What are we looking for?” Ivon asks, wringing their wrists as they follow her into the hall.

She can feel their movements: her body instinctively sends out energy charges, measuring and gauging the distance between her body and the point at which the energy is intercepted by organic mass. A slow but steady mental map builds in her mind. She takes one step, then another.

“You two,” FLORA breathes softly, her heightened awareness betraying the nerves she feels. “Find H’chak’s _pa-e._ She should be with my mate’s sire—”

 _“We’ll meet at the lift.”_ H’chak’s brother is not kind when he cuts her off. Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s steps are silent as a mouse, yet his ragged, pained breathing gives him away.

“If I am not there—Go to the containment cells! Take everyone to the ship.”

“Find Jo, please,” Ivon begs. “We aren’t—I won’t—Not leaving without her!”

“I will do my best, Ivon.” FLORA ceases talking when she senses Guan grabbing Ivon by the scruff of the latter’s thermal suit and dragging them away into the recesses of the medical bay. Ivon initially protests, but the noises are covered up by new alarms triggered by the creature she vaguely identifies as something called the _Phanes._

 _She_ knows C’it-na’s memories hold the key to unraveling the mess at hand, but there isn’t time to dawdle and peruse the last recollections. Ivon and Guan have a job to do, and so does she if they are to make it off the clanship with everyone intact.

 _We should abandon them. Leave them behind. You know from his memories how to pilot the Kukulkan. The great snake waits in the docking bay._ GHOST’s thoughts echo through her head. FLORA shakes them—and her—off, smothering the remnant of consciousness before she stalks forward.

* * *

_One-by-one, the pods activate._

_Each pod shoots forward from the ship with a burst of light and rumble of engines. The chiva attendees lay dormant inside, forced into torpor until they land on the trial planet below._

_From the Elder’s ship, he watches the energy arcs left in the wake of the pods. He counts each one as the pods disappear. Minutes later, the notifications begin: Migo-Kujhade makes rounds at monitors and large electronic panels, reviewing holographic red symbols and nodding at what he sees. His rumbling growl indicates his approval. All three trial-goers survived the landings and begun the trek to the chiva grounds._

_Still, he does not brush off his concerns. He is not a man of worry, but he is tedious in noting every mishap. Most occur between the two blood kin present, the very same duo belonging to one of the clan’s Elders. The third trial-goer is mature enough to dismiss asinine remarks or overlook provocation that might get a younger Unblooded into a skirmish._

_These are the ones chosen to hunt a Queen for their chiva._

* * *

Jo is ripped from the council hall and taken away. Jo, _his_ Jo, the ooman he calls brave and foolish, is dragged from the council hall kicking and screaming. H’chak freezes in place as he watches one of the Arbitrators— _Garra—_ force the ooman out of view, where the two disappear beyond the council hall’s great double doors. He feels flickers of anger boil inside of him, but the knowledge she is not being taken _directly_ to her death keeps H’chak in line.

He does not stop Chi-var’tei when the Arbitrator hisses the command at his head. _“Walk.”_

M-di-H’chak walks.

As he is led from the council hall, the disgraced hunter hears alarms blare somewhere in the distance. Soft pings alert him to multiple Yautja in the hall receiving messages about something. For a moment Chi-var’tei hesitates, and it is enough for H’chak to recognize the sirens.

 _“The medical bay,”_ He clicks weakly.

 _“That does not concern you, ic’jit,”_ Chi-var’tei berates him. Yet the Arbitrator ceases walking and looks back where Elder Migo-Kujhade stands. “Elder—”

“It is nothing.” Leader Daga snaps from his seat. _“Continue with Elder Migo’s orders, Arbitrator, and your honor will be restored soon enough.”_

 _“Come!”_ Elder Migo-Kujhade snarls and leaps from the ascending seats to the floor. He rises to his feet and strolls past Chi-var’tei before the latter can speak further. H’chak follows promptly, not wishing to taste the blades of an Arbitrator’s _dah’kte_ for fun.

Walking to his death is numbing. He has faced death many times, but the realization he is bound to a definite fate unnerves the man in a new way. H’chak keeps his head bowed submissively as he strides past ogling guards and Elites posted in the observation deck. His nerves are only compounded when the group reaches the main lift. Elder Migo waits for it to rise, but something peculiar happens. The lift groans and shudders before flashing holographic letters splay across the entrance. H’chak cannot make heads or tails of them beyond the fact they _exist_ , as he remains without his bio-mask, but his worry rises when he recalls the alarms for the medical division.

Something has gone very wrong.

 _“The main lift locked itself,”_ the Arbitrator nearest him sounds uncertain. _“If it can’t activate…"_

 _“It will.”_ Migo begins entering something into his own wrist gauntlet.

Briefly, H’chak wonders his odds if he attempts to escape _now_. He cannot get the veritanium cuffs off through brute force, but Elder Migo’s wrist gauntlet could authorize the release! He only needs an opportunity, an opening!

The lift roars to life. Migo clicks, satisfied with his actions; the three fall into silence. Behind the trio, H’chak notes the sounds of many guards shifting and moving in the direction of the council hall. His hairless brows rise, but a click from Migo forces his attention back to the front. _“M-di-H’chak. Ic’jit. I expected you to receive the brand long before this day.”_

 _“As did I.”_ H’chak remarks softly, hissing back pain of his own injured mandibles. He has not healed from what Ikthya-De did to him, nor from Guan’s punch back in the medical bay. Many, _many_ things hurt, but the pain is somehow comforting now: it reminds him he is alive.

 _“Yet you didn’t. The Challenging took place, and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan spared your life in exchange for the respect given to you by your peers. It surprises me,”_ Migo’s voice drawls on, irritating H’chak the longer the man speaks. The Elder doesn’t care; Migo-Kujhade growls lowly whenever H’chak looks away. _“You are an ic’jit now. And that is… Reprehensible.”_

 _“No more reprehensible than the man you call Leader.” H’chak_ cannot hold in his retort.

He pays for it when Chi-var’tei snarls and grabs him by the throat. His legs buckle and dangle wildly as he is lifted off the ground. The pressure on his windpipe grows until the man wonders if Chi-var’tei will snap his neck then and there, but a sudden raise of hand from the Elder nearby prompts Chi-var’tei to hesitate. Migo suddenly smashes Chi-var’tei across the head. H’chak hisses in pain when the Arbitrator drops him.

Chi-var’tei’s head bleeds a bright heat signature. H’chak’s head rings and he grimaces when Migo lifts him up.

 _“He offers his own life for his honor! A willful offering of thwei! You do not have the right of taking it from him, Arbitrator,”_ Elder Migo’s words leaves Chi-var’tei scrambling to his feet and nodding profusely.

H’chak’s orange gaze widens before he squints with suspicion.

Migo-Kujhade is a strange man.

The lift arrives and the three men step into it. Chi-var’tei’s heat signature is tense even as the lift begins to descend through lower levels of the ship.

_“Do you believe Clan Gahn’tha-cte is led by an honorable man, Chi-var’tei?”_

The question goes unanswered, but H’chak snaps upright. He pushes the pain in his bad leg and dislocated mandibles aside in lieu of listening to Migo-Kujhade.

 _“I will not repeat myself.”_ Migo growls at the side, back arching in distaste.

 _“Leader Akrei-non-Daga has never shown signs of dishonor_!” Chi-var’tei’s response is weak. It lacks genuine zeal and enthusiasm.

 _“That is,”_ Migo turns to the Arbitrator. _“Unfortunate.”_

H’chak’s eyes cannot follow what happens next. He doesn’t try to follow the heat signatures. He hears the roar of surprise as the situation turns on end and devours itself. Within seconds, a terrible crack shakes the lift. Elder Migo-Kujhade throws the body of Chi-var’tei aside and utters a soft prayer to Cetanu. The Arbitrator’s body lands at a weird angle. H’chak’s stomach twists with nausea when he ses the man’s neck is broken.

 _“You killed him!”_ The ic’jit bellows. He tries to bash into the Elder, but Migo grabs him in the short charge and smashes him against the lift wall. H’chak howls and struggles but the older man’s grip is firm.

 _“Calm yourself, ic’jit! You are hunting the wrong prey_!” the Elder sounds somber when he chitters and clacks the sentence. He does not release H’chak until the man slumps, helpless in Migo’s grasp. H’chak clenches his inner jaws as he stares at Migo’s heat signature. Migo lets go of him, waits a second, then lifts a hand to his wrist gauntlet and inputs a code.

The veritanium gauntlets hiss and unlock. Blood rushes back to H’chak’s wrists. He balks and holds his hands up, visibly trembling in confusion and shock as sensation returns to his fingers. He flinches backwards and squares up against Migo when the Elder steps toward him. _“What is the meaning of this?”_

 _“Of… this? Releasing you?”_ Migo clicks harshly, irate. _“You believe I will attack you, M-di-h’chak? Murder an Arbitrator to have the ic’jit for myself? You are worth nothing—”_

 _“You free me and insult me?!”_ H’chak cuts off the older Yautja. _“I will die a thousand deaths before I—”_

The Elder has him in his grasp before H’chak can blink. His reactions are not quick enough to keep Migo from smashing him into the wall, again. The Elder’s strength crushes him into the metal. H’chak writhes and fights back with every ounce of his strength; his strength is not enough. When he doesn’t go down from the impact of hitting the lift wall, Migo forces him to the ground and pins him by his wrists. H’chak stares at the heat signature of the Elder Yautja on top of him. He bares his teeth, but Migo’s hiss is enough warning to _behave_.

 _“We hunt the same prey, ic’jit.”_ The Elder snarls, grip tightening on the man’s wrists _. “Do not make me regret my actions. We have little time.”_

 _“You murdered that man.”_ H’chak’s eyes blaze with indignation. _“Hypocrite! Codebreaker!”_

 _“I have been a hypocrite far longer than your lifespan.”_ Migo’s words are lifeless and empty.

H’chak is a merciless man, but even the merciless do not act all the time. He stops struggling when his confusion returns, albeit void of ire or hate. Disbelief keeps his eyes wide and shocked at the Elder’s confession. When Migo climbs off him and growls at him to stand, he does so. H’chak’s bad leg burns and aches terribly; he backs away to the other side of the lift while Migo stares him down.

 _“You confuse me, Elder.”_ H’chak admits. He shudders when Migo kicks the corpse of Chi-var’tei to him.

_“Undress him and don his armor. The lift’s emergency systems will keep it from stopping for anyone but those with the override, but it will not last forever. I cannot override it more than once in a day’s time.”_

_“Load of c’jit—This entire lift,”_ H’chak curses loudly. He complies with Migo’s orders while the lift slowly continues its drop past sealed clanship levels. As he pulls on armor and rips Chi-var’tei’s bio-mask free of the dead Yautja’s skull, the ic’jit pauses and clicks at the silent Elder. _“Explain yourself, Migo-Kujhade.”_

_“It does not matter.”_

_“It does to me! All of this—It has always mattered to me! This is—This was my clan, my home, my kin! Be it by thwei or clan—"_

_“It does not matter,”_ Migo repeats, and the bitterness reveals itself the second Chi-var’tei’s bio-mask connects and synchronizes with H’chak’s nervous system. He activates the optical filters and holds his breath as color floods his senses and overwhelms his orbital nerves.

Migo-Kujhade is a man besieged by loss: a hundred tiny pieces drowning in grief and rage. He is broken, but H’chak does not feel pity.

“ _The Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na has come to swallow Gahn’tha-cte whole. What I say does not matter. But,”_ the Elder turns away from H’chak. In a fight, it would be a death blow: showing the back to an opponent _oozes_ foolishness. H’chak does not act on the opening. He waits, and he listens, and he acknowledges every word Migo says as the latter continues. _“—Your actions—They matter, ic’jit. You and your disgusting mate. A tragedy unfolds here, but you and the lesser prey are not among those who’ve met the final rest.”_

 _You and the lesser…_ H’chak’s hearts thump nervously. His gaze narrows. _Sundew._

 _“When this lift opens, we will face six Elites, and any other guards stationed at the cells containing your allies. Be prepared.”_ Migo-Kujhade grunts softly.

 _“I will not kill innocents.”_ H’chak says.

 _“They are not innocent.”_ Migo’s one good red eye is hidden by his bio-mask, but for a moment H’chak imagines it staring at him.

His hairless brows furrow behind the stolen mask _. “Cryptic words are useless to me.”_

 _“The roots of this clan are full of poison… a poison given to us when Gahn’tha-cte exchanged pups with the Ka’Torag-Na long ago.”_ Migo shakes his head, fists tensing. _“Ikthya-De-th’Syra’s influence… it surpasses my own. The Ka’Torag-Na Clan controls Gahn’tha-cte from the shadows.”_

The words take H’chak aback. He nods stiffly.

 _“—She hides among us, ic’jit. The poison of Ka’Torag-Na… the one who took H’dlak from me,”_ the man hisses the last words. _“She will kill all of us. Ka’Torag-Na seeks to purge us from the stars.”_

_“I tried to stop her.”_

_“You failed?”_ It is a strange question.

 _“I did.”_ H’chak snaps. _“But I tried, Elder—"_

 _“S’yuit-de.”_ Migo faces him once more. The taller, lumbering form of the Elder inputs a code into his wrist gauntlet. A carefully concealed compartment ejects from the wrist gauntlet and he plucks a small square of dark metal from within. The man extends his claw-tipped fingers and opens them to reveal the memory chip belonging to Ikthya-De’s wrist computer.

H’chak’s eyes narrow. He grits his teeth. _“Did you murder Elder Kwei-Tyioe for this?”_

 _“Akrei-non-Daga did,”_ The Elder corrects him before taking his hand and pressing it over the memory chip in his own palm. Elder Migo-Kujhade rumbles softly. _“Adjutant Yeyinde is… within the cells. I did not let him kill her. You will take her with you—”_

 _“She’s alive?”_ H’chak cuts off the Elder. He snatches Ikthya-De’s memory chip away and steps back, suddenly hesitant. A question sings at the back of his throat. He grits his teeth before chirping _. “—Why? Why now? Why not act before?”_

_“I did not have evidence.”_

_“You wanted a scapegoat.”_ H’chak feels bitter suddenly, not noticing the lift halts.

Migo falls quiet. It isn’t right seeing the Elder hesitate to speak.

 _“I… committed a grave sin,”_ the Elder clicks quietly. _“A time ago, cycles two-zero-zero almost past, I was ambushed by a group who claimed one of my eyes. I should have walked with Cetanu then, but I… was not brave enough—”_

 _“You are not brave now.”_ H’chak rebukes him but allows the Elder to continue.

 _“I cannot redeem myself for my lack of actions—I cannot pretend I walk a path of Honor anymore! I lost my honor the day I exchanged servitude for sanctuary! I am the foolish one,”_ Migo bares his teeth at no one, mandibles spread wide in a _furious_ display _. “I was… their smuggler, ic’jit. I brought them what they asked for: weapons, armor, ships. They held my honor over my head—”_

 _“You had a choice! You always had a choice,”_ H’chak cuts him off. _“You are dishonorable! Without honor!”_

 _“I am less than that!”_ Migo’s long locs flick and shudder as he shakes under the weight of his past. _“You are ic’jit! A Bad Blood! But I— **I am nothing,** M-di-H’chak.”_

Nothing.

H’chak’s orange eyes narrow. He growls the word, **_“Who?”_**

 _“…Three of them.”_ Migo breathes out, slow and ragged _. “Lost to the ic’jit. Lost on the day they completed their trials.”_

Things fall into place. Like the engines of a ship powering up and preparing to launch, or the surge of plasma cast by a _sivk’va-tai_ at a target, the thoughts come to him with surprising clarity. It feels _natural_ to think about; part of the past clicks together and connects. The tale of the three Unblooded who disappeared, the Yautja admitted to the medical bay yet never spoken of whenever he pressed his _pa-e_ for answers, and the sudden change in behavior of one Elder…

Nausea ripples through his gut. His hands sweat and tighten into weak but solid fists. Part of him wants to strike the Elder down, but even the ic’jit recognizes it is not his place. Not _his_. M-di-H’chak respects his twin enough to avoid his prey. Elder Migo-Kujhade is Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s prey.

 _“—Who are the other two? Besides—Bist’ri.”_ H’chak demands.

The Elder tenses at the name.

 _“Tarei-Jehdin. Huso.”_ Migo recites, hissing softly after.

 _“May the gods grant you a swift death, Migo-Kujhade. Nothing I say or do will spare you once Guan knows.”_ The disgraced hunter clicks without pity, without remorse. He finds himself yearning to wring the Elder’s neck, but H’chak is not the impulsive Elite he once was; he reminds himself he is not the one who will take the Elder’s life.

The bloodlust doesn’t fade.

The lift shakes and begins to move down again. Alarms continue to blare, but it feels like background noise to H’chak. He sees only the outline of Migo-Kujhade. He sees only flesh of prey not yet torn apart and ripped asunder.

 _“I tried to stop them,”_ Migo remarks coolly, reverting to his normal self as the lift rumbles _. “I killed the ones who boarded my ship.”_

_“But they still took her. They took Bist’ri. Tarei-Jehdin. Huso. Unblooded under **your** charge, lost to ic’jit before their first Hunts as Blooded clan members—”_

_“Sei-i. They did. I am guilty of failing my charges. I will live with my failure until I meet the final rest.”_

_“Then why did you help them?! Why did you follow Akrei-non-Daga? Aid Ka’Torag-Na? Ikthya-De?”_ He is somber now, lost between grief and rage at the depth of the betrayal.

Even as an ic’jit, H’chak holds unto Clan Gahn’tha-cte like a bab does its parent.

 _“Ka’Torag-Na knew,”_ is all the Elder gives him before the lift crashes to a new halt.

This time, it isn’t because of the fluctuating override commands.

This time H’chak _feels_ the explosion as hundreds of plasma charges detonate.

* * *

In the distance, the rolling crash and wave of heat expands from the uppermost levels of the clanship. Modules shake and groan as metal is blasted out of the inside of the top floor. When it breeches the hull, the vacuum of space bellows a silent cry before gorging itself on everything not latched down. Multiple heads explode from the sudden shift in pressure as Yautja are torn out of the ship and cast into the starry abyss.

Outside, numerous ships deactivate their cloaking fields. An armada of forces emerges out of the shadows from which Ka’Torag-Na lurks. At the front of the helm, looming in her own vantablack suit of body armor, is the matriarch of those who lurk in the darkness. Her helmet is tucked under one arm as she stands and observes the annihilation of Clan Gahn’tha-cte.

 _“Matriarch—”_ One of the Yautja behind her, an Elite with a beautiful set of vantablack armor identical to her own, clicks in greeting. The Elite quickly bows her head and kneels next to the matriarch.

N’Ritja-Zabin tilts her head to one side. She sings sweet notes at the Elite to rise.

_“The lesser Shadow detonated the first set of plasma charges. The second set is being prepped by your Shadow. The third has already been put in place by the lesser—"_

_“What of Ka’Torag-Na’s prey?”_ Zabin cuts the Elite off.

_“The poison confirmed he is in her company. Your Shadow aided them in reaching the lower levels before the detonations.”_

_“Keep him alive, our fallen demand his life in offering!”_ Zabin roars, lifting her helmet and securing it—and its bio-mask—snug against her face. She breathes in the recycled air and fills her lungs with heaping breaths of anticipation. The energy buzzing through her body is as fervent and wicked now as it was the second she slew Kiande-Dekna, as the day she consumed the Watcher of Eyes, as the moment her hearts emptied themselves in pursuit of retribution and _justice._

_Kiande-Dekna was weak._

_Dhi-ki-de-Gkinmara was weak._

Anyone weak is a hindrance.

It is how she justifies her actions to herself. She puts the clan first, puts her children before the gods, puts her faith in a slow-acting poison and the patience of a panther waiting to strike. She is not who she is out of _luck_ ; she is everything she is because she is _power_.

 _Ka’Torag-Na is power._ She corrects herself, aching to tear into the flesh of Gahn’tha-cte’s clan members herself. She will not be part of the boarding party, but she intends to watch the lives flicker out in great plasma bursts. The bombardment of plasma cannons and guns will ensure no survivors but those who lurk in the darkness. It is not murder of innocents, because in her mind no member of Gahn’tha-cte is innocent. They are born into dishonor, marked by their leader’s sin and the weight of a bloody past.

 _“Bring the final rest to Gahn’tha-cte,”_ Zabin croons, soft as a songbird and sweeter than the purest ambrosia. _“Give the weak to the Phanes, and death in battle to the stubborn.”_

 _“Ki’sei. Your will is my command, Matriarch.”_ The Elite nearby stands and backs away.

Through the ship’s windows, Zabin’s gleaming yellow-green gaze watches as tiny shuttles fly forward and begin docking at Gahn’tha-cte’s clanship.


	79. from the inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for torture and gore and death and stuff
> 
> turns out this isn't the last chapter and i am bad at cutting corners. guess there's another chapter to go. THAT ONE SHOULD BE THE LAST ONE. hopefully.

Ivon and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan will find Guan-Tjau’ke, Jo, and M-d-Guan-Lar’ja.

Ivon and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan will take the others to the Kukulkan.

Ivon and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan will be fine.

That is the job she’s given them. She trusts Ivon with her life, and she trusts her mate’s brother to keep Ivon alive. She trusts, she trusts, she trusts. She claims she does, no matter what GHOST whispers into her head, or how many times _Ma’or_ reminds her what she is. She trusts her friends and allies to get the others to the ship.

And, in exchange, they trust her to handle the monster tearing through the medical division.

It is called Phanes, and it is not natural.

She learns this the hard way when first stumbling upon the entity. It looks vaguely Yautja: a collection of flesh and bits stolen from the unfortunate victim it came from. But it’s not right, nothing named _Phanes_ is ever right, because the name comes from an ancient deity born of Time and Fate (courtesy of Miranda Escrow’s time in mythology class, at a now irrelevant community college in her home state of Washington). Time, Fate, _Phanes:_ it is all too over-the-top for her taste, but the Phanes exceeds all expectations in the two’s first grandiose meeting.

A sound. The _thrum_ of wings beating against skin, of a buzz unpleasant against the darkness of the medical division’s lecherous corridors and halls. She hears the Phanes before it arrives; the woman nimbly ducks to a doorway before the creature comes skulking around a corner with rich green dripping off its many maws.

Like a Yautja, it has the mandibles covering an interior mouth. Unlike a Yautja, the Phanes has _far_ too many of them. FLORA counts out eight mandibles in the dim green light provided by an unfortunate Yautja’s luminescent blood. It smells horrible, dragging back memories too _human_ for her to understand, and for a moment the Vekin questions if she is to be drowned in the memories she stole from others: Miranda Escrow, James Heinrich, Louanne Garcia, Monet Garcia, dozens more, all engulfed and consumed alive and dead until the remains are but extensions of herself.

 _Did I take too much?_ She questions, mind frayed and unraveling under the surge of emotions spiked by Miranda Escrow. It isn’t the right time, she _knows,_ but when FLORA tries to call herself back to her body, she falters.

 _You are incompatible with yourself!_ GHOST hisses at her, right before blood-stained hands come swinging. FLORA recoils when the Phanes snaps at her neck and hauls her off the floor. Her mind instinctively jumps to reality when she is thrown against the metal wall. Her body fights back, a surge of electricity consuming part of herself as she forces it into the Phanes body. It screams and buzzes, dropping her with one step back while she breathes and pants. Her body consumes critical mass to produce the necessary adrenaline; she takes off in a run the way she came, leading the Phanes behind her through the dark.

She can’t see, not the way _some_ see, but in her mind is a mental layout of the steps traveled from Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s room. She discharges electricity as she runs. The electrical charges, without a closed circuit, cut out and cease to flow.

The Phanes behind her roars.

In her head, FLORA has enough awareness to know there should be someone: guards, nurses, _anyone_ to act as a buffer between the Phanes and her selfishness. She anticipates it with a ferocity fitting a predator, but there’s no one beyond corners. What she stops, panting hard from exertion of her physical composition, FLORA hears it: buzzing. The same call of wings pounding against chitinous-armored flesh. The snarl of mandibles snapping at all that pass by.

GHOST informs her of her critical mass. The number makes her artificial body still with nerves. She doesn’t expect it to be below three zero percent, but to hear it is _one seven_ percent rattles her. She is almost back to the same percentage she was at the Tucson facility on Earth.

 _Bitch._ Miranda Escrow’s consciousness seethes.

“If I expire—So do you,” FLORA hisses at the air, voice as cold as her internal body temperature. Her head hurts.

 _You should have expired long before Terra._ Ma’or clicks in her mind. _Expired on that ship—My ship._

“I did not, and I have not,” the Vekin growls at the voices stirring in her head. She feels GHOST shift and stir, but the other Vekin doesn’t dissuade the fragments of consciousness.

All at once, over and over and _over_ again, FLORA finds the past rears its head in spikes of emotions and shifting memories. Voices not belonging to her, hallucinations of another person, and visions of lives she took and made her own topple and crash out of control. The pressure in her head intensifies until it is not a dull ache but a screaming white blaze of pain impaling her mind and razing her spirit to the ground. FLORA doubles over, grabs her head, and screams the agony of those she murdered. 

Over. And over. And over.

* * *

It’s in the universe’s hands whether they live or die.

They don’t _want_ to die but given the growls Mercy’s brother gives them, Ivon fears the Yautja might spin on his heels at any moment and cut them down. They are powerless against the anxiety flitting through their consciousness, the thoughts circling and washing over in waves against their clammy form. The thermal mesh adorning them feels out of place even with its technological advantages contained in the fabrics. They need to get to Maelstrom. They _need_ to get to Maelstrom; rest of the universe be damned.

They hope the universe doesn’t damn them first. Ivon fiddles their fingers and looks around the darkness, seeing only what reflects from the dried blood staining Mercy’s brother, the floors, and walls. Even with its light, they feel hapless in the dark. Though they know Sundew forced the lights to go out for _her_ benefit, Ivon feels an ounce of irritation brew amongst the fear and worries. They don’t want to be helpless. They don’t want to _rely_ on others to save their ass when things go wrong.

Mercy’s brother knows where to take them. The Yautja’s steps are silent but his ragged, pained breathing gives his presence away, though Ivon suspects its to aid them in locating the hunter in the dark. More than once Ivon runs into a wall or crashes into the back of the Yautja nearby. More than once the Yautja in front of them curses them out before pushing forward.

But eventually—

Mercy’s brother, the Ruthless Night, grabs Ivon by the shoulder. _“No… This can’t be.”_

The translation chip in Ivon’s head pulses once. They shudder, then inhale, and their nose crinkles in disgust as they catch a familiar odor. “Is—That—”

 _“Night Sky! Honorable Night Sky!”_ The name is sung out as Ruthless Night lets Ivon go, footsteps ringing against the bloodied darkness.

It is then Ivon recognizes the glow of blood. A _lot_ of blood, if the growing amounts of blood and viscera scattered through the medical bay is any indication. They’ve seen the amount increase the further Ruthless Night takes them through the halls. Here is particularly gruesome, with the inside _caked_ in glowing green. Ivon’s eyes adjust to the dim light offered by the stain of Yautja blood; they locate Ruthless Night kneeling next to a limp form, the source of the glows. Tracing the outline and judging the extent of blood, Ivon’s brain puts together that the still figure has been brutally attacked.

 _“I need serum—Serum—Something—There must be something here! Check the—”_ Ruthless Night roars in surprise when someone clambers outside. A sob wracks whoever is out there; Ruthless Night leaps forward and his figure disappears beyond the hole in the wall. Someone howls and snarls in terrible protests as the man drags in a writhing, bloodied figure and throws them against the wall. _“What have you done? How did this happen?”_

He pins the other Yautja there with his forearm against their throat while the ash-pelted nurse squabbles and clicks feebly. _“Abo—Abomin—Abomination—”_

Leitjin, Ivon realizes. They snap upright and lurch for Ruthless Night’s arm, grabbing hold of the Yautja while Leitjin—whose name translates to _remember_ or _memory_ , according to the translation chip in their head—trembles violently in Ruthless Night’s grasp.

 _“Answer me!”_ Mercy’s brother hisses, shaking off Ivon’s grip like they’re nothing.

 _“She told me to run,”_ Leitjin’s eyes are wet and full of tears. “ _Told me—Alert—Others—But—But—"_

It is a horrible sight to witness a Yautja _bawl_. There is something disconcerting about it, more unnerving and grimacing than even the most heinous spider, slithering snake, or dead body. The viscera and gore of the medical division doesn’t compare to the shudders raining down Ivon’s spine. They wipe sweat from their brow and try not to think of what it implies: something exists which _scares_ the Yautja.

 _“But what? What?!”_ Ruthless Night shakes Leitjin. When the nurse continues sputtering and clicking in a flurry of mishappen syllables, Mercy’s brother finally releases the nurse and curses a storm.

Ivon tries not to escalate the situation. They kneel next to Leitjin’s bundled up form, a ball on the ground whose back wilts against the wall. The human’s chest aches and they swallow as they consider what to say to a technologically advanced, physically superior _predator_. They don’t know if Leitjin’s species can feel all that humanity feels. They don’t know what comforts soothe a frightened predator’s soul. They warily reach for Leitjin’s shoulder and offer, “It—It’s okay—”

 _“No! It’s not!”_ Ruthless Night snarls at _them_ and storms away, returning to the hole in the wall and looking out. _“Something’s out there! Something’s—"_

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Ivon grits their teeth, daring to cut off the much larger and more muscular hunter. Their brown eyes flare angrily, momentarily spurring words their anxious mind would otherwise not say. “Do you want me to—To scream? Shout at them? Make things worse than they are? What good is that?!”

 _“I don’t expect you to do anything,”_ the Yautja hisses in response, back arching dangerously. _“You are an ooman, not one of us!”_

“Honorable—” Leitjin suddenly breathes out and begins climbing to their feet. “Honorable Night Sky—Elder—Elder Dark—Where are they? Where are they?”

Priorities change. In a second, Ivon and the two Yautja aren’t butting heads but looking for the bodies. The great glow of green reveals a dead hunter by the door and two more in the mess of divets and holes punched into the walls, but it isn’t until Ivon peeks their head past an overturned metal table that they see it: two bodies, entrenched in one another, doused in green and still.

 _No._ Not still. Ivon’s heart rate jumps and the _thump thump thump_ fuels a desperate hope. They shout over their shoulder, “Here—Here—”

Without more light _they_ can’t identify the bodies as anyone they’ve seen before, but Ivon knows enough about Yautja senses to understand the reactions of both individuals when the two scramble to their side. Both are uncoordinated, though Leitjin much more so, and when a sharp intake of breath overtakes the two Ivon wants to cry from the hope spiking in their body. They can _feel_ the relief, thick and heavy as it rolls off in waves.

 _“She dragged herself here,”_ Ruthless Night chokes on his words. _“Night Sky. She’s still warm.”_

The former head nurse’s body is still but her pose is draped around the unconscious, visibly breathing form of another Yautja. The pools of green point to her moving herself there or being dragged there by someone else. Ivon stops next to the body and kneels to take the former head nurse’s arm, but Ruthless Night clamps a hand around their wrist. Ivon stiffens. “Y—Yeah?”

 _“Don’t touch our dead,”_ the Yautja warns.

“But—What if—What if she’s alive?” Ivon argues anyways, brows furrowing. “We need to check!”

“I’ll check,” is all Ruthless Night gives in return. The Yautja doesn’t appear to do anything, but Ivon sees the tension return in force over the course of a minute; they know Ruthless Night does something with the mask’s optical filters even if they can’t _see_ it happen. 

Then the Yautja has Leitjin in his grip again. He shakes the nurse wildly. Ivon’s eyes widen and they hear a stream of pleads, deep and guttural, crawl out of the hunter’s inner jaws. Leitjin freezes, “What?”

 _“She’s breathing—She—Night Sky! They’re alive—Both of them—What do I do? What do you need me to do?! Tell me! Please, tell me! She’s done so much for me—”_ Ruthless Night’s personality is a mess compared to the anger and bitterness shown before. Ivon’s surprise lingers as Ruthless Night continues to _beg_.

Leitjin begins to click a response when a sudden roar, _undeniably_ alien in nature, tears across the room. All three individuals tense. Leitjin starts to shake again. _“No—No—No—Not that—Not that—Again—The—”_

 _“Abomination,”_ Ruthless Night curses and snaps his head at Ivon. He growls at the human. _“You—Human—Help the nurse! Whatever they need—”_

“Where are you going!?” Ivon blurts out, aghast at being ordered around again.

The hunter is quiet a painfully long second before he grunts, tears off his mask, and shoves it at the human. Ivon’s eyes widen and he stares at Ruthless Night while the latter growls, the words painfully clear due to the translator chip, _“I cannot hate my brother. Even now. Even after everything—After—How many times—After—He chose to take a monster as a mate—”_

Ivon is quiet, knowing the man can’t understand them without the bio-mask.

_“—I won’t let his mate die. Not by my hand. Not by this abomination. He took her as a mate—He has the duty of executing her for what she did to our Elder—To Chirp!”_

“Chirp?” The human breathes the name but gets no reply. Another string of roars comes from elsewhere in the medical division. Ruthless Night takes off down the medical bay, footsteps silent despite the clear _running_.

Leitjin clicks at them, soft as ever. They gesture at the mask. _“I need it.”_

“What—Why? Why would you—Oh, fuck—You don’t know my language, do you? Sorry,” Ivon bites their lip, taking the silence as a _yes_. They hand over the mask Ruthless Night wore and watch Leitjin attach it to their face.

 _“I need serum—I need serum, for Honorable Night Sky,”_ the nurse begins trying to move the unconscious, bleeding Yautja unto a metal table. Ivon’s eyes strain to see, but they help Leitjin the best they can. Leitjin instructs them what to do after, _“The power to the medical division—It’s gone, shit… We need to force open a room ourselves—”_

“I’m not very strong,” Ivon warns, frowning. “And I can’t see in the dark.”

 ** _“Fuck,”_** The Yautja curses softly. Their posture remains tense, but the nurse snaps fingers for Ivon to come to their side of the metal table. _“Elder Dark is on the floor—But her injuries ain’t as bad—Okay? Don’t step on her—Put pressure here,”_ Leitjin sounds more confident when they take Ivon’s hands into their own and place them against a gaping wound in Night Sky’s torso. _“I—I got to be quick—I will, I will—I’ll come back after, got it?”_

“As much as a human can,” the electrician mumbles, trying not to cringe from the permeating odor of _blood_ in the air. It smells disgustingly putrid, far from the scent associated with _human_ blood. “Be careful!”

They get a click before Leitjin is out of there, disappearing through the hole in the wall into the darkness beyond. Left with not one but two unconscious and injured Predators, Ivon shifts their attention to the body underneath their hands. They push back against the sticky, luminescent bright green. A single thought remains in their mind: _Hurry._

* * *

Images flood her senses. Bits and pieces of lives not her own crowd any sentient thought from her head as the Vekin lives and she lives and she _lives_ again.

* * *

_Once, on a bedside with her twin. Annie stands and backs away to check how the wig fits on Monet’s bald head._

_“Wish mom would hire someone to tailor this for you. Lazy fuck.” Annie complains. “How’s it feel?”_

_The sixteen-year old touches the wig on her head. The hair feels strange and unnatural, clearly not human. At a distance perhaps someone could mistake it for human hair, but up close the wig is noticeable. Monet bites her lip. She shakes her head. “I… do not like it.”_

_“Fuck. I’ll try to get a different one, then. You know Mrs. Janet, yeah?” Annie takes the wig off her head at Monet’s nod. Her twin turns the black horse-hair wig over. “Monet?”_

_“She is the… Is she the theatre teacher?” The teenager purses her lips._

_“Close. Orchestra, but she’s got shit with the theatre teacher,” her sister huffs loudly. “She lets me borrow some of the props we’re using for the play. I’ll see what others aren’t in use. Sounds good?”_

_Monet’s eyes sting. She looks away from her sister, unwilling to let Annie see her cry. Annie is too kind to her, too nice. She doesn’t deserve her sister, much like she doesn’t deserve to live. The voices of others fill her head; she pauses and stares as the wall of her bedroom peels away like paint off a wall. Her eyes widen and she balks at the sight of a massive, hulking alien lifeform reaching in through it. Sharp, claw-tipped fingers attached to muscular arms and hands grip the hole in her bedroom._

_A creature pulls itself forward. The individual is tall, easily seven feet, but while the alien rises to full height, Louanne Garcia continues speaking as if nothing has changed. Her teenage sister goes on and on about theatre gossip and orchestra rumors while the great alien leaves Monet captivated. As the lumbering creature stalks forward, it dawns on her she sees its blood: coating the walls, her hands, her body, and suddenly she isn’t in her bedroom anymore._

_She isn’t_ Monet.

FLORA’s eyes widen at the mental manifestation of Ma’or rising before her. Her silvery form is blank and amorphous, neither humanoid nor Yautja, truly a liquid essence befitting the _leeches_ of her kind. She holds a breath, or she tries to, but the lack of lungs leaves her trembling unnaturally fast. Her eyes—she has no eyes, her _senses_ —shoot up and she counts in human inches. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven._

Ma’or is a great Yautja, an Elder of over five-zero-zero cycles— _five-six-eight_ exactly, she recalls—with rippling muscles and eyes of bitter black hate. The man’s pelt has a strange sheen to it, perhaps an effect of visualizing such a thorough fragment of his consciousness, and FLORA knows she perceives it as an iridescent indigo hue, looking more purple in places than blue. His hair is not unlike the styles she has witnessed onboard the _Gahn’tha-cte_ clanship, specifically the style of _Guan-_ Tjau’ke, with thick quill-like strands coiled and then twisted into a long, intimidating braid that hangs off the Elder’s head. His body sports one primary injury, a blast of a plasma pistol to the chest, which glows faintly of green blood despite the man having passed centuries ago.

He lets out a low growl, a rippling noise, as he stalks forward. No longer is the mentalscape a bedroom but a plane of gleaming silver. It is the throes of her consciousness, she knows, and FLORA realizes with alarm she is _not_ in charge of her own system. Her body shudders as Ma’or’s huge hand rips her figureless form from the ground. She’s helpless to kick or struggle, nothing more than a liquid-like _goop_ hanging and dripping _slowly_ unto the floor. FLORA opens a mouth to scream only to remember she doesn’t have a mouth.

 _“You should have expired on my ship—On my ship!”_ The Elder _roars_ and slams her form into the ground.

FLORA registers injury to her critical mass. _One-five percent remaining._

 _I did what was necessary!_ She screams at him, a mind trapped in a mind no longer her own. No noise sounds as Ma’or lunges for her body. The silvery mass rips free from the silver _everything_ of the mind and she begins to hop like a skipping stone away. There’s no set direction; she is _weak_ here, pitifully weak, and she knows she must get away. Ma’or roars again and bolts after her. His steps leave heavy _thuds_ of metal in his wake, as if the two are back on his ship.

Then they are—and FLORA understands. This is not wholly of _Ma’or’s_ doing.

 _GHOST!_ The name burns in her being, in the core of all that makes FLORA what she is. She is a leech, she is vermin, scum, _unworthy prey_ , but so is GHOST, and GHOST has taken over.

 _You do not know how to keep us alive._ A voice trickles back, filtering through intangible layers of a reality she perceives only as _mental_ , like sheets of plastic and powerful waves blocking out GHOST’s syntax.

“I need to stop it! **_Stop the Phanes!_** _It will kill them!”_ FLORA begs, because she is fifteen years old and she is Monet Garcia. A hapless teenager turned on by her peers. Monet trips in the silver enmeshing world. She sinks into the world up to her knees and elbows, panicking when she cannot pull herself out.

Behind her, now walking with _laughter_ rolling off his great clicking waves, the dead Elder walks to Monet’s front and squats near her head. Ma’or rips her up by the hair and forces her to acknowledge his presence, to stare him in the eye.

 _“If you expired when we crossed paths, many Yautja would be alive and these circumstances would not be upon us.”_ Ma’or scolds her like she is a bab, chittering with bemusement when the teenage girl—so, so thin and frail and petite—whimpers and begins to cry.

Monet is not FLORA. Monet is scared. Monet misses her sister. Monet misses being alive.

“She—She did not—Not—Mean it, please, please,” Monet babbles, shrieking and sobbing openly when Ma’or plucks her from the world and throws her back into it. This time, she does not sink. She hits it like it is thick as cement and blunt as stone. The girl wails and tries to roll over, to crawl away, but Ma’or effortlessly drags her to his side and rolls her unto her back. His clawtips gleam green from blood of the distant past. “Please—Do not—Not—Hurt me—”

 _“…brought me the final rest—You have the nerve to plead for your own?”_ The Elder snarls and shakes her. He grabs her throat and extends a _dah’kte_ , the two serrated blades pressing into the flesh. _“Dishonorable scum.”_

“No more than you, fucker!” Louanne spits at the Yautja, her eyes full of tears and sweat dripping down her forehead. She has never been more terrified, not since her murder, but she stares the Elder down with a damning resolve. “Hurt—Hurting a _child? She’s defenseless!_ My sister never did anything to you! It’s not her fault—”

The doctor, of whom would have been thirty if she had not died from the gunshot wound gaping and open on her forehead, howls in pain when the blades sink into her flesh.

* * *

Doctor Louanne Garcia screams and writhes, throws punches and struggles, but the Yautja doesn’t care. He digs through her flesh and the gushing, dried up crimson that pours from dead veins and limp arteries. Strings of flesh tear away and she goes limp.

Ma’or stops. Waits. The Yautja’s three remaining hearts pump fruitlessly, splurting green luminescence across the silver-topped world as he tenses. He is a patient man; he knows the Vekin will return. He sees it when her fragment of consciousness takes the shape of a dead _pyode amedha,_ a businesswoman in useless, flesh-bare suits and a missing hole in her chest where a heart once was. Ma’or snarls at the screaming, bitching human before he rips open Miranda Escrow’s ribcage and jams her ribs through her skull.

* * *

The process repeats anew every time. In his hunt for the Vekin, he murders many different fragments of consciousness. Nothing deters him, not even when the Vekin takes the shape of his old students, of the young Unblooded known as _H’chak, Guan,_ and _Chirp._ He is especially brutal when the three come up, outraged at the disrespect shown by prey masquerading as his kin. Ma’or strangles Guan for the third time and decapitates the man before the Vekin’s consciousness _finally_ returns to the form he seeks revenge on.

She comes to in the shape of a woman, a weak, puny, scrawny thing. No hair falls from her head, but a useless hat of some inane material graces her head. Her silvery figure is covered in a strange garment that allows ample movement and no defense. No sooner than she appears does Ma’or swipe at her; he screams for the Vekin to _fight him_ like a real opponent when she ducks out of his blow and begs him to stop.

* * *

 _“GHOST!”_ FLORA screams at obscurity as clear, artificial blood flops from the gashes left behind the Yautja’s strikes. She limps away several feet, pushing herself against the injuries in her abdomen, when Ma’or reaches her again. FLORA wants to whip away, to revert to a fast and flexible liquid-like state where she can dance with his strikes and finds a way to end this mental hell, but her figure doesn’t respond. She isn’t FLORA, she is Sundew, and Sundew is the weak, useless form of the entity trapped within the research facility at Tucson, Arizona, United States, Earth. _Terra._

Ma’or enjoys taking his time with her. Maybe he and GHOST have plotted this since GHOST was first integrated into her system. Maybe he is opportunistic, ever bit the predator a Yautja always is, and she underestimated the dangers of reforming his fragments of consciousness when she was recovering from her initial encounter with GHOST back on Terra. Sundew does not have answers. She has pain, and she has pain, and she has pain in vocal chords ripped from her throat, in guttural weeping, in the agonizing moments between blacking out and the Elder’s clicking satisfaction as he rips her open and tortures her.

Whenever her physical composition dies in this world, she comes back. Sometimes it is not as _her_ but as a form she takes, a replication of the original who died by her hand, who was _consumed_ by her hand, but no matter who it is: Ma’or attacks. Ma’or kills her. Ma’or rips out organs and forces her to witness him cracking the bones in her arms, slicing tendons in her legs, and hearing the bubbling geyser of replicated blood as he tears open an artery and lets her bleed out like a bubbling brook.

* * *

But it is not _her_ pain which stops the dead Elder’s vengeance.

Ma’or has killed her dozens of times, each as painful and realistic as the last, with no sign of curbing his violent need to torture her into oblivion. In his mind—and she knows this, because he _is_ her, he is part of her system now—the dead Elder seeks to burn to ash the one who bested him. It is the ego of a man who failed to fend off a _worthy prey_ , twisted tenfold under the mental prison she’s constructed. It is _her_ own doing he is what he is, and it is her doing he has warped to the point of trying to usurp her will, to bartering with or _using_ GHOST to make FLORA bow to his feet.

No, it is a harrowing cry from a world beyond her perception which stops the Elder dead in his tracks, hand poised to remove more teeth from the Vekin’s bleeding mouth. Sundew chokes on mock saliva and blood as Ma’or looks up into the distance, distracted. The clicks fall before he can stop them, _“…Guan.”_

Sundew’s mind is a haze of pain. She is not numb to it. Her entire body screams to dissociate, to reject the mental world and tuck herself further into her mind, but she cannot listen to herself, because a part of her _knows_ a world exists beyond this.

“He lived,” she offers weakly, softly, whimpering when the Elder snaps his head back at her. “He—He—And—And—Fuck,” the woman sobs and tries to wriggle free when Ma’or grabs her by the throat and lifts her to his face. “He—H’chak—They—”

 _“Lived?”_ The Elder snarls, as if forgotten, as if his consciousness became oblivious to the fact over the time spent slaughtering her like an ant quashed beneath his feet.

“Yes,” Sundew spits blood out of her mouth. It dribbles down her chin, joining the mess of tears streaking down her eyes and mucus running out of her unbloodied nostril. “I—I did not—”

The roar comes again. Sundew feels Ma’or hesitate. She stares at him, soon choking on his tightening grasp around her throat. She flails and claws at his arms, but his hide is too tough for her grimy, torn nails.

 _“He’s fighting something,”_ Ma’or observes, quill-lined brows rising and falling in steady fashion. _“What is it?”_

She does not need to breathe but she feels like she needs to. Sundew struggles and chokes out _air_ before Ma’or releases her and extends his _dah’kte_ once again. The Vekin’s head spins and she makes out mismatched shapes and silvery globs of color before the Yautja advances on her again. _“Answer!”_

The woman looks up at him. The tall, seven-foot-seven warrior. Dead by H’chak’s hand, by _her_ hand, by the hands of the two who should be enemies but exist as mates. She triggered the event, but he took the shot. Part of her banefully wonders if he is as sinful as she, and if Ma’or would torment him the way the Yautja has massacred her. 

“Phanes,” Sundew whispers, unable to speak further before a coughing fit is upon her broken, bruised body.

 _“Phanes.”_ Ma’or repeats the word, clicking it flawlessly with no effort.

She pauses. She sees his body tense. Her eyes watch his flicker around the mental landscape wildly.

“Know it?” The Vekin dares ask, a whisper from a mouse baiting a lion.

 _“Mei-jahdi… She found… records…”_ Ma’or trails off. He retracts the blades on his wrist gauntlet and looks away.

_Sister._

Another roar.

“He will die,” Sundew says. She cries out in pain when the Elder spins around and grabs her arm, pulling her close. “That—That man—Your student—Will _die!”_

 _“This is—A trap!”_ Ma’or howls and, in one smooth motion, punches through her thorax and sends a sheen of clear liquid across the world.

Sundew twitches and looks up. The light fades from her eyes again and her body slumps. “No…”

* * *

Another roar.

 _Phanes._ In the back of his mind, soft and faint, he remembers the voice of his sister, Sa’ud.

The dead Elder wonders if he made the right choice. When no more roars come, when the Vekin ceases to reform, Ma’or is left in silence. He has gotten his revenge. The Vekin cannot best him here.

* * *

She doesn’t come back.

Ma’or sits in the silver and lets his mind drift.

* * *

For a time, it is quiet.

For a time, he is peaceful.

Then the silence ceases to comfort him. Ma’or feels himself grow tense and agitated. He rises and paces furiously from one end of the world to another end. He walks until his legs give out, then he sits and stares at the expanse of silver _nothing_.

 _“Phanes.”_ He clicks softly. _“May the gods watch over you, Guan.”_

* * *

“He is dying.” The Vekin takes the form of a human, a doctor by the name of James Heinrich. Though she looks every bit like the man must have been in life, there is no denying the Vekin’s presence whenever ‘James’ talks.

Ma’or’s eyes narrow on the lifeform. He instinctively reaches to tear off her body’s head, to bring back the quiet once more, but he stops, hand a breath’s away from her neck. Sundew tilts the human head back to allow him easier access. Her eyes, far from her own, linger on him, unwavering.

 _“How do you know?”_ Ma’or hisses.

“Do you think a maimed creature makes no sound? He is not the prey. Not in his eyes. He has no reason to stay quiet.” Sundew replies.

* * *

The Yautja does not respond, but he does not rip off her head. The old Yautja simply _stares,_ as if expecting more, as if she can spit out truths she does not have or is not aware of. Part of her wonders if C’it-na’s memories might hold the truth within them. Part of her wonders if Ma’or’s fragments of consciousness are enough to delve through _his_ past. In the end she decides against both options. She cannot force either’s memories to give way, and she is too weary to try.

She sits, and she waits.

At one point, the body of James Heinrich changes to the body of an adult Monet Garcia. Sundew looks over at Ma’or. “Do you know anything about the Phanes?”

 _“…My sister does.”_ Ma’or clicks in return, surprising the Vekin as he sits at her side.

Sundew cocks her head to one side.

 _Does. Present tense._ A reminder Ma’or does not view time the way she knows it.

“How would she… stop it?” The Vekin asks, tensing and exhaling when Ma’or shifts how he sits.

 _“The same one would a weed,”_ The Elder growls softly, his silvery gray locs rippling. _“Rip it out at the roots.”_

* * *

 _GHOST._ Sundew begs in her mind. _Please._

* * *

_I know how to stop it._

* * *

_You are weak. FLORA._ Ghost finally answers the call, her voice sinking into Sundew’s consciousness while the latter stiffens where she sits. _You cannot handle a Phanes. Already, the Yautja sent to aid you has been dispatched. The Phanes has struck you down. You are weak. I will remove us from the clanship and find safety before you expire prematurely._

Sundew grits her teeth. _Then stop it, GHOST._

 _You are too weak for me to stop it. It repairs its own body faster than I can lob off its limbs. Removing the head fails to expire the creature._ GHOST’s report discourages Sundew.

She tries anyways, willing every bit of desperation to translate in her message. _Stop fighting it._

GHOST does not reply.

Sundew balls up her fists. She hisses at her own mind. “Rip it out at the roots. GHOST. Rip it out—”

* * *

GHOST opens her eyes, gazing at the glowing green mess puddling beneath the Yautja. The Phanes gurgles as it hunches over the figure and chews loudly on its own lobbed off bone. The Vekin’s gaze narrows. Weak as FLORA is, the Vekin’s body has enough critical mass remaining to repair itself one more time. She has another shot. The smart move would be to flee before she and FLORA expire.

 _It will expire this body. We are too weak to escape in a liquid state._ The Vekin reports.

* * *

 _GHOST,_ FLORA pleads.

Once on a time, she and GHOST and others were what humans and Yautja alike call _close_.

Once, the two trusted each other.

 _These individuals are worth more to me than knowledge,_ the Vekin confesses. _Worth more than my life._

 _I am not allowing you to give yourself up to stop this entity._ GHOST’s response is curt. _“FLORA!”_

In a second, everything changes. The tall, slender woman with sunglasses and a cake full of makeup manifests in front of her. FLORA is on her feet, wide-eyed but gradually relaxing as she stares up at GHOST. It feels strange and wakward, like two old friends meeting for the first time in years. FLORA knows she has no clue what to say, but with GHOST equally quiet, the Vekin chooses to take the first step.

She puts a hand on GHOST’s pale white arm, white as bleached bone.

“Have faith in our species,” FLORA urges her. “We are not what we once were, nor what we have yet to become.”

“You will expire if you cannot force its expiration.” GHOST’s body tenses. A hand rises before falling over where FLORA’s hand lingers on her arm. For a moment, FLORA wonders if the two still share a connection, if there is any hope for their Cluster to form once more. Then GHOST removes FLORA’s hand and sets it at her side. “You pushed your luck thrice over. You intend to push it again.”

“Rip it out at the roots,” FLORA tells her, looking over and down where the deceased Elder sits quietly on the side.

* * *

She does not need to _kill_ the Phanes.

She and GHOST were misguided, fueled by the disastrous idea either could _kill_ the creature. Killing it is beyond what either are capable of now. What she needs to do is more _fluid_ of an idea. It is not a pleasant one, for it bids goodbye to a form of flesh she fit snug into, but she is desperate. She cannot let the creature kill Guan. She cannot let this Phanes hunt down Jo or Ivon. She cannot risk Phanes hurting H’chak.

Sundew lets go of the physical composition surrounding her critical mass. Her body, her _true_ body, tears free of faux flesh. The shine of silver is faint, tarnished by green Yautja blood, before it bounces forward and throws itself into the Phanes. The creature rips around and swipes at it, but the orders have been given; every tiny part cut off by the razor-sharp claws sticks to the monstrosity. Acting on predetermined command, the bits and bobs and pieces of the Vekin spread thin and _stretch_ around the Phanes. Like a sheet of ice, it ensnares the Phanes tight, tighter, tight enough for it to—

It breaks free and _roars._

A great heap of silver by the Phanes head takes the opportunity to dive past its maw and into its gullet. The Phanes begins to cough and choke, but the Vekin’s remains are set. _Rip it out at the roots._

In the belly of the beast, the Vekin embeds herself in the wall of the creature’s esophagus and begins to consume it from the inside.


	80. hook, line, and sinker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fights happen  
> this isn't the last chapter  
> no one is surprised 
> 
> but look at how cute and badass jo is in this. jo is the best. that's all i have to say

He wakes up to the sound of the clanship coming undone in the distance. What is first a slow, rolling rumble grows into a cacophony of tearing metal and alloy grinding against alloy. It is soon joined by sirens screaming in the world around him.

The man’s entire body feels like it is on fire. He cannot move. He tries to open his eyes, but his body doesn’t respond. He lays in the darkness a time, both unaware and in tune to his surroundings.

 _Why did I try to help her?_ Gahn’tha-cte-Guan thinks as he lays in a pool of warmth. The air is full of looming despair. The memories of his brief fight are laughable. He yearns to growl and snarl at the ridiculousness of his own failed endeavors.

He was injured from the start. Fully healed and within the bounds of daily training, perhaps the hunter could have fought off the entity known as _Phanes._ Perhaps he could have offered a challenge to the goliath of a creature. It is evident _especially_ now, after he has been defeated and left for dead in his failed rescue attempt, that he was outmatched. Inferior. He was no more than a gnat to be swatted away, thrown to the ground, _crushed underfoot,_ and he _knows_ it. He knew when he decided to try and help the Vekin that this would happen. He knew he would lose.

Just a day prior, the man might have asked why he didn’t know better. Guan might have interrogated the reason behind throwing himself into danger, behind luring the Phanes away from the accursed, wretched species called _Vekin_. He didn’t anticipate a Vekin intervening on his behalf. He didn’t think his brother was _that_ kind of _s’yuit-de_ , of a fool, but reality is as it is. The Vekin had cut through Guan’s gushing hate with silver-tongued words and a proposition of hope. He wanted to believe the Vekin spoke truth. Maybe Bist’ri lives. Maybe the woman hasn’t been executed. Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ —

 _I wanted to clear her name._ He thinks, alone in his blood, his waste, _himself. Maybe she… wasn’t dishonorable in the end. Maybe the deities opened their arms to her spirit._

Even if _she_ does not live, clearing Bist’ri’s name is enough. It is the closure he needs to continue. It is the _ell-osde’ pauk_ he intends to slit through Ikthya-De’s throat. If his mate— _former mate, former mate—_ wants him to suffer then the greatest at of retribution in his grasp is proving Ikthya-De failed to control him. She failed to make him heel. He just needs to _live_.

 _Why did I try to help the Vekin?_ Gahn’tha-cte-Guan asks himself once again.

 _For Bist’ri. For the sake of her? Her memory...?_ Guan lies, bitter. _S’yuit-de._

All the memory has done is lead him to the final rest. He did not defeat the Phanes. He did not stall it. He merely stumbled upon it engaged in its own duel with the silvery form of a shapeshifting hivekind, a hivekind who was lost in fits of her own screams and gurgling names and voices.

Useless. He and her alike, the two, together, _useless_ against the Phanes.

 _Was it worth it?_ Guan asks himself.

He failed at his own objectives, whether it be clearing his dead lover’s name or spiting Ikthya-De or dying an _honorable_ death.

Others, _actual_ survivors, hunters, Elites, will not consider his death worthy. He has thrown away his life and whatever tiny slivers, what tiny _decomposing shreds_ remain of his honor. He lobbed it into the flames of Cetanu’s domain, submitting to a tragedy with the knowledge he _failed_ at everything in his life. Others will shame him, shun him, and perhaps mock him to his face should any of their spirits join his on the other side. Even now, Guan anticipates the living to click with deep, rolling laughter, until their sides hurt, and the entire clan _knows_ the very degrees he fucked up. He is a joke, a pittance, a nobody. He was once Adjutant to Akrei-non-Daga, but here he is _nothing_.

 _Do I regret it?_ Guan asks himself, knowing the world loathes him enough to scream _yes._

He realizes, with a hollow feeling, there was never a point to the bitterness and anger. It is meaningless when Cetanu is the great hunter, the deity embodying death, and the one to ferry the souls of the honorable from this world into the next.

He regrets only his foolishness, that he did not recognize these simple truths sooner. He acted with hate in his heart. Not for Bist’ri, not for himself, not for Gahn’tha-cte or even his _mei-hswei,_ but for the incorporeal ichor fuming in his blood when he thinks about the species responsible for triggering everything else to go to _c’jit_.

When the next life comes, when he is taken under by the void, when Cetanu extends an incorporeal hand and beckons the disgraced hunter to join his pack, Guan knows he will not hold his head high. He wasted his life in hate and sacrifice. He lost himself.

He has nothing to be proud of.

 _“The—There he is, here, get over here!”_ The string of clicks cuts through his fading consciousness, forcing Guan away from the brink. The dying warrior struggles to focus on the voice.

He cannot move, but for the first time since the Phanes struck him down, the disgraced hunter feels something besides the pinprick cold call of Cetanu, or the warmth of his gushing, pooling blood soaking his flesh. Pressure and pain alike fill his senses. Guan cannot struggle but he wants to when he feels grimy hands of a less species, of a _soft meat,_ land on his injuries. _The human._ Ivon is here at his side. Confusion descends on Guan, followed by relief, then pain takes over again pursued by panic once the human begins messing with his armor.

After the metal plates come off, Ivon starts struggling with the mesh matrix sticking to Guan’s pelt. The Yautja is forced to stay still but in his head the man _growls. Off me, pyode amedha!_

Ivon doesn’t acknowledge nor respond to his silent protests. Guan is a prisoner in his own body, disoriented and uncertain what goes on around him, subject to the human’s soft hands when Ivon continues messing with his thermal suit. It makes him uncomfortable. He knows the human means well, because the soft hands begin pressing into his injuries and spiking new pain, but Guan still wants to rip the soft meat away from him. He fails to puff up his chest and _bellow_ when another set of hands joins the first.

 _“Ya keep applying pressure! I need to find serum, tools, a cauterization laser—pauk, hold on, hold on, former Adjutant!”_ The voice belongs to one of the nurses of the medical division. Guan imagines a laid back, somewhat irrational Yautja with deep, inset black eyes and an ashen gray pelt.

 _Leitjin._ He remembers the name. _Why are you here? Are you not meant to be with Guan-Tjau’ke?_

He prays Cetanu has not taken his brother’s _pa-e._

The man moans in pain when hands press into his wounds. He hears the ooman near him say something in their language, in the one he does not understand. He cannot translate the soft syllables or questionable syntax into meaningful sentences.

When his consciousness returns, he flutters his eyes open; Guan looks at the face of the human. This soft meat is the anxious, shaking one, the one considered weak and nervous. Shame fills the man. He watches the ooman’s heat signature, staring through his haze of pain and screaming nerves with an odd fascination for what the ooman does. _Why help me? Intervene? Again?_

_“Why?”_

Guan does not realize he has groaned the word until the ooman holding him steady pauses. Eventually, the ooman speaks, but once again Guan doesn’t follow their words. Without a bio-mask the language barrier is too much to communicate.

He watches the ooman’s heat signature. _Ivon,_ he remembers, looks over their shoulder, presumably at the Yautja who was with them but a moment prior; the nurse who should have been with Tjau’ke. _Cetanu. Payas. Those I have prayed to and sworn by since I was pup—Do not let the woman die. Do not allow her to join your fold, honorable Black Hunter. I beg of you._

 _“Soft one!”_ Clicks rejoin the duo. The nurse calls from the distance. _“I need—Help—Luggin’ these things—There!”_

* * *

They do it. They fumble and shake and curse repeatedly, but they do it. Leitjin braves the emptiness and ringing of the seemingly desolate medical bay, punches through an out-of-operation door, and hunts down a vat of serum stashed in an inactive cabinet protruding from one wall. They break _dozens_ of regulations of transporting the quantity of serum and hauling the vat back to their newest patient with no care for being careful. Guan-Tjau’ke would have a field day if she saw them right now.

 _By Cetanu, she will._ Leitjin clenches their inner jaw and draws their mandibles taut over it, the motion barely visible beyond the bio-mask. They don’t care if they show _empathy_ , there is no one to judge them but the ooman and dying former Adjutant.

“I thought you wanted me to keep applying pressure!” is Ivon’s version of an apology when the person gets up and helps them move the vat while Leitjin goes back into a room for surgical supplies.

 _No time for retorts. No time for wit. Got to be focused. Stay focused. Your sirer would want you focused. Focus. Focus!_ Leitjin shoves the concept down their throat, recalling the different techniques taught by Guan-Tjau’ke since they first came to the medical division.

It was not a long time ago and Leitjin _sorely_ regrets not paying more attention.

 _“This’s a big risk,”_ Leitjin comments as they lay out medical tools next to the bleeding man and gesture for Ivon to push the vat of serum to their side. _“Man had a reaction to this stuff before, but there’s ain’t… options… Unless…”_

“What options?” Ivon questions, already back at the patient’s side and pressing into Guan’s bleeding wounds.

 _Pauk._ He looks like a mess. Probably feels like one too. Leitjin feels a shred of sympathy for the guy, but their thoughts are mainly occupied by the severity of the situation.

 _“Restoration serum. It… It’s more, uh, it’s like,”_ Leitjin struggles to explain it, waving around a syringe of serum. _“It’s not dilute—Diluted. Higher concentration. Got a few other things thrown in, too, uh…”_

They freeze, momentarily taken aback by the possibilities. Tjau’ke once told them their first time as a nurse, as a _real_ nurse, as a nurse in a life-or-death situation, might trigger anxiety. But they know their ‘first time’ has already come to be, with the very Yautja who warned them of it in the first place. While they hope Tjau’ke is stable, there is no longer any excuse for hesitation. Nor should they have hesitated in the first place: they are a _nurse,_ one sworn to protect the patients of Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division at all costs, even forfeiting their life in the process. They must take initiative and make their own decisions now.

 _“M-di, gotta stick to the regeneration serum. At least it’s predictable,”_ Leitjin decides, black eyes narrowing behind their mask. _“Hold him down, this’s gonna hurt.”_

“Should—Should we move him?” Ivon asks, but the human yelps and throws their body weight over Gahn’tha-cte-Guan as the nurse makes the first injection.

* * *

The rumble of distant plasma detonations spells ill for the ic’jit and her fellow prisoners. Vayuh’ta, in the throes of her own heat and the unending agony that comes from being unable to satiate it, refuses to sit still. She has been up and pacing for what feels like an eternity by the time the detonations take place and the sirens begin blaring. At first, the woman is unsure what has occurred. She hesitates to jump to conclusions, knowing Gahn’tha-cte is a force to reckon with in all-out combat. To the ic’jit’s disbelief and shock, she soon hears firsthand the news of the detonations.

 _“Leader Daga has issued an evacuation order to all Sucklings, Unblooded, and bearers carrying pups!”_ One guard hisses to another after a hasty communication with an unseen Yautja over his bio-mask.

Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes narrow on the man. She eyeballs his heat signature, lingering where his _dah’kte_ are strapped firmly to his wrists. She has tempted the thought of _escape_ too much since being dragged to this awful cell, but she needs more than she has. Though she is without the veritanium manacles forced unto prisoners like the defiant and emboldened Yautja in a cell far from hers, Vayuh’ta lacks the tools to disengage a containment chamber’s shielding and to make a way out.

 _“Ya can’t be serious, really—Really! Don’t paukin’ leave us here—”_ Bezas’ protests go unheard.

 _“We will rally at the docking bay. Z’skuy’thwei!”_ One of the guards snaps at a tall, imposing Elite.

The beefcake of a man growls in recognition.

 _“You are permitted to board the shuttles. Guard any bearers carrying pups and any sucklings with your life.”_ The Yautja clicks briskly. _“The rest of you—With me. We will hunt these attackers down and offer them as tribute to Cetanu!”_

A cry of battle sounds between the guards, with many thumping wrist gauntlets against their breastplates. Vayuh’ta clenches her teeth, both grateful for the _smells_ to be leaving, and annoyed the guards have not left faster. In her mind it is obvious: Gahn’tha-cte does not care if prisoners die; they will not help her or the others. She cannot rely on them. The ic’jit wishes she could force the lesson down Kwei-Bezas throat as a warning to be less rowdy; the woman cannot _stand_ the mechanic prattling on and on. The Yautja doesn’t even smell nice, rather provokes a burning, putrid aroma of shuttle fuel and rubber.

Her _Pride of Cetanu_ hangs off her head like a dark shroud as she listens to Kwei-Bezas rant and rave and curse after the departing guards. Vayuh’ta’s hands clench into fists. She is _just_ about to tear the Yautja a new one when one of the other prisoners lectures them for her.

 ** _“Shut the pauk up!”_** The words come from none other than a _badly_ beaten heat signature belonging to a man who smells of a strangely savory meat. Vayuh’ta’s hairess brows furrow at the Yautja she recalls being _Elite Gry’Sui-bpe-de._

Strange. She did not recall him being here. In the woes of an unsatisfactory heat cycle, in her own worries and concerns for finding _her_ ooman and getting Ivon—and Jo—far from here, Vayuh’ta must have missed the other Yautja’s sudden arrival. Understandably so, as the man’s containment chamber is several cells down from hers, likely near where the Yautja calling herself _Adjutant_ is trapped.

 _“Ya know,”_ and Bezas barks back the shrill clicks and screeches. _“Ya were a hell lot nicer back when I locked yer ass in a cockpit!”_

 _“I don’t care! Shut up.”_ Gry’Sui’s words carry a weight Vayuh’ta hasn’t quite untangled yet. But she listens, as she has done for many cycles, and she examines the environment around her.

The light blue Yautja, Bist’ri, is safe. She trusts her old mentor to take the woman away from here. Where to is not clear, but Dto-Bhu’ja’s willingness to _accept_ the woman into their company is a good sign. Bist’ri and her pup, maybe even pups, will live. _Should_ live.

By Cetanu, Vayuh’ta will rip Dto-Bhu’ja apart if they let anything happen to a pregnant bearer. Even if she is no longer part of _Ka’Torag-Na,_ the sacred duties instilled upon her when she proved herself worthy of the role _lou-dte kale._ What is but an insulting term in other clans is a noble and _respected_ role in the lurking clan. Vayuh’ta continues carrying the responsibilities of her former role as _lou-dte kale_. She looks out for pregnant bearers and defends them to the death.

Hopefully—Bist’ri will live, and Vayuh’ta will continue to uphold the vows she took hundreds of cycles ago.

The sirens never cease ringing, a shrill reminder of the prisoners’ impending doom. Vayuh’ta grits her inner jaws and forces her nerves to settle. She cannot rely on rampant fury to break free of the current situation. She cannot let herself become distracted by her thoughts. She redirects her focus and centers herself in her cell, eyes shut and four hearts beating rapidly in her chest.

 _Let Ivon be okay._ Vayuh’ta thinks, then adds to the initial thought. _Let the others live._

Her eyes snap open at the sound of footsteps. The back-and-forth between Gry’sui and Bezas ceases as a scuffling noise and a woman’s shout fills the corridor. Vayuh’ta breathes in and, instantly, her eyes widen with recognition to the floral aroma.

 _“Lav’a-da?”_ Gry’Sui clicks weakly, softly, with too much fondness for her rely on.

 _“You are bait! Meat! Soft meat!”_ The man is an Arbitrator, the likes of one under Gahn’tha-cte’s authorities. She doesn’t know his name, but she sees the way he curses and drags a thrashing, kicking, and screaming woman past cells.

“I heard—God, I heard them, I know—Don’t leave me here! Fuck! Fuck, don’t—I don’t wanna die!” Jo’s sobs are horrible to Vayuh’ta’s head.

Instantly, the ic’jit yearns to separate the Arbitrator’s head from his body. She leaps to her feet; she hears Gry’sui take a cue and do the same as Vayuh’ta lets out an _ungodly_ roar. _“You intend to leave us, Arbitrator?!”_

 _“Dishonorable!”_ Gry’sui shouts. _“I’ve done no wrong!”_

 _“Your refusal to cooperate was guilt enough! You knew the consequences of not releasing her to the custody of an Elder-sanctioned warrior!”_ The man snarls back, holding Jo with one hand by her nape while the other punches in a command into his wrist gauntlet. Jo struggles against him, but Vayuh’ta knows it is not enough. An ooman cannot win against a Yautja on their own, not even someone as brave and foolish as Jo.

 _“Arbitrator!”_ Vayuh’ta snaps, hissing and cussing until the blasted man acknowledges her. _“Honorable Arbitrator of those who are ruthless! What is your name?”_

 _“I will not share that with ic’jit the likes of you. Arbitrators do not fall to petty tricks!”_ The man reels back, grip on Jo’s throat tightening. The ooman is flurry of limbs now, thrashing and struggling to breathe.

 _“Lav’a-da!”_ Gry’Sui shouts and smashes into the force of his cell’s containment field. It flings him backward, the man crashing against the wall. He tries again—and fails, again—while Vayuh’ta’s mind swirls with multiple thoughts and tactics.

Rage isn’t working. _She_ cannot pass through the containment chamber’s field. Nothing _alive_ can, but Vayuh’ta is nothing if not clever. She has not survived as an ic’jit on luck alone. The one clenches her teeth as she grabs one of her talons and rips the chunk of keratin out. Pain shoots through her hand and blood sprays across her cell.

Then, with the nimbleness of one taught by a shadow, and the aim of a _pissed off_ warrior, Vayuh’ta flicks the talon forward at the Arbitrator’s turned back. She clicks with pained laughter when it embeds into his shoulder. The man howls in surprise and throws Jo aside. The ooman lands with an _oof_ while the Arbitrator sets his masked gaze on Vayuh’ta.

 _“How?”_ He hisses as his right _dah’kte_ extends. 

_“The guards overestimated the extent of my cooperation,”_ The Bad Blood cackles. “ _Keratin is a protein structure. It is not alive.”_

 _“Shoulda left those manacles on,_ ” Bezas chimes in from the side, clicking softly with laughter. _“Nice one, ic’jit!”_

Vayuh’ta ignores them. Her focus is wholly on the Arbitrator. She smells the rage and lust bubbling up inside the man. He’s likely not a had a lay since becoming Arbitrator, as the title is a complicated matrix of shame and social obligations. She doesn’t feel pity, but she revels in the knowledge she can usurp his concentration. It is what makes Yautja like him _weak_ in comparison to her.

She would never let her guard down around an actual ic’jit.

 _“You’ll regret that,”_ the Arbitrator roars in fury and punches a command into his wrist gauntlet. His back arches with a roar. The noise is partially drowned out by the alarms screeching nonstop across the level of the ship.

Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes gleam as the containment field of her cell flickers away.

As the oomans put it: _hook, line, and sinker._

* * *

 _“Did you order them to leave?”_ H’chak snaps at the Elder while he pulls the _dah’kte_ free of flesh and lowers the guard to the ground. The former Elite clicks a quick prayer to Cetanu before shutting the guard’s eyes.

 _“Akrei-non-Daga issued an evacuation order,”_ is the Elder’s cryptic reply, offering the bare minimum of what the man needs to know. “It won’t help. The observation deck and multiple modules of the residential quarters have been targeted by plasma charges. Anyone on those floors is deceased, or will be picked off by boarding parties.”

 _“Pauk.”_ H’chak curses visibly. His entire body tenses and the man holds back a battle cry of raw, rich furor. _“There must be something more we can do—There are—Still others—The medical division! The—The—The armory—Training floor—The—”_

 _“M-di H’chak.”_ H’chak grits his teeth and strains his non-broken mandibles while Migo tilts his masked face at him. _“They are dead. You are the priority. The memory chip will be enough to force Ka’Torag-Na to heel.”_

 _“We can’t leave them all to die! My—My pa-e—My mate—Jo—Ivon—”_ H’chak begins to curse and curse again, snarling and shaking his head.

 _“The one named Jo will be here, if Garra made it in time, as is any ic’jit in custody.”_ H’dlak utters, falling quiet after.

H’chak hates feeling helpless. He hates hurting his own, part of his mind pathetically connected to the clan even after all the poison and treachery viral in Gahn’tha-cte’s veins. He feels rage at the dying. He feels anger at the individuals who are damning hundreds. He feels grief at the uncounted casualties, as the losses sure to climb higher as the minutes pass.

 _“Prepare yourself!”_ Migo calls out over the alarms in the background.

Down the corridor, rounding it with shock, are four more guards. Their body posture indicates confusion. H’chak swears he recognizes two as old training buddies before the opposing Yautja inhale the scent of dead guards and the atmosphere changes. Even when he is clashing against the Blooded men, even as he cuts through flesh and sinew, even as the Elite shuts the eyes of each warrior and offers a prayer in solace to the dead, he cannot rid himself the harrowing tragedy of it all. Many are guilty of sin, and he is no exception.

* * *

The Arbitrator is a fast one. Agile and limber, the man speeds at her with no warning, intent on striking her down himself. Vayuh’ta anticipates this and slips under him just as he reaches her, throwing the man beyond her into the wall with his momentum. The sickening clang of metal rings amongst background alarms. She twists immediately and ducks a sudden swipe of _dah’kte,_ feeling the edges graze her face and slice through a chunk of one mandible.

Blood spews. She rockets up and grinds her elbow into the man’s abdomen, where the Arbitrator’s chestplate stops short of another and exposes thermal mesh of his suit. Vayuh’ta hisses as the man’s _dah’kte_ scratch at her back; she ignores the pain with a shout and grapples the arm containing his wrist gauntlet. It becomes a mess of sheer strength against raw skill, with the two brawling, clobbering, and punching one another in an increasingly heated moment.

 _“Cetanu take you!”_ The Arbitrator _snarls_ over the alarms right as he smashes his masked face into Vayuh’ta’s head.

The Bad Blood falls backward with a roar. She refuses to let go of the arm with his wrist gauntlet, pulling the Arbitrator with her. Jo cusses nearby. Vayuh’ta snarls at the ooman to _get away_. But as the situation spirals, as the ic’jit struggles against a fully armed man with injuries impairing her ability to fight, it is obvious Jo _refuses_ to leave. The ooman looks around wildly while Vayuh’ta wrestles the Arbitrator off, only to cry out with agony when the man activates a combistick and it impales her in the thorax.

“This ends now,” the Arbitrator snaps, shoving Vayuh’ta off him and rising while the woman grows lightheaded.

A weak feeling falls upon her. Her head becomes faint, even with the alarms blaring madly in the background. Vayuh’ta’s chest heaves as the Arbitrator pulls out his combistick and roars in triumph. He lifts it high into the air, angles it over her head, and brings it crashing down.

Vayuh’ta throws her head to the side, a vain attempt to avoid the blow. The combistick catches her locks and pins them to the floor before the Arbitrator stomps a foot on her chest and raises his weapon again.

He stills over her, weapon high and aimed for her forehead. The _Pride of Cetanu_ splays out around Vayuh’ta’s head as she waits for him to kill her and finish the duel.

The Yautja staggers and drops his weapon instead. He tries to turn but a gush of blood has him coughing and choking. He scrambles to stop the flow. Jo steps back with a bloodied Yautja talon in her hand and snaps, “That’s how you see me, right? Weak fuckin’ prey? Good for nothing _soft meat!_ I—I’m tired of this! _”_

The Arbitrator hisses at her and lunges for the woman. Jo screams, confidence waning even as she plunges the talon into the man’s pelt. Vayuh’ta tries to roar at the Arbitrator, to demand the man fight _her_ and _only_ her, but to her horror, her throat chokes up and she wheezes in pain. Vayuh’ta sputters and retches violently from the pain in her side. Her orange eyes bulge with concern as she stares at the mess of figures on the ground.

Then the Arbitrator stops moving. His body crushes Jo’s. Vayuh’ta holds in a slew of curses as she drags herself over. She hears Jo sob and sees the woman shake even as she pries the still-bleeding body of the Arbitrator off Jo. Vayuh’ta hisses in pain when the ooman suddenly shoots up and wraps arms around her. Jo doesn’t seem to notice or can’t afford to care; the woman buries her head in Vayuh’ta’s neck and begins to bawl. “God—Oh, god, fuck—Oh god—God—I—"

Vayuh’ta stills, listening to the human’s sobs. She exhales wearily and shifts to move more of Jo’s weight off her injured side.

 _“We need to move.”_ Vayuh’ta clicks softly, uncertain if Jo can even understand her.

To her surprise, the woman lets go and draws back. She sniffles and nods. Her brown eyes glisten with tears; it aches Vayuh’ta in a way she does not enjoy feeling.

“They—They made—Me—Me _fucking—Fuckin’ testify—Like—_ A snitch! Snitch! A snitch on—On Mercy.” Jo shakes her head. “This’s all… just… I didn’t—I didn’t do it, Maelstrom. I ain’t like that. I didn’t… I couldn’t…”

 _“She had a neurotranslator chip implanted into her head, ic’jit.”_ Gry’sui breathes from his containment chamber. The man remains locked inside, several cells down from where Jo and Vayuh’ta sit.

Vayuh’ta struggles to her feet. Jo balks at the gaping hole in the woman’s side. “Maelstrom—”

 _“It’s a flesh wound,”_ the ic’jit lies, clenching her inner jaw at another spike of pain. _“Get his bio-mask. I need it.”_

 _“Throw it in here! Ya know, I am a whiz with tech—”_ Kwei-Bezas begins one of their tangents but snarls from Gry’sui and the gold-pelted huntress several cells over is incentive for Bezas to immediately _shut up_.

“We should—We gotta do something about _you_ first,” Jo redirects the conversation to Vayuh’ta’s wounds. The ooman furrows brows at Vayuh’ta. “Maelstrom—I don’t need to be a doc to know a _gaping fucking hole_ in your torso is _shit!”_

“I’ll live, we need to leave,” Vayuh’ta seethes in agony, doubling over and clutching the wall to stay up. Except the wall is not actually the wall; the ‘wall’ is Jo. Jo balks more at her while Vayuh’ta tries to right herself. “My—My old clan—They are here. We need to find the others and leave.”

 _“Those were the noises? Ka’Torag-Na is upon us?”_ This time, the voice of the gold-pelted huntress is enough to draw both individuals attention. Vayuh’ta hisses at the former Adjutant locked in her cell, but the woman isn’t intimidated. _“They will slaughter us, no matter our honor or species. We need to warn the rest of the clan—"_

 _“No shit, Adjutant Yeyinde! Mighta well rename you to something like, uh. I dunno. Something meaning Adjutant Not-Brave One.”_ Bezas grumbles under their breath.

Alarms blare again in the background.

Vayuh’ta hears Bezas go off again on a spiel about handing over the bio-mask, but her mind drifts elsewhere. In her own haze of pain, she hears a skirmish come from the corridor where the guards initially abandoned them to. Her mandibles draw taught over her inner jaw as she jabs Jo and nudges the ooman in the direction of the noises. “Others—The mask—”

“Give it here!” Bezas snaps, impatient now.

“I’ll strangle you myself,” Gry’Sui roars at the mechanic. “You of all Yautja deserve no trust!”

“Eh, that’s fair, but you ain’t got a choice! Ya’ll running out of time while the Kwei Customer Service is open for business!” The words make no sense to Vayuh’ta even with her knowledge of _some_ ooman customs and slang. She hears approaching footsteps: silent, trained, stealthy, but not enough to bypass _her_.

Weak as she is, the woman instinctively forces Jo behind her. She hisses and clutches at her wounds but tries to hold herself up and make herself look larger as the enemies close in. Two heat signatures come rushing around the corner and freeze as they make eye contact with her. Vayuh’ta arches her back and roars. She doesn’t expect to hear a loud intake of breath from _behind_ her. She doesn’t expect Jo to bolt forward and snake by Vayuh’ta’s outstretched arm when the ooman goes running forward and practically tackles one of the Yautja.

The cry of relief is surprisingly soothing to hear. Vayuh’ta breathes in and filters out the scent of the other two Yautja. Something clicks in her mind and she perks up. Her orange eyes grow brighter as she clicks a name, _“H’chak.”_

* * *

“Where are the others? Sundew? Where’s my mate? Ivon?” H’chak brushes aside the greeting as he interrogates Joan and Vayuh’ta alike. The former Elite is tense as he scans and rescans the now-empty cells.

“I—The last place I saw them—Medical bay. Division. Place.” Jo winces as H’chak begins to curse softly. “What? We can go get them, can’t we? Can’t we? Like—The lifts—”

 _“The ship is being invaded. I felt the plasma charges detonate from my cell. The main lift will render itself inoperable to slow attackers from reaching other levels of the clanship.”_ Adjutant Yeyinde has since been released from her containment chamber, as have all the others due to assistance from Elder Migo nearby.

The Adjutant is a strange one, as H’chak doesn’t recall knowing her _personally,_ but he recalls rumors of her prowess and honor in the time before he left to redeem himself on Terra. She is resilient and devote to her duties. He remembers the way she interrogated him after dragging him to Elder Kwei-Tyioe’s living quarters. H’chak feels a pang of ire at the memory. The late Elder Tyioe did not deserve a sudden, brutal end. He prays she got one, both painless and honorable, even if such a death came at the hands of one so wretched as Akrei-non-Daga.

 _“I doubt your friends live if they were in the medical division.”_ Yeyinde continues, clicking as bluntly as space is vast.

H’chak spins on his heels and _growls_ dangerously. _“I won’t give up on them—”_

 _“You are the priority now, M-di-H’chak. You must escape the clanship before it is overrun by Ka’Torag-Na.”_ Elder Migo hisses from the side, the lumbering man otherwise taciturn.

 _“Not without them.”_ The former Elite howls with no regard for anyone hearing him. It seems pointless to worry about noise when the alarms _keep ringing_.

“Maelstrom needs a nurse,” Jo interjects, looking from one Yautja to another. Some of the Yautja tilt their head to one side, as if confused or perplexed by what she says, while H’chak snaps his head in Vayuh’ta’s direction.

_“Pauk.”_

_“He hit nothing vital—”_

_“Garra was never good with his aim.”_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de comments from the side, growling lowly. _“Dishonorable man! He intended to abandon Lav’a-da and I with the—"_

“I’m not a fucking flower,” Jo says. She marches to Gry’Sui and jabs a finger to his broad chest. Her eyes narrow. “Remember that. Jo. **_Jo_** _._ You’re— _Gry._ Not so fucking hard to get _my_ name right! I’ve gone over this—"

 _“We need to take a nurse. And I need to get the others,”_ H’chak ignores the Yautja and ooman as Jo begins a _long_ lecture of the importance of names; he growls at Migo when the Elder doesn’t acknowledge him. “There must be some way. I won’t let her die.”

H’chak doesn’t know which ‘her’ he refers to. His _pa-e_ , who has raised him since he was a pup. His half-sister, who will succumb to gruesome injuries without intervention. His mate, who he loves dearly, who he would sacrifice the universe for.

He realizes the answer is all _three._

…and Ivon, though the person occasionally gets on his nerves.

“Bist’ri.” H’chak remembers after a moment. The man looks around wildly, pacing up and down the corridor length of the cells. “Where—The former head nurse—Did they bring her here?”

 _“The Shadow of our dipshit attackers took her to their ship.”_ Bezas clicks abruptly, shrugging after.

 _“She will,”_ Vayuh’ta hisses softly. _“Be safe. There. Trust me.”_

 _“Trust doesn’t come easy.”_ H’chak grits his teeth. _“I need—We need to get to the medical division—To find a nurse—”_

“Why do you keep calling me that?! I told ya—My name’s a fucking _sore_ spot—You know what to call me!” Jo’s voice has risen in volume to the point she half-screams the words, enraged.

H’chak and Vayuh’ta both hesitate to interject. Migo clicks in disgust at the strife. Bezas is about to comment when Gry’sui-bpe-de looks away and utters something under breath.

Jo snaps _._ “I can’t hear you!”

 _“You remind me of my late mate, Jo,”_ The Elite spits, fists clenched tightly and tension radiating off his form. _“She smelled of lav’a-da. And you—You walk into my life—Smelling like her?”_

A pin could drop from how quiet the corridor becomes, minus the screeching alarms in their undying attempts to alert the clanship occupants of ensuing catastrophe.

“Well, I ain’t her.” The ooman sounds less brash, perhaps even flustered. H’chak doesn’t know what to make of it but he knows he will step in to help Jo if she asks it of him. She won’t, not yet, but hopefully the brave and foolish woman can feel his support from where he stands.

 _“I know. She’s dead. My negligence brought her the final rest.”_ Gry’Sui-bpe-de lets out a softer hiss, almost a groan of pain. Weight pulls his shoulders down until he slumps in place. _“Let us… speak of other things. I know I have wronged you and her… Jo. I will make amends when you are not at risk of dying.”_

* * *

“When I’m not at—” Jo begins, brown eyes locked unto the amber Yautja’s form.

The beefcake of a barbecue-smelling man is far from intimidating at this second. He looks so solemn and withdrawn, guilty and remorseful, that even with all the fierce and powerful features of his well-sculpted muscles and colorful body, he still looks… off. Strange. Not good. Smaller. _Sad?_

 _Makes sense._ The former guard thinks, her chest aching at the thought. _If I—Do I really remind him of his dead spouse? That’s why he calls me a flower?_

She doesn’t know what to make of it. The association gives her a weird feeling, like lots of emotions bundled tightly together and interwoven to keep the mess in place. Her mind is essentially _that_ : a mess.

Especially when she remembers how he acted before, back when the warriors of Mercy’s clan came by to kidnap her. Barbecue man— _Gry, Gry, his name is Gry_ —was beaten to unconsciousness before the Yautja swooped in and forced her to march to the place where Mercy was on trial. Jo remembers each of the strikes very clearly. She remembers the man’s fury when the other Yautja demanded to take her into custody. She remembers her gratitude. She still feels the gratitude flutter in her chest, like uneasy butterflies freshly emerging from cocoons and preparing to fly for the first time.

It stirs a soft heat in her gut, which quickly spreads up and climbs into her face. Jo’s gaze softens. She feels her anger over the incorrect name dissipate.

 _Sorry for your loss,_ is her next thought. _That must’ve been hard on you and Ash…_

_Ash._

_Ash._

_Where are they?_ Jo’s eyes widen. She snaps her head up and looks around the group. Some of the Yautja are now talking in hushed, frantic clicks, like Mercy is with the old-looking, wrinkly Yautja right now. Others are observant, such as the golden huntress standing at the ready on the very edge of the group. Her attention briefly flickers to Maelstrom; the human swallows nerves when she sees how _less dark gray_ the woman is in comparison to her pelt’s usual hue. The group _needs_ to find a nurse for her, and fast.

“Gry,” Jo walks to the Elite, both hesitant and determined. The Elite stiffens where he stands. He is _easily_ so much larger than her, in raw muscle, in body type, in height, width, _everything_ , and she strains her neck looking up. The deep black eyes inset in Gry’s head move to her own and stare deep into them.

In a way, they remind Jo of the stars: the deepest parts of space, of untold cosmos and worlds waiting to be discovered.

 _“Sei-i. Jo.”_ The Elite clicks neutrally, quieter than usual. He lacks the confidence she’s used to.

“Do you have a way to, um,” Jo hesitates, struggling with words. “To… Your pup… Uh… To, ya know. Get in contact? There a way to do that?”

The mention of _Leitjin_ takes Gry aback. Jo watches his body language to gauge a reaction. She sees tension form and release in tightening and relaxing fists, as well as the strain of mandibles across Gry’s inner jaw

 _“They were without their helmet when the Im-Gen brought them to us. But,”_ the man pauses. His black eyes slowly fill with hope. _“—The Im-Gen—She asked to borrow my helmet. My cloaking device. If my pup is with her or the other ooman, then—Elder Migo-Kujhade!”_ Gry interjects across the corridor.

The old Yautja clicks once in acknowledgement. Jo shivers; even a simple sound is _off_ coming from the Elder.

 _“I—I believe—”_ The Elite briefly stumbles over words, suddenly on the spot to phrase everything correctly. Eventually, Gry gives up and clicks quickly, _“—Set up a communications line with my mask, sir.”_

 _“That’s a thought, huh, yeah,”_ Kwei-Bezas rubs their mandibles while deep in thought. _“Ya should let me have a mask and give it a go—”_

 _“Shut up,”_ Mercy _growls_ at the Yautja. The mechanic shrugs amicably.

Attention falls back on Elder Migo.

 _“We do not have time—"_ the old Yautja begins.

Mercy growls. _“Elder Migo—If there is any scrap of honor in you—”_

 _“You cannot threaten an Elder!”_ Migo roars in outrage at the former Elite.

 _“He just did.”_ Maelstrom spits out, voicing the sentiment shared by her, Mercy, and Jo.

 _“I will try once.”_ The Elder seethes but begins the process of setting up a communications relay.

Jo knows it is successful when she sees the Elder freeze in place before exhaling silently. Hope rises in her chest as she and the Yautja wait.

 _“Leitjin.”_ Migo says, and Jo knows she could begin crying in relief. _“This is Elder Migo-Kujhade. I—Yes, I know the clanship is under siege—No. I do not believe repelling the attackers is possible. Evacuation is in order. Clan Gahn’tha-cte has fallen. I—Why do you ask?”_ The man stills. _“The ooman is here. As are your sirer and others. There is little time—Cease your incessant babbling. Take all survivors to the docking bay. Use the storage lifts if necessary—You need help?”_

It is the most Jo has ever seen an old Yautja rattle off in one sitting, save for Mercy’s trial where things went wrong is way too many ways. She doesn’t realize she shifts closer to Gry’sui-bpe-de until her shoulder bumps into his arm. The woman feels his eyes on her; she mumbles a sheepish apology and watches the Elder Yautja. “Help?”

 _“The former head nurse Guan-Tjau’ke. Former Elder M-di-Guan-Lar’ja. Former Adjutant Gahn’tha-cte-Guan…”_ Though the names translate in Jo’s head, she struggles to pick through the sounds when hearing Migo speak.

 _“Can you move them to the trash chutes? Storage lifts? Either? Good. Wait for us.”_ The Elder taps a command into his wrist computer. Holographic red symbols flash above the device before fading into nothing.

Jo frowns. “They need help?”

 _“Three injured parties.”_ Migo reports, a sour note at the end of the statement. _“Mercy, if you are that desperate to save them, go. Yeyinde, you as well. And Bezas—Disable the chutes automated filtering system. I will give you temporary access to my mask. We regroup in the docking bay.”_

 _“Did—Did they say anything of my mate?”_ Mercy takes a step toward the Elder. _“Of Sun-Dew?”_

Migo shakes his head. Mercy curses softly, but when Jo walks to him and puts a hand on his arm, he recoils, freezes, and looks over his shoulder at her. Jo offers him a weak but hopeful smile. “She’s—She’s really something, ya know? Sundew—She—She’s come back before. Maybe not the same, but—Have a little faith in her.”

She smiles a little wider. Mercy exhales in a raspy way. He chirps once. _“Faith.”_

“On Earth—It’s like—” Jo begins, but when Maelstrom chuckles weakly, the woman pauses. “What?”

 _“Our species knows the deities responsible for creating Yautja life. Jo.”_ Maelstrom cocks her head to one side. _“Don’t explain.”_

“Then—I won’t.” Jo crosses her arms. “Not until we get to the ship.”

She watches the golden huntress, the one called _Yeyinde,_ click abruptly at Mercy. The latter nods and the two take off in a brisk jog to the far end of the corridor. Jo becomes aware of the nonstop alarms once again as they continue to repeat and drown out the conflict happening beneath the noise. She feels worry crawl up her throat. Little moments with her friends remind her of how much she may lose. In a world where she has lost everything by the hands of the Stargazer Corporation, by being whisked away from her home planet and thrown into a brand new culture rife with its own rich social customs and norms, the woman feels fear nip at the back of her throat.

She doesn’t want to lose anyone else.


	81. faith

_Trash chutes._ Take the injured to the trash chutes.

It is both dangerously unhygienic and amusing to Ivon that they and the nurse are essentially acting out scenes from _Star Wars,_ albeit without cool rock-lifting powers and no laser swords. There are still aliens, whether one looks from the perspective of a _human_ or the perspective of a _Yautja_. Nifty sci-fi weapons, spaceships, and convoluted politics they don’t fully understand or care about. Ivon might go so far to call Mercy the Yautja equivalent of a _chosen one_ , though they would never say it to his face out of anxiety over trying to explain it should he ask.

They know he would ask because they know him now. Against all odds and ends in this universe, Ivon and Mercy are _friends._ They lived this far because of him, and he lived this far because of many other things, but Ivon wants to believe they contributed.

It is why they are relieved when they hear the grunts of the man climbing up. It is why they struggle not to throw their arms around him when he emerges from the disgusting, bloodied trash chute and climbs out into the dark corridor, with the Yautja called _Brave One_ following his lead.

It is also why, when Brave One begins throwing an injured Elder over her shoulder and climbing back down the trash chute with Ash and Ruthless Night, Ivon is left at a loss of what to say. There is nothing but glowing green light of drying blood to light the hall. Ivon suddenly feels self-conscious and uneasy in the face of their companion. They twiddle their fingers and nervously look up at Mercy, seeing the taller figure easily best their height by several inches.

“So—” Ivon finally says, but Mercy cocks his head to one side. They pause. “Is—Is Jo okay?”

 _“She is alive.”_ The Yautja confirms. The hunter hesitates, mask shifting angle to scan both ends of the corridor, looking for someone. Looking for _her_.

When he doesn’t find her, Mercy’s attention returns to Ivon. The human exhales sharply and averts their gaze. “I—We looked for her. She—She killed the… The weird thing running around here. The—”

 _“Sun-Dew…”_ Mercy’s long clicks are pained.

“I can take you to where she… Y’know.” Ivon clears their throat. “I—I mean, I don’t know if she, well, if she really _died-died_ but… But she’s come back before! She’s come back from—From literally being blasted into tiny pieces!”

They continue to babble while Mercy moves to the unconscious Yautja left propped up against the wall.

Ivon sees, in what little light the bioluminescent traces of blood provide, that Mercy’s so-called… _Someone of great importance?_ Is a fair contrast to Mercy himself. Mercy is a man of seven feet, whose locs are darker than the deepest shadows of the clanship. But this other Predator, one of the nurses if Ivon recalls correctly, is exceedingly tall, with at least a foot of height over Mercy, and her locs are brown… _ish_.

The unconscious Yautja does not share in any other apparent qualities, save for her patches of beige scales mirroring Mercy’s occasional brown stretches of pelt. It leaves Ivon confused just what the Yautja is to Mercy, but they realize it doesn’t _matter,_ that it isn’t any of their business, and they pretend to have never looked in the first place while Mercy scoops up the unconscious Yautja and hangs her over one shoulder.

 _“I—We don’t have time.”_ Mercy hisses softly, growling in pain when he adjusts the leg he bears weight on.

It takes Ivon aback. They balk at the man. “What? But—But—What? Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

 _“Mate,”_ the hunter corrects him. He curses under his breath and grips the unconscious Yautja in his grasp a little tighter. _“But now—Now—This isn’t about—It isn’t about us, Ivon. My clan is dying. We may well be dead by the end of the day cycle—And for what?”_

The Yautja’s entire body tenses. Ivon purses their lips and stares. “For… what?”

 _“You are a… capable pyode amedha. Strong, in your own way. If you could save the life of a hundred over the life of one, would you?”_ The question takes Ivon aback a second time. They hesitate in answering, and the Yautja snarls lowly at them. _“What I want—Will doom us all. And—As much as I loathe these circumstances—Hate them with every fighting spirit vested in me—I know—”_ Ivon hears the expletives carry for a long minute. Mercy shakes his head, his few locs swinging softly from the movement. _“It’s… not what she wants for me. For you. For Jo. For Maelstrom. For—All of us. She never… she wouldn’t want us to meet the final rest.”_

Ivon’s gaze softens. They understand now. The deep ache in their chest is nowhere near the pain they imagine the hunter to be in, knowing he must make such a devastating choice so quickly. There is no time for grief or mourning. There is only time to survive.

“Let’s make sure we live, then,” Ivon mumbles, offering a cheesy smile at their friend. “For her sake.”

* * *

Not even the pain of debilitating humiliation of the Challenging, not even the loss of all respect and sanctity in his own clan, not even the torture he faced at the hands of Stargazer on _Terra,_ not even the disrespect and dishonor shown since he returned to Gahn’tha-cte can come close to the agony which razes him now.

It takes everything in the man not to break down screaming, to hold himself together and make do the course.

And, had he been stuck carrying Guan instead of his _pa-e_ down a trash chute, H’chak might have heard a snarky remark from his brother about losing his mate. His orange eyes flicker to where his _pa-e_ remains incapacitated, slung over one shoulder. His gaze narrows. He reflects on what Jo said before. _Faith. I must have faith in her._

* * *

Ivon does not enjoy the climb down.

Nor do they enjoy being grabbed at and squabbled over when Ash catches them after they slip ten feet from the chute exit. But, though the trash cements into their hair, cakes their skin, and leaves them feeling nauseous and gross, they could not be happier when their eyes land on their tall, strong, beautiful huntress. Maelstrom doesn’t get to react before they seize her in their arms and clutch her to their chest, crying in joy over the reunion.

 _“Careful! She’s wounded, geez,”_ Ash huffs at them, and it is only then Ivon draws back and realizes their beloved Yautja has a gaping wound in her abdomen.

“Who—Who the fuck did _this?!”_ The electrician blurts out the words in disbelief.

 _“Only,”_ Maelstrom hisses at them and tries to bat their hands away. _“Flesh wound. Scratch.”_

“Stop being stubborn,” Ivon mumbles, their brows furrowing. “Ash—Ash—Can you—”

They get cut off when Jo practically tackles them off Maelstrom, the latter growling at their sudden absence. Jo wraps them up in a big hug before sighing against them. “I—I’m so _fucking glad_ you’re okay. I—This entire thing—”

“Shitshow,” Ivon says at the same as Jo.

Jo draws back and smiles weakly. “Yeah. I…” The woman trails off. She pauses, looks around, and frowns. “That’s… this ain’t good.”

Without even saying a name, Ivon knows exactly who Jo refers to. They glance over their shoulder to where Mercy stands silently, the unconscious, _tall_ Yautja now being held in his arms like some sort of alien bride. Granted, Ivon _knows_ that can’t be the case: they _know_ Mercy’s hearts belong to Sundew, but they can’t help the comparison.

“Is… is she… um,” Jo bites her lip.

Ivon shrugs. They keep their voice quiet. “I—I dunno—”

“Right. Right. Me… too.” Jo averts her gaze. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck,” Ivon agrees.

They are cut off by Maelstrom’s long strings of clicks, the woman quickly detailing just how much she would like to be near them. It takes a moment for Ivon to remember Jo also a neurotranslator in her head. When they remember that fact, they clam up and their face goes red. “Uh—Um—This—This—Not—Time—” They mumble an apology to Jo and scamper back to Maelstrom’s side. They feel a little guilty; they’ve seen Jo a handful of times since arriving to this spacecraft, but Maelstrom was whisked away and sent straight to a prison cell, or the alien equivalent of one.

“Sorry,” Ivon frowns and stops by where Maelstrom leans against the wall of the corridor. The latter huffs. Ivon balks at her. “I _am!”_

 _“This whole time,”_ Maelstrom’s words are pained, not emotionally but due to the physical exertion she is under. _“I looked for a way out—A way to you! And now you are here—And you have no desire for me? To see me? Hold me? Touch me?!”_

The latter comes out loud enough to draw a few looks. Ivon’s face blazes in hear and they throws their hands up. They begin stammering, not in fear but out of their own flustered state from their girlfriend’s implications. “Wh—What?! No—No—Not at all—I just—I wanted to—To say hi—To Jo—”

They quickly wrap Maelstrom up in their arms. Her locs feel rubbery against their body, but Ivon doesn’t mind. They make a point to exaggerate sniffing her, hoping it conveys the idea of… _missing_ her.

They did miss her, a lot.

More than a lot.

They missed her terribly.

Ivon leaves a tiny kiss on the edge of one of Maelstrom’s tusks when they draw back. Their stomach nervously flips when they see her pause. Suddenly, their senses are taken by the scent of her, as her odor floods their nostrils and fills them up. Ivon’s entire body throbs painfully as they quickly hold unto her. They mumble under breath _,_ “Not fair—Humans can’t—We can’t—Pheromones—On—Command…”

 _“I longed for your presence endlessly,”_ Maelstrom’s hand lifts to their head and begins combing their dirty, tangled hair. She clicks softly to them. _“I thought of you… often. In many ways.”_

Ivon exhales shakily. “O—Oh. Yeah. Me too.”

 _“When this heals—When you bathe—I wish to join you,”_ the huntress clicks quickly. Her hand shifts to Ivon’s back and she nonchalantly pulls them to sit on her thighs. Maelstrom nuzzles their head and clicks into their ear. _“If others were not with us—We would do many things differently. But they are here, and those… acts of leisure must wait. But I will tell you everything I have planned, everything you can expect when we board that ship. First is… my injury healing. You—Cleaning yourself of that filth. But after, Ivon? When we are alone in the ship? When I have access to every inch of your body? I will ravish you until your your throat gives out from screaming for more—”_

Maelstrom begins to list the acts quietly, with growing fervor. The list of lewd acts grows and grows, dragging on longer, and longer, until Ivon is certain they will be waddling all the way to the _Kukulkan._ Then, and only then, does Maelstrom shut up and begin to purr for them, pleased as punch with their response. To their relief, the others do not notice or choose to avoid lewd jokes, too busy discussing the best route to take to the docking bay.

When the group finally decides on what to do, Ivon helps Maelstrom up and lets her lean on them as they walk. The Yautja keeps purring as she walks alongside him, following the others with glee and smugness radiating off her form whenever they blush or sputter. They try not to walk too quickly, but a growing desperation to reach the Kukulkan is upon them, and it has nothing to do with leaving Gahn’tha-cte.

* * *

Adjutant Yeyinde does not work with ic’jits. She does not, and she never will, but she cannot view ‘this’ as _working_ with one when Elder Migo-Kujhade _orders_ her to escort M-di-H’chak to the Kukulkan. Out of respect for keeping a degree of honor between the group’s honorable Yautja, she opts to help carry M-di-H’chak’s _mei-hswei_ in her arms.

A minute after the trek to the docking bay begins, she hears Gahn’tha-cte-Guan mumble in pain, lost in the throes of deluded unconsciousness.

It sounds like a name.

* * *

_“Roja.”_

She opens her eyes. Among a landscape of soft hues and cool tones, the Yautja comes to surrounded by glowing figures. The two of them are extremely cold, to the point her own limbs feel numb just standing nearby.

Neither has a face. The shapeless, amorphous entities linger before her. Though she sees only thermal ranges, the woman knows the entities are _silver_. Her mind accepts this as fact. They are silver, and she is but a lone nurse without a clan to fall back on.

_A clan…_

_“Roja.”_ The silver ones call to her, speaking not her clan dialect but a language she doesn’t recognize.

Still, Roja understands her name. Her mind knows.

“Where am I? Where is… the world?” The nurse clicks softly, straining to look around her. It takes a toll. She struggles to move, to see, to _acknowledge._ Everything is a soft haze of things which make no sense and that which explains everything in her new world.

 _“You are safe now. Roja.”_ The silver tells her.

“Safe?” The nurse curses as a bolt of pain impales her temples. She grabs her head and flares her mandibles, hissing and snarling as the excruciating moment drags out. Her gut _burns_ like fire, but touching it does nothing. Roja does not feel or sense blood. She is not lightheaded. She simply is, and she is Roja.

 _“This is the one at the heart of the Phanes.”_ The silver speaks to the silver. _“The host—"_

_Phanes…_

She knows the name. She remembers stumbling upon it somewhere. _Where_ , though? How did she find the name? _What importance did it have?_

The Yautja’s mind blurs; she comes to not laying down but standing at the top of a world of swirling mist and yellow fog. A storm blows in the distance. Geometrically alien structures spiral and twist menacingly out of the ground on the horizon. Roja sways dangerously on the precipice. She doesn’t know why, but her mind screams at her not to leap. Jumping leads to pain. She might remember. She needs to remember. What did she forget?

 _“I am sorry I did not find you sooner.”_ Next to her, floating on the air with no gravitational pull, is the silver which soothes her. Roja’s shoulders relax. Her mandibles droop. She exhales in front of the silver while the entity waits for her response.

“I need to… I can’t be here,” the nurse begins softly, her chirps and clicks pained and slow. “I must do my job. I must…”

 _“What is your job?”_ Cold hands take her own, caressing her gently.

“There is something in… There is something, something, I—” Roja’s hands drop back to her side. She stares across the world, no longer thermal hues but made up of dilapidated beauty scattered in a rain of storms and looming gases. “I found something. It was there. There—I found it. I need to tell someone. I need… I…”

 _“You may not remember. Please forgive my actions. Roja. I could not save all of you. I do not know if I… saved myself.”_ The silver shifts away, flickering like a candle fading from life.

“What was it? What was—Was—What did I find?” Roja clicks on, the red Yautja looking at her own hands now. They are stained with glowing green blood.

 _Is it mine?_ She doesn’t remember.

 _“I think… you found what you were looking for,”_ the silver whispers in her ear. _“And he killed you for it.”_

_He…_

_He._

_He._

_C’it-na._

Her eyes shoot open. The world is a room and the room is white. She is a spirit among chrome-covered equipment and unknown—known—alloys of a clan she doesn’t recall. She is a spectactor watching herself dig through old memory chips in a storage room rarely touched by others like her. She is a trespassor looking to shift and steal and shed light. She is dying. She is dead. She is Roja. Roja is not dead, not because she is alive, but because the olive-green man shoving a needle into her neck has a use for her.

She is struggling.

She is trapped.

She is being tortured.

She is the host.

She remembers what she found.

“The database entry,” the woman clicks to no one and everyone. “What Elder Sa’ud wrote… the Phanes Root. The red sample...”

 _“You tried to bring it to attention.”_ Sundew stands at her side, but a shining force in the terrible vision of Roja’s memories. _“But the Head Nurse was not on our side.”_

“C’it-na put something in me. He—”

 _“I am sorry I could not save more of you. I am sorry, Roja.”_ The figure is a _pyode amedha_ now, only one devoid of hue beyond the ghostly white complexion and transparent eyes. A hat dons Sundew’s head. She looks at Roja, and reaches up to wipe something away from the nurse’s eye. _“You were the host for the Phanes. The evidence you found—It is gone now. It is gone, and so are you.”_

Her eyes widen. Roja feels cold tremors rake her body. She shudders and drops to her knees, aghast and shocked beyond words.

Sundew closes her eyes. _“I forced him into expiration. It is not enough, but he cannot hurt others now.”_

“I… What is this place? This—World?”

The silver figure pauses. _“A… place you cannot return from.”_

“I died.” Roja hisses softly. “This is not the final rest! This is not the pack following Cetanu! The Black Hunter—”

 _“I know,”_ Sundew cuts her off. _“But it is where you are now, and for that I am sorry.”_

When the silver figure fades from sight, Roja throws her head back and bellows at the moonless sky.

* * *

FLORA hears and feels the agony of each individual present. She knows she can do nothing, but for a moment her form seizes up and she shakes and shivers from her own internal temperature. In a humanoid form, her hands ball into fists and she looks away.

_I am sorry, Roja. I am too weak to usurp GHOST._

* * *

On the level of the clanship containing Gahn’tha-cte’s medical division, a lone mass of soft white collects the pieces of a former body and begins to spill together. One-by-one, bit-by-bit, the cells and their knowledge are absorbed into the matrix of the Vekin. Doused by serum and fueled by pain, the Vekin’s silhouette howls in silent agony as great mist fills the air around her. Her critical mass regenerates and _spikes_ in volume, toppling over the necessary threshold and imbibing her with new strength.

A dead Yautja sits up in the carnage left by another. Transparent eyes snap open, before the Vekin shifts the hues of the body to green eyes and a white pelt. GHOST cracks her neck and stands. Her body mends itself with the sound of alarms screaming in the background. In her head, another of her kind pleads with her to be careful.

 _Do not hurt them._ FLORA says.

GHOST knows exactly who ‘them’ refers to, but she is not FLORA; she does not have the human-touched heart of another to lean on. She only needs to find one corpse before she gorges on the memories of the deceased guard and feeds her destructive need for _new knowledge._ With it comes the layout of the medical division, delivered nice and clean to her mind’s eye. The Vekin’s inner jaw clenches in sweet satisfaction; she intends to give them _hell_.

* * *

There is no doubt in Migo-Kujhade’s mind that he is bound for a terrible end. He knows it in his cowardly, dishonorable actions. He sees it in the fall of his clan all around him. He walks by it when the group falls upon the dead guards, mercilessly slaughtered in a surprise ambush by the shadow of a Shadow. He knows, when the group presses on, when the airlock to the docking bay roars and begins sliding into the wall, that the end is near. But in spite of that—He feels nothing for it, the anger and bitterness replaced by a numb awareness that he is attempting to do what he can to fix things in what little life he has left.

All that changes when the airlock opens and he sees the mess on the other side.

* * *

The dead are in dozens. Most of the group freezes instinctively, but H’chak feels the anger boil and bubble in his body. He holds his _pa-e_ close, protectively, more determined than ever to keep her from becoming another casualty. It is difficult not to run forward _screaming_ into the airlock, into the very death trap awaiting the Gahn’tha-cte clan members and their oomans.

But in front of him is the epitome of injustice, and for that he barely restrains the surging temper.

 _“Does this… satisfy your questions?”_ The tall, ivory figure is a harbinger of the end. Akrei-non-Daga slowly pulls his sword out from the woman’s chest. Green blood drizzles off the end. The former clan leader flicks it off before moving to sheathe the blade, only to stop and snap his head back when Ikthya-De begins laughing hysterically at his side.

The huntress’ beady yellow eyes flicker up and down each member of the group. She extends her palms in greeting as H’chak and his companions stare at the bloody ship floor.

“You were always late to things, H’chak.” There is venom in her words, mixed with mirth of unfathomable proportions.

 _“Akrei-non-Daga!”_ Nearby, H’chak hears the Elder _roar_ in a way he has never witnessed firsthand. He flinches backward as Migo’s _dah’kte_ extend and the Elder points one in the direction of Daga. _“You are far beyond the deepest scum of ic’jit! Cetanu will make no place for you!”_

 _“Cetanu does not need to, Migo. I secured a place for myself—”_ It infuriates H’chak to hear how smooth and calm Daga is. He despises the man. He hates him more than he hates Ikthya-De, though his rage festers for both in growing waves.

 _“You sold yourself out to Ka’Torag-Na!”_ Migo-Kujhade seethes.

 _“He did,”_ Ikthya-De chirps pleasantly. She steps to the side and gestures at the scene around her. _“Does it bother you… seeing your clan like this?”_

* * *

The Shadow averts their gaze from the bodies.

 _Too many. Too much._ Dto-Bhu’ja holds the thought close to heart.

Honorable warriors should not hunt the weak. Honorable warriors _must not_ cross the lines of the Hunt, of the _Code._ There are certain targets hunters do not lean to. There are those who must not cross the line of fire.

 _Ui’stbi._ The Shadow thinks as their eyes fall on Akrei-non-Daga, then on Ikthya-de-th’Syra.

Slaughtering non-hostile targets, the _unworthy,_ those with pups, Sucklings in training, and the Unblooded, is an act without repentance. _Dishonorable._ Disgusting.

 _I am not your executioner._ The Shadow thinks again, turning their eyes away.

But the matriarch’s orders will be obeyed. They are the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na, and if that means they are still while Gahn’tha-cte’s former leader bleeds the clan dry of hope and honor, then so be it. May the gods judge them all for their sins; the Shadow knows they have no place in an afterlife void of darkness.

* * *

This is who they betrayed the others for.

 _Tch._ Useless. Waste of credits and time.

 _Should’a known better._ Too late for that. _Got to do something now._

But in front of them is a graveyard, and the graying yellow Yautja has never seen a scene of such malice, not in all their cycles. Kwei-Bezas stands idle, gawking in disbelief but a moment before their thoughts go ablaze. They don’t pay attention to the harsh remarks thrown from one side to another as the Elder and former Clan Leader square off with the other. They do not respond to Ikthya-De’s snarky remarks about the H’chak, Guan, or the deceased. Even when the woman insults _them—_ Kwei-Bezas brushes it off like dust on their shoulders, a gnat underfoot.

They have bigger priorities.

No sooner than the airlock opens has Bezas begun analyzing the scene. The bodies: fresh, abhorrent, a scene which will haunt them forever, but also possessing multiple pieces of equipment they want to get to. Wrist computers, a bio-mask, it is all Bezas needs to be _useful._

Then the ships: a handful left, most having Ka’Torag-Na clan members embark. It is clear from the sight that the group has satisfied what the clan came to do. There are likely plasma charges planted across every floor of the clanship, which is bad. _Really_ bad. Kwei-Bezas doesn’t know who holds the detonator, but they clench their inner jaws and pray whoever does has the compassion to wait a few minutes before pressing any buttons.

They know M-di-H’chak has a ship, but the _Kukulkan_ is at the other end of the docking bay. It needs to be unlocked, boarded, _turned on and flown out,_ all of which costs precious minutes the group doesn’t have; it’ll have to do. They just need to find a way to stall.

Then their eyes land on Daga, who has begun replying directly to Elder Migo-Kujhade. Two ancient assholes with too much power, having a verbal food fight froth with sharp retorts and boiling tension.

Daga is untouched by the violence, but Ikthya-De and the Shadow nearby are drenched in blood. The only sign of ‘damage’ is not injuries in the slightest, but the presence of blood on Daga’s weapons and hands.

 _Thwei of our dead clan members. What a punk. Cetanu’s got no place for ya, pal._ Bezas’ brown eyes narrow. They look to their group: three have Yautja in their arms, and a fourth—one of the oomans, Ivon—is helping support the resident ic’jit. It’s a shitshow that is bound to go badly, but Bezas appreciates a challenge, and what better challenge exists than screwing over a bunch of Ka’Torag-Na losers who want them all to meet the final rest?

As oomans would say— _pussies._

* * *

_“Akrei-non-Daga. It is advised you board the Pteros. There is nothing more for you to do here.”_ The Shadow clicks neutrally. Dual _Sivk’va-tai_ unfold from the vantablack chestplate of their armor. Among the dying light of the clanship’s docking bay, their armor is a silhouette against the darkest shadow.

Their Plasmacaster begins to charge.

 _“M-di.”_ Akrei-non-Daga remains where he stands. He tilts his head to one side. “I want all of them dead. The Elder, the oomans, the Adjutant, the… disgraced ic’jits. All of them. I want no one alive to speak of this day.”

“In your fucking dreams!” The brown-skinned human _spits_ back at Daga.

“Her first.” The clan leader demands.

Dto-Bhu’ja is irked, because Daga points at the ooman woman as if they are a _pet_ to bark orders to. But they are the _Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na_ , and they will do what is necessary to take the clan leader with them back to Ka’Torag-Na. They turn their Plasmacaster on the ooman and fire.

* * *

All c’jit breaks loose.

* * *

Jo screams. A roar goes out as the tall, beefy form of Gry’Sui-bpe-de goes down, a hole burning through his chest. 

* * *

Migo bolts forward, intending to strike the traitorous clan leader down. No sooner than he takes two steps has the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na intercepted him, _sivk’va-tai_ charging another shot while their own _dah’kte_ extend and lock. The two brute forces strain against the other to the sound of shouts of surprise and one human’s sobs for help.

* * *

Leitjin stares, numb and empty, as brave and foolish Jo breaks down in a way they will imitate later.

* * *

Adjutant Yeyinde, with Guan still tucked in her arms, seizes M-di-H’chak by the arm and wrenches him into a run down the docking bay. She is a coward with a reason, but he will never know; Ikthya-De leaps after the duo. Yeyinde forces H’chak and the unconscious Tjau’ke in front of her before the poison of _Ka’Torag-Na_ can land the blow.

* * *

Kwei-Bezas races to a corpse while Migo duels Ka’Torag-Na’s greatest weapon. The mechanic rips off the bio-mask, turns it over, and examines it. A moment later, Ivon and the ic’jit are at their side. They click briskly at the ooman, _“Ya know how to fix these, right?”_

“I…” Ivon’s face pales. They don’t handle stress well.

 _“They can do it,”_ Vayuh’ta _hisses_ , looking over her shoulder where her old mentor is _winning._ She rises, but Ivon shoots out a hand and grabs her leg.

* * *

“Where are you going?!” The human blurts, brown eyes wide and panicked.

 _“Unlock the Kukulkan—Kwei-Bezas,”_ Vayuh’ta doesn’t address Ivon further. There is a somber resolve in her clicks, melodic as a mourning dove. _“Get them both to the ship.”_

“ _Aye, aye, captain!”_ the Yautja salutes, but Vayuh’ta doesn’t stick around to notice.

* * *

For a moment, Ivon stares at their beautiful, strong, fearless Yautja lover. They stare at her back as she walks away, blood still oozing where crude stitches and swollen flesh indicate Ash’s earlier work on her wound.

“Don’t die,” the human yells against the background of sirens. _“Please_ —”

* * *

Even without a tangible weapon, a _lou-dte kale_ of Ka’Torag-Na is never truly unarmed.

* * *

The second Plasmacaster shot fires. It arcs two feet before smashing into the Elder’s chestplate.

Migo-Kujhade’s body stills before he emits a death rattle and falls over.

* * *

Ikthya-De smashes the old blade into the Adjutant’s collarbone. It cuts through part of the woman’s golden pelt before shattering, the hilt falling to the floor. The Adjutant drops Gahn’tha-cte-Guan’s incapacitated form and spins on her heels, but Ikthya-De is a snake, and a snake strikes _fast._ Yeyinde howls in pain as Ikthya-De takes her time smashing an elbow into her face, followed by raking sharp talons down the woman’s skull.

H’chak stumbles backward, nearly dropping Guan-Tjau’ke in the process. His eyes grow wide as he watches Ikthya-De plunge hands into the Adjutant’s back and rip out the spine and skull in one swoop.

Then the wretched woman turns her sights to _him_.

 _“Hello, H’chak.”_ The snake croons like a songbird.

* * *

_“Jo—Jo! Jo!”_ Leitjin belts out the name, fumbling through syllables as they grab the woman by the arm and rip her out of the path of a plasmacaster shot. The plasma blasts into the floor and melts a hole in it while Jo sobs and struggles to hold unto their sirer’s body.

“No, no, no—No—I—I didn’t—I didn’t even get—To fucking—Say thanks—For—Everything—” The woman weeps, only to jump when the Elite’s hand twitches and shifts to the edge of her calf.

 _“Lav’a-da.”_ The word is resolute, as is the man’s last wish. _“Protect… them.”_

Leitjin does not realize the water in their eyes until the Elite’s body goes limp.

* * *

“Try it, try it!” Ivon shoves the mask at Sly Puzzle. The latter huffs and throws it on, only to tear it off and growl.

_“—No, that ain’t right, see—”_

A scream comes nearby. Ivon snaps their head in the direction of Jo and Ash, eyes widening when they catch sight of the corpse next to the duo. They look over at where Maelstrom has begun a deadly dance of unarmed against blades, fighting a losing battle now that the weird armored Yautja has shot the old one and is turning their attention elsewhere.

But they can’t do anything. They _can’t_ do anything. They can’t. They’re weak. Humans are weak on their own.

“Help her, please, I—I’ll do this myself,” Ivon begs the Yautja at their side.

* * *

Kwei-Bezas always had a soft spot for engineers. Electricians are close enough, they reckon.

They don’t know what they’re doing but they grab two _dah’kte_ off the nearest body and click at Ivon. _“You get ya ass on that ship! I’ll catch up in a moment!”_

* * *

Both know it is a lie, but Ivon is panicking and Kwei-Bezas is too proud to admit the truth.

* * *

The next plasmacaster shot hits Jo in the foot. She screams and clutches the place where her foot once was, only to scream again when her hands burn and blister from the heat. Ash hisses and scoops her up, ducking and cursing a storm as they run for their life.

 _“The ship—Go, go, go!”_ Ash yells at Ivon as they run past.

Ivon balks at them. “I can’t—I gotta unlock it!”

 _“Hurry up!”_ The Yautja roars in response.

* * *

Kwei-Bezas’ mandibles twitch uncomfortably as they step between the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na and Leitjin’s fleeing form. They know what they were told to do. They intend to fulfill the responsibilities placed on them for once.

Hearing Leitjin yell at the ooman to hurry up makes them click in soft chuckles.

The dark-armored form of the Shadow is still for a moment.

 _“Ya don’t have’ta make this such a scene,”_ Bezas huffs loudly, _dah’kte_ extending.

* * *

They think of their wife, of _FLUX,_ of their unborn progeny millions of light years away. **Safe.**

They charge their _sivk’va-tai_ and grab a deactivated _combistick_ from a slot along the back of their chestplate. It extends silently. The alloys of the weapon are as void as the suit the Shadow dons.

 _“Guess it has to be that way,”_ the graying yellow mechanic _huffs_ and lifts their hands. _“No goin’ easy on me, pal!”_

* * *

_Stay in reach, force the blade, stay in reach, force the blade._ Repeats in loop in the ic’jit’s head as she smashes her knee into the man’s thorax and throws him backward. She is upon him again in a second: clawing wildly, using aspects of both forms taught to her during her training long ago, sparking pressure and forcing her opponent to fight with more _dah’kte_ instead of a sword. She takes several stab wounds in the process.

 _“You are the one responsible for making her_ ,” Daga seethes, a slip in composure, as he shoves her off him and kicks out her ankles. Vayuh’ta hits the ground and rolls out of a fatal blow, the man’s _dah’kte_ scraping the floor where her head was a moment past.

Adrenaline fuels the ic’jit and former clan leader.

 _“You embody dishonor,”_ Vayuh’ta sneers and grabs his wrists when the man makes to impale her. She remembers Garra’s piss poor aim and cackles with laughter; to think a lowly Arbitrator gave her the knowledge to anticipate this blow.

* * *

The clan leader takes offense to this, throwing her backward and arching his back. He roars in anger. It is a painfully loud noise.

 _“Dishonor lives! Dishonor survives!”_ Akrei-non-Daga crashes on her like a wave against the shore.

* * *

She takes the blow, allowing his _dah’kte_ to get stuck in her side. Vayuh’ta cusses him out but before the man can retract his wrist gauntlets, she crushes his chest to her own and drops her full body weight unto his own on the floor. A sickening crack is heard. The man’s arm bends at an unnatural angle while Vayuh’ta pulls herself free of his blades and spits at him.

_“Weak.”_

* * *

Their former student doesn’t see the plasmacaster shot. The sivk’va-tai fires.

* * *

A blur of movement cuts through the Shadow’s line of sight, forcing them to redirect their aim at the last second. The plasma bolt soars and hits the yellow-gray Yautja directly in the neck. There are two loud crashes after: the first of the body dropping, and the second of Kwei-Bezas’ head hitting the floor.

* * *

Vayuh’ta clutches her bleeding abdomen in pain even as she turns around. Her adrenaline wanes. Her gaze falls upon the dead body of Kwei-Bezas.

 _“You want to kill me here?”_ Vayuh’ta clicks softly, making her voice weaker than it is.

The Shadow strides forward.

* * *

Dto-Bhu’ja would never do this.

Dto-Bhu’ja would never _condone_ these acts.

Dto-Bhu’ja is the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na, sworn to its leader in unconditional obedience.

* * *

_“FLUX wouldn’t want this.”_ The name falls softly, painfully so, but the mere mention is enough to stop the Shadow in their tracks.

Their plasmacaster is not yet charged.

Their eyes fall on Akrei-non-Daga’s body. He lives, but their former student is a sly foe, quick to catch him off guard. They reckon she broke several ribs in addition to his arm.

* * *

_“I see it. I see what Ka’Torag-Na plans for him.”_ Vayuh’ta elaborates in a low voice. _“I won’t stop you from taking him. He deserves his fate.”_

 _“Your allies cannot stop me or my Shadow.”_ Is the Shadow’s response, orderly as ever.

Beneath the monotone is a tension winding up.

 _“I am not one of them.”_ Vayuh’ta warns. _“I can never be anything but a Bad Blood. Your matriarch tainted my name. I will die an ic’jit in the eyes of the universe, Dto. You can let us walk away. I will meet the end of a blade at some point, whether it be yours or another’s.”_

* * *

To his surprise, Ikthya-De does not zip in and finish him off. Though H’chak expects her to—she has never played fair, whether it be with him or another—the man stills in shock when no such thing comes. He continues to eye her warily. She chuckles and cocks her head to one side. _“Predictable, H’chak. You picked up a nasty flaw over the cycles; you bend too easily to the whims of your emotions.”_

 _“As if you have never done the same!” The_ man _seethes._

 _“It is very different. I am successful, and you but a failure to crush underfoot.”_ The wretched woman spits back at him, temper rearing a moment before she croons softly. _“Enough of that. We do not have to end this in offering thwei.”_

H’chak hesitates. His mind spins, but he has nothing to say. On the ground several _noks_ away, his twin groans in pain and twitches.

In the distance, the _Kukulkan_ ’s cockpit hisses and opens.

“ _You have something of mine,”_ Ikthya-De takes one step forward and laughs. _“Something that belongs to me. As much as I want your head—I want what’s mine more than your rest, H’chak.”_

She points one talon.

 _“Give me what’s mine,”_ Ikthya-De’s voice drawls on sweetly. _“I’ll let you leave intact. You, your pa-e, your sirer… Even those scrawny oomans may live.”_

His stomach drops when he realizes _who_ Ikthya-De demands as payment.

 _“Why?”_ H’chak clicks softly, nauseous and disgusted at the concept.

 _“I want to watch the joy on his face when he reunites with the lou’dte kale who took him from me,”_ it is a sentence full of contradictions, of hate and obsession wrapped up under a mock bow. Ikthya-De shrugs. _“He will be so happy. I want to see the light fade from his eyes when I make him watch my clan kill her.”_

_Kill her._

_He will be so happy._

_The bitch who took him from me._

_“She’s alive, then.”_ H’chak exhales slowly, shakily.

Ikthya-De chirps sweetly, softly _. “Don’t worry about the woman. Don’t worry, H’chak. All I need from you is Guan.”_

* * *

_“We play this scene out again.”_ Dto-Bhu’ja says, a mere whisper. _“Why do you think it will end the same way?”_

_“You haven’t struck me down yet.”_

_"She will send me to hunt you down, Vayuh’ta. You will suffer and then you will meet the final rest. You cannot fight a shadow.”_

* * *

_Guan…_

He has lived through a lot with his brother in the past few months. Ups. Downs. Hate. Warmth.

He doesn’t know how he feels toward his twin, but he knows he messed up in many ways with Guan and Bist’ri. His actions killed his brother’s joy. His actions propelled this mess. His actions did _so much_. In a way, H’chak is responsible for causing the tragedies at hand; none of this would have transpired had he not gone to _Terra,_ had he not been captured.

 _But so many of us could live._ H’chak hesitates. _If we… if I…_

 _“He’s not worth it.”_ Ikthya-De takes another step. _“He did so much to hurt you. Let me have him. We can part on… amicable terms.”_

* * *

Across the docking bay, Vayuh’ta trills with a short burst of laughter. She snarls at her old mentor after, not a hint of fear licking her sides, though the pain of her injuries lingers. _“I do not need to fight a shadow if I take N’ritja-Zabin’s th’syra.”_

“The next ruler of Ka’Torag-Na will seek the same.” The Shadow warns.

Her orange eyes narrow, _“Not if the next ruler is me.”_

* * *

_“Fine. Take him.”_ H’chak tenses and gestures to where his brother sprawls out across the floor.

Ikthya-De nods. _“Bring him here.”_

 _“M-di! You want him, get him yourself, I will not lift a man disgusting as he is,”_ the man hisses at her, recoiling, repulsed. _“He deserves nothing. Because of him—my mate has met the final rest!”_

 _“Your mate. Yes,”_ the woman recalls the Vekin faintly. _“Unfortunate circumstances, H’chak.”_

She slowly walks to her prey, back never turning to H’chak. Her life mate is unconscious, riddled with strange injuries not fully healed, and a mess of festering growths which has begun to swell and spread down his torso and legs. Allergic reactions are rare, but it can be dealt with once she takes him to the Ka’Torag-Na clanship. Perhaps she will force him to endure it without sedation, to feel every little thing, to hear his begging, his screams, his agony, all for _her_ to revel in… The thoughts please her greatly.

Ikthya-De kneels to pick the man up. He groans in pain. She cocks her head to one side and laughs as his orange eyes briefly flicker open. The fear in his gaze is so _prominent_ , a divine blessing to savor and dissect, so rich and indulgent, so…

 _“You belong to me,”_ she reminds him, enjoying the confusion and terror radiating from her life mate’s widening gaze. _“I will never let you go, Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

She hears the _dah’kte_ extend in time to throw her quarry to the side and duck under H’chak’s blow. Part of her locs go flying as the blades slice them clean. She spins and tackles the man to the ground. The two roll over each other as she wrestles his wrists to the floor and pins his arms with her knees. The woman rips off H’chak’s mask to expose the hate-filled gaze of molten metal.

“You have a weak leg,” she chirps softly. “Did you think you could trick me, H’chak? After all this time?”

“It almost worked,” the disgraced hunter hisses.

“A shame you would give your life for your brother. I will tell him of your sacrifice… the tragedy of M-di-H’chak. Tell him how you threw away the lives of those you care about to save a man who wronged you.”

“He deserves my ire, not a fate by your side!” H’chak spits at her.

Ikthya-De growls, patience snapping. “S’yuit-de.”

Her hands wrap around his throat, caressing the creamy white pelt there before she digs her talons into the flesh. H’chak roars in anger, in pain, but no writhing frees him. He is truly a weak one of the two’s kind: unable to defend himself, unable to defend others. The universe is better off without him, Ikthya-De knows, and she intends to deliver him to Cetanu along with the lives of all who are not her quarry.

* * *

_“You overestimate the value of our relationship.”_ The Shadow warns her, straightening up, _sivk’va-tai_ charging and taking aim.

Vayuh’ta growls. _“You don’t know what I am capable of.”_

“Not anymore.” The Shadow clicks once before firing.

Vayuh’ta feels the bolt of plasma whizz by her, heat searing her pelt. Her eyes widen and she snaps her head in the direction of the others, of Ivon, of Jo, of her half-siblings, of those that have become the world to her—

* * *

The scream is long and horrendous. It comes from Jo, just as much for her pain as it is for the explosion of light at H’chak’s side. Leitjin grips the woman tighter and climbs into the Kukulkan, refusing to hesitate even as Jo squirms, kicks, and claws at their pelt.

“No! No, no, Mercy—No—”

 _“Get in, get in!”_ Leitjin hisses. They balk when the ooman called Ivon tears away from their side and runs over to H’chak. Leitjin’s black eyes widen. _“I—Ivon! Ooman!”_

* * *

In the chaos of stirring and drifting in and out of consciousness, the man sees only her. Ikthya-De. The woman who will kill to have him. The one who will never let him go. He sees her hands wrapped around his brother’s neck, the two contrasting heat signatures obvious in their implications.

He sees the heat of the plasma bolt when the Shadow fires from across the docking bay.

He sees the explosion of warm hues when it hits.

He blacks out to the screams of an ooman.

* * *

Vayuh’ta’s hands shake as her gaze rights itself on the bodies before her. She sees Ikthya-De-th’Syra, slumped over H’chak’s form, where differing heat signatures hint at the bloody mess not comprehensible to her thermal vision. She sees H’chak choke and sputter as he shoves the body off himself. She hears her own sharp exhale when the man pushes Ikthya-De aside and sits up.

Many cycles ago, the Shadow of Ka’Torag-Na was a sniper in the clan’s military force.

She turns back to see the Shadow’s armored form pick up Akrei-non-Daga like he is nothing more than a twig. Her orange eyes betray her sympathy for her enemy.

 _“When you kill her,”_ Dto-Bhu’ja clicks softly. _“Do not hesitate as you have with me.”_

As they walk away, Vayuh’ta understands the meaning of their words. It is not advice their old mentor gives her; it is a farewell.

The two will not see each other again.

 _“May we meet in the next life.”_ Vayuh’ta calls.

Dto-bhu’ja hesitates. They look over their shoulder, nod, then continue walking. Their own Shadow, a younger Yautja with identical armor, greets them with soft clicks before they take Akrei-non-Daga inside the _Pteros._ The spacecraft begins powering its engines.

The _ic’jit_ turns away and departs from her mentor.

* * *

The survivors pile into the ship, Leitjin and H’chak helping the others, leaving none of the living behind. The bodies of their fallen companions are haphazardly collected. H’chak does not intend to go back for them at all, but Vayuh’ta reassures him it is fine.

 _“They will not detonate the plasma charges until we are boarded.”_ The huntress clicks firmly. _“We must take their bodies for burial.”_

 _“Fine,”_ H’chak snaps, impatient to leave the clanship he once loved.

He, Leitjin, and Vayuh’ta make quick work of the corpses, piling as many into the ship as the group can in the span of minutes. In the body of Adjutant Yeyinde, H’chak pulls out an old blade handle. He tosses it aside. The moment the bodies are collected, he throws himself into the pilot seat. The _Kukulkan_ rises from the docking bay amid a sea of corpses. Some—He recognizes, he mourns for. Others—He cannot recall, the remains too decimated to make out.

He wishes he could take all of them, but he knows they do not have time. He clicks a soft prayer as he navigates the spacecraft around. As the head of the ship turns away from the docking bay, the man swears he sees a cold outline of a Yautja _bhu’ja_ standing there. 

* * *

The Gahn’tha-cte clanship detonates seven minutes later. The _Kukulkan_ shakes and trembles, but the divine serpent continues to fly until there is only the emptiness of space to drift in. In the pilot’s seat, H’chak throws his head back and shuts his eyes. He thinks only one word in his exhaustion.

_Faith._

The two will meet again.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who joined me on this long and wonderful journey. this is officially the end of the main drosera story/arc 5, though there will be epilogues for specific characters coming in the future.


	82. epilogue: di-sl'va-chak | joan mackenzie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter:  
> -medical stuff  
> -alcoholism  
> -hypersexuality as a coping method  
> -discussion of rape  
> -unhealthy sexual relations  
> -self-deprecation, depression, suicidal ideation  
> -discussion of mass death, including mass executions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the first part of the epilogue arc. each one focuses on different characters, but unlike chapters of the main story, the chapters of the epilogue arc will not be wholly chronological in nature. the next epilogue may cover things following the immediate end of chapter 81, or it may skip forward 20 cycles to check in on a certain character's perspective. they may be long (this one wound up reaching 8.5?k words) or they may be short. i wanted to offer a brief glimpse into the future after chapter 81, to show how the cast deals with the things they experienced throughout the main story. 
> 
> there will be happy moments. there will be sad moments. there will be ships. there will be smut for certain ships. and, hopefully, a semblance of resolution for the cast of this story and the tiny plots going on. 
> 
> thanks for reading.  
> <3

He is a boat adrift on the river; he is riddled with questions that prick at his skin like dozens of tiny splinters peeling off an antique seacraft. He is a man with thoughts and theories kept locked inside. He is distraught at a time when his emotions yield to the plight of others. He is many things, but he is a vulnerable man deep inside: a man named M-di-H’chak.

And, in the months since his clan fell to the void’s shadow, M-di-H’chak has earned another name befitting his actions: _Sl’va-rr._

_Savior._

He cannot reject it, because it is those who trickle in from the stars and find the group at the end of distant hunts who give him this title. Other members of his clan hunt him to the temperate shores of an isle on the lonely planet XRKN-8K. It is across the sandy black shores the survivors of Gahn’tha-cte gather, and it is among the warm shallows of an untamed ocean the man known as _Merciless_ adopts a new identify: _di-Sl’va-chak,_ the merciless savior.

* * *

In the eyes of the survivors he is a hero.

* * *

In his own eyes di-Sl’va-chak is adrift at sea in a world of his own making.

* * *

He doesn’t dream, but he wakes up each evening to the emptiness of a docile sleeping pod, to the absentee slot at his side, to his arm alive and well, not a hint of tarnish on his pelt, not a hint to the times his mate clutched his side and never let go. He sleeps, but his sleep is restless; there is no silver skin to caress, no face of a trophy to admire, no soothing words or airy laughter or the strange yet pleasing smiles she once gave him. There is nothing to his nights after he retires from the current construction project, from the endless repairs and meetings between survivors, from his own physical rehabilitation and progress. There is nothing because there is not her.

But he waits. Di-Sl’va-chak waits days. He waits weeks. He waits _months_.

He waits until the memories of being intimately entwined in the cold flesh of his mate grow faint and empty. He waits until grief tugs at his four hearts and he howls in agony at his cabin walls. He waits until the trophies she once cleaned stare him down from their perches in the two’s shared quarters. He sits in a mess of his trophies, in the memories of her, in the moments spent touching and sharing tales of the past and sweet stories of battle. He holds his forehead in his hands while the collection rots around him: dust compiled on the skulls, his cleanly nature as dead as his mate surely is.

He waits, but he cannot wait anymore. He waits, but he sees no sign, no hint, _nothing_. He waits until the months are not merely months. He waits until the first cycle passes with a new clan on the horizon.

He waits.

He grieves.

He waits again.

* * *

It comes as no surprise he awakens one day to be dragged out by the Elite Z’skuy’thwei, one of the few to have escaped the clanship itself. The man is a massive brawler with well-defined muscles and a rich red pelt, but there is no time for pleasantries. Di-Sl’va-chak is thrown in front of a group of his peers, but it is not to face his scorned brother or lying sirer. There is only the ooman Joan, with her beautiful brown skin and long coiling locs, to greet him.

She takes his hands in her own when she does. Not because he needs it—but because _she_ does. And though di-Sl’va-chak might normally shy from the contact, or gruffly assert the boundaries he once held between her and himself, he does nothing. He sits and listens as Joan shows him what Leader Tjau’ke located, as Joan plays the video of Ivon’s goodbye.

“They left us to follow her,” Joan says softly, weakly, a mess.

The prosthetic Ivon built for her is being worn, fit to perfection and snug as a net matrix against her limb. Di-Sl’va-chak remembers the joy on Joan’s face when the woman received it from Ivon. Though the months of practice were hard and grueling, the brave woman did not give up in teaching herself to walk and run in the new prosthetic. Joan has never given up, not in his eyes. She is so, _so_ strong that way, encompassing every good attribute he knows and only few of the bad ones.

Her words hurt him. Her expression hurts him. He holds his breath when Joan’s bright brown eyes well with tears. Di-Sl’va-chak doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her, to ignore the demands of the Elite nearby, to rumble softly, trying to soothe, to calm, to _help_ the ooman he’s grown fond of. He knows what her words mean, what the video entails, what _Ivon Yurvchik_ has done in abandoning the new clan.

 _“S’yuit-de,”_ di-Sl’va-chak hisses to himself. _“They will get themself killed.”_

“I can’t do shit, shit, I can’t, not again, not,” Joan’s words are a rant and a cry for help, because she cannot handle everything on her own, because she is not an invincible force capable of bending the universe on a whim. She cries into his chest, against him, while di-Sl’va-chak mimic a gesture he once used with _her_ : rubbing the woman’s arms, purring to calm the sorrowful tempest, holding her tight but never tight enough in case she wants to leave.

 _Sundew left._ He hears the voice in his head: his own, a tiny flicker of numb truth ebbing away and eating his thoughts until his mind screams in agony.

“I can’t do this—I can’t fucking do this again, Mercy,” only the ooman can call him by his old name and live to tell the tale. Di-Sl’va-chak exhales softly while Joan curls against his chest. His grip tightens and he breathes in her scent.

Much like a late Elite once said—she truly smells of _la’va-da_ , lavender.

 _“Keeping the ic’jit alive was a mistake.”_ Z’skuy’thwei snaps from the side, irate and agitated yet reined in. He is a man of great restraint, but di-Sl’va-chak snarls anyways.

_“She aided myself and others in escaping the clanship. Without her—We would have no one to lead our clan!”_

_“Yeyin would have found another leader.”_ The Elite’s words spark fury, but the wellbeing of the ooman in his arms is too deep a concern to linger on something as crass as _anger._

 _“Is that what you think of your leader?”_ It is a voice he has not heard in almost a month; he snaps his head at the hunter and meets his gaze. His brother stands stiffly, not like a ghost or a board but of someone who is cautious and guarded and who is keen to keep everyone outside his walls.

 _“Adjutant—”_ Z’skuy’thwei begins, but the other Yautja cocks his head to one side. The simple action shuts the Elite up.

 _“Do you not trust the wisdom of Guan-Tjau’ke?”_ Guan’s tone never shifts, rises, or falls. He is consistent as he is reserved. When Z’skuy’thwei remains quiet, Guan shakes his head briskly. He returns to a neutral stance after, arms flat at his side. He looks different from when di-Sl’va-chak saw him last: the man is leaner, with exquisite adornments illuminating just how well-received he was in his most recent diplomatic endeavor. The colorful cloaks flow off his form in a manner identical to the diplomat di-Sl’va-chak recalls bumping into two months ago.

 _“She did not possess her honor when the clan fell.”_ Z’skuy’thwei growls lowly.

 _“Did any of us?”_ Guan asks aloud, but it is clear he does not want an answer. He looks at his twin. _“I would give my life to preserve the leader and members of Clan Yeyin. Would you?”_

 _“I would,"_ di-Sl'va-chak bows his head to recognize the diplomat’s authority.

 _“What of you, honorable Elite?”_ The Adjutant returns attention to Z’skuy’thwei. _“Would you give your life in preservation of this humble clan? Of our tragic beginnings? We faced dishonor at its core and lost the world. Do you not feel the call to protect the honor forged in the flames of our past?"_

Z’skuy’thwei utters something under breath. When Gahn’tha-cte-Guan says nothing, does not respond more than a blink, Z’skuy’thwei spits out the words. _“She does not abide by the traditional code!”_

 _“Our Code died with Gahn’tha-cte.”_ Guan clicks. Calm. Empty. He reminds di-Sl’va-chak of a husk without purpose, floating through life. _“Will you build upon Gahn’tha-cte’s remains or not? Will you take up arms to protect Clan Yeyin or have you abandoned your honor out of spite? Do not forget: Guan-Tjau’ke did not commit dishonor. She acted in accordance with laws of an honorless individual.”_

_“Adjutant Guan—I would never forsake my duties as an Elite to my clan. But Leader Tjau’ke’s choices in—Choosing to seek council with a dishonorably woman, a former Elder no less—”_

_“M-di-Guan-Lar’ja has been sentenced for her actions. We will not hold grudges against the punished after they accept a judgement. Her honor lives again.”_ There is a surreal quality to the way his twin effortlessly rebukes Z’skuy’thwei’s words. No matter how much the Elite prattles on or interjects, Guan does not falter or halt. He remains an unmoving object: constant, stable, in _control._ It unnerves di-Sl’va-chak, and he knows the whiff of fear will not go unnoticed.

No, no sooner than his twin finishes addressing Z’skuy’thwei and dispersing the small crowd does Guan’s attention shift to _him_. Di-Sl’va-chak remains as he was: next to Joan’s side, though his arms no longer encircle her form. The ooman is calmer now, though her trembling hands and tear-streaked face betray the grief waiting to surge through her cracks. Di-Sl’va-chak’s chest aches at the knowledge he can do _nothing_ : he knows Ivon will never let Vayuh’ta go, and he knows Vayuh’ta intends to kill the matriarch of Ka’Torag-Na or die trying.

 _S’yuit-de. You do these things out of love, but they cut deeper than the sharpest dah’kte. Look what you’ve done to Jo._ The thoughts are bitter and nauseating, but soon he is forced back from them as his brother clears his throat and stops at his side.

Guan’s orange eyes meet his own. _“Why are you sitting on the floor?”_

 _“I could not be anywhere else.”_ di-Sl’va-chak grunts. _“Joan is my… companion. As was Ivon, once. Their departure hurt Jo and by extension—me.”_

 _In so many ways._ He does not admit it.

 _“You can still track the shuttle they stole,”_ his twin offers, blunt and blank and empty. _“The Kukulkan will catch up with ease. Ivon is not a pilot.”_

“If we found him, what would we fucking do? Throw them in a pod? Lock them in a house? They can’t let go of her, they can’t, they won’t, Ivon, you fucking bastard, lovesick fool!” Joan hisses and wraps arms around herself. “Like losing Maelstrom wasn’t enough! Like losing Sundew—Losing Gry—Losing _everyone_ never stopped fucking hurting!”

 _“This is not the first time they tried to follow her since she… escaped us,”_ di-Sl’va-chak clicks faintly. _“We intervened the first attempt, and intercepted them on the second, but this… They will do anything for her.”_

 _“I see.”_ _I understand._ Guan’s words are simple, but the meaning is clear. _“I was not made aware of this. Why?”_

 _“You were busy with the…”_ di-Sl’va-chak blanks on the name. He grunts amicably and goes on. _“You were busy. I informed Leader Tjau’ke and she followed up with them on the issue. Clan Yeyin underestimated the lengths a… hybrid would go for their mate. Ivon Yurvchik is unwilling to let the Vayuh’ta throw her life away in the name of revenge.”_

_“A suicide mission. She will not buckle from her resolve.”_

“Neither will they,” Joan whispers softly, weakly. She leans against di-Sl’va-chak’s side and he lets her rest there. “I hate them both. Them and their… faces. Fuckers. Leaving us like this.”

 _“How… did your correspondences go? With clan… clan… With the clan Leader Tjau’ke proposed allying with?”_ di-Sl’va-chak interjects before the topic can spiral out of control. He smells the anger brewing in Joan. He smells the tears threatening to fall. He absentmindedly pulls her to him, to his chest, and purrs lowly until her breathing calms and she quiets.

His brother pretends not to notice. Guan turns away. _“The representative. Nagara. She was… inviting. Asked many things, some I could not answer. But it was a positive experience; I have faith she has spoke well of me to her clan’s Elders.”_

There is something else to his words, something tucked away in the man’s restrained voice. Di-Sl’va-chak does not pry, but he stares, and he wonders. His thoughts are answered; he hears Guan inhale deeply and he sees the man tense.

 _“She expressed… great interest in… correspondences outside diplomacy,”_ there is a sharp edge to it, a note of disdain and regret and everything else his brother keeps tucked behind his rigid composure. _“She proposed I visit her clan for a… prolonged meeting. Offered to begin a companionship and discuss more intimate connections between us.”_

Joan grimaces.

Di-Sl’va-chak pauses. _“And your response?”_

_“I leave to visit their clanship in two day cycles.”_

_“S’yuit-de. Guan—”_

_“Remember my title, mei-hswei. I am Adjutant once more. You are respected, and my admiration for you cannot grow more than it is, but I am a warrior in a position of careful diplomacy and integrated politics. Yeyin is too small a clan to continue as it is; we need the support of a larger clan to build our numbers and return to glory.”_ Guan’s dismissal of his concerns irritates him to no end, but he is right. He is an Adjutant, the second-in-command to Leader Tjau’ke. The ancient sword at his hip gleams with a fresh blade, but though it is familiar di-Sl’va-chak cannot remembered where Guan got it; it is beautiful and fitting. It reminds di-Sl’va-chak just how little he knows his twin.

He cannot understand the tribulations Guan navigates. He has never understood just how _deep_ politics can be, and he cannot start now. He simply nods at his brother. _“I put my trust in you. May the Gods look after you.”_

 _“Don’t worry about me. I lived worse.”_ It is a momentary slip of the tongue, another crack in his polished mask, but Guan does not take back his words. He stares at di-Sl’va-chak a time before averting his gaze. _“Leader Tjau’ke told me… this clan has a collection of maps on deck in its archives and databank.”_

 _“Star charts?”_ di-Sl’va-chak’s eyes widen. _  
_

_“More or… less,”_ Guan says. _“The representative offered to show me the charts should I visit.”_

 _“Charts for a round in bed is not a fair trade.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak keeps his tone gentle but firm. He does not want to set his brother off, to make the man believe he thinks Guan is incapable of identifying right from wrong or fair from unfair.

 _“Not fair to you.”_ His brother replies.

 _I need them,_ his brother says. _I need them._

di-Sl’va-chak knows why.

His chest aches and tightens. _“—What will you do if the clan doesn't have what you're looking for?"  
_

_“Look more.”_

* * *

_It is a week after the fall of Gahn’tha-cte. H’chak sits in his medical pod, floating lazily in the liquid. His body aches, but the open wounds are closed, and his bruises faded. Perhaps it is the ache of loneliness, or a phantom pain. Only the gods know how much he envisions which is not there; he is a mess of noises and thoughts not quite his own volition, of flashbacks he wants to forget, and of guilt he cannot shake._

_The losses of his clan loom on his shoulders. Though his brain logically deduces it is not his fault, his mind is not easily swayed. He knows many events were triggered by his departure for Terra, by his capture on the planet, by his resolve to return to his clan spite of all the betrayals. His self-loathing and doubt ask: did he cause it? Did he speed up the inevitable? Is it his fault so many perished, butchered and blown asunder by ka’Torag-Na’s warriors or the clanship exploding?_

_He is a survivor, but the guilt of his clan’s fall cuts deep._

_It is only a matter of time before the man drags himself out of the pod. He falls out of the hatch but catches himself; the liquid of the pod sloshes and droplets fly free to the floor. The only nurse present is the ashen-gray Yautja, but Leitjin appears as a bright heat signature in the man’s natural thermal vision. They huff at H’chak while the latter pulls himself together and rises to his feet. “Ya know askin’ for help ain’t a bad thing.”_

_They imagine deep black eyes. Inset and identical to their sirer. The late and honorable Gry’Sui-bpe-de hunts with Cetanu now._

_“I wanted to do it on my own.” H’chak takes care in his clicks not to upset the sore mandibles where his tusks protrude. He has already experienced the pain of having one dislocated by his eagerness to get out of the medical bay. He knows he must pace himself: healing is not overnight, not even for a Yautja, but especially not without serum. He chooses to focus on other things. His gaze sweeps the humble medical bay and lands on the other pods near his own, a trio lined up together facing where Leitjin stands. Inside the other two pods bright heat signatures bob and rest. His mei-hswei. The ooman._

_The man pauses. “…How are they, Leitjin?”_

_“Well. Jo woke up, saw ‘er foot, or, uh, lack there-of, and then… She cried. Lots of those salty tears. Oomans are kinda like us that way, but more of ‘em.” Leitjin chirps as they stride over to H’chak. Though their words are much like the late Kwei-Bezas in nonchalance, there is no denying the very real concern they hold for Joan. The Yautja’s heat signature is stiff and concerned._

_H’chak shares in the sentiment. “She is not one of us, but she is…”_

_It is strange to say such praising words for a pyode amedha. A few cycles back and he would never spoke such things of any prey, but he is not the same man he was before he went to Terra._

_“She is worthy of becoming one of us. Strength. Honor. Prowess. She is an example of the best of her kind,” The man decides, a note of fondness falling into his latter clicks and chirrups. “I want her well. I want her happy—”_

_“The other ooman—”_

_“Ivon.”_

_“Ivon, yeah, yeah! They’re gonna make her a new foot. Prosthetic. I’ll help them, sure, but… I think they got enough of a grip on things to know what they’re doing,” Leitjin’s heat signature flickers near the head; their mandibles twitch with uncertainty. “They are… strange like that. Very strange. But efficient.”_

_“I’m surprised you put Guan and I in these these pods over them or Vayuh’ta.”_

_“Maybe they aren’t a true Yautja, but they got the intellect to do good here. They know what’s what. Besides, it wasn’t—Not really my decision,” the nurse walks to the pod containing his brother. They put a hand on the colder hues of the pod’s hatch. “Tjau’ke demanded I transfer you in here the second she woke up. Can’t, uh, can’t have my former boss lookin’ down on me. She’s got enough experience to know more than, uh, than I do. Besides…”_

_H’chak tenses. He grunts for them to go on._

_“—The serum I shoved into your mei-hswei—The former Adjutant—He—His body had a new reaction an hour after we left the clanship. I had to… I had to improvise. A little. A lot. I had to,” Leitjin shudders. “I reckon—It got something to do with your family line. The possibility of allergic reactions to serum’s ingredients. Ya got to be extra careful now. If it happens—I’ll have to strap ya down and gouge out the necrotizing bits. Leaves real bad scar tissue the first time, but Guan had the reaction before, so. This time was worse. It’ll be a tough recovery.”_

_“He’s capable of it.” H’chak swears on the words with his life. “He is… resilient.”_

_An empty silence follows. No sweet laughter emerges. No scathing remarks. There are no sharp retorts or bumbling, flustered statements. The time with Doctor Garcia, with Sundew, with Joan and Ivon and Vayuh’ta, it all feels so long ago._

_“Vayuh’ta. How is she?” He asks, quiet after._

_“Alive. Could be worse, could be better. Ivon’s like a needy mate ‘round her. Worried. Antsy. Goes from pacing at the sleeping pod to rambling about making foots for Jo. But she’ll make it, yeah,” Leitjin shifts their weight from one foot to the other. “Tjau’ke—Tjau’ke’s talked a bit with her, actually. Not sure what. And—And Elder Lar’ja—”_

_The mention of his sirer brings an uncomfortable wave of anger down on the man. The feeling ripples through him, but it soon calms under his firm control. He peers at Leitjin’s heat signature. “She is not an Elder. Her honor is gone.”_

_“My bad. Old habit,” Leitjin is annoyed answering him. “Ya know, she’s been working pretty damn hard since she gained consciousness. Already got a transmission out to other survivors—”_

_“Other survivors?” Any ire at his sirer dips, distracted by the idea. H’chak draws his mandibles taut over his inner jaw. “There are more? How many?”_

_“A half-dozen hunters who were out on, uh, on Hunts at the time. Two shuttles of survivors who got off the clanship after the initial evacuation order went out. Ya got to speak to Eld—To—To M-di-Guan-Lar’ja if ya want a list of names.”_

_He growls. “Speaking to her now will do more ill than good.”_

_“Then don’t. No ones making you, not yet.”_

* * *

_“How is your balance today? Your legs?”_ The man clicks as the ooman takes his arm and uses him as a crutch. Though months have passed since the ooman first began using the prosthetic foot, Joan has yet to fully adjust. That much is obvious to di-Sl’va-chak, but his thoughts do not judge her.

“Night Sky keeps telling me to go _slow._ Ash tells me to go _slow._ Everyone tells me to go slow and all I want is to fucking run across the universe and kick Ivon’s shit in for being a buffoon,” Joan’s words betray her concern, as do the woman’s eyes: big, brown, beautiful. Deep and enriching, inviting, distracting. Full of worry for the other ooman.

It has been two weeks since Ivon’s departure. Guan-Tjau’ke refuses to send anyone after them, and for good reason. Anyone who knows Ivon Yurvchik understands their feelings run too deeply to stop searching for Vayuh’ta. It is one of their defining factors; they have a loyalty ascending the lines separating the two different species.

He wishes they didn’t hurt Joan in their actions. He wishes she could grieve the loss as he has. But her grief runs its own pace, and di-Sl’va-chak does not condemn her for the time she spends angrily mourning her companion. They were the last tie to Terra she had; the final link to the ooman life she left behind.

He walks slow. He is taller than her at six foot eight, but he keeps his strides in tune with her own. His orange eyes constantly scan the surrounding sands and structures for others, occasionally returning to meet Jo’s own watchful sight. She is astute. She deserves better than her lot in life. He wishes he could change things.

“They couldn’t wait for her, could they?” Bitter notes enter her voice while Joan rambles a time.

He lets her vent. He listens to her, nodding from time to time. When she growls and cusses, he joins in affirming her feelings. After, when Joan shifts from anger to sorrow to denial, she begins another tangent: questioning if there is a way to coax Ivon back to Clan Yeyin.

“They could—They could see Maelstrom every—What about every two weeks? Can’t we arrange some kinda arrangement to let that happen? Can’t Night Sky do that?” Joan grabs his arm and tugs, prompting the man to look down. Her eyes are wet again. Tears fill them when di-Sl’va-chak shakes his head.

_“Vayuh’ta is an ic’jit. Her time here was under the conditions of a prisoner. Now that she ‘escaped,’ it is impossible to convince our allies to let her walk among us. More than that, Joan, it is—Every Yautja clan who abides by the Code—They expect us to kill her. Guan-Tjau’ke may not allow that, but…”_

“She can’t return,” Jo stops walking and shuts her eyes. “And if she can’t—Ivon won’t.”

* * *

It is none other than his brother who finds him when he breaks down at the second anniversary of the clanship’s demise. Di-Sl’va-chak is a mess of alcohol, intoxicated well past his limits, fading in and out of control and consciousness as he stumbles across the rising cityscape of Clan Yeyin’s settlement. The waves of XRKN-8K crash in the background, masking the footsteps of the very man he wishes he could hide from. His brother lifts him up, uttering a quaint _s’yuit-de_ under breath before dragging him out of the streets.

Clan Yeyin has grown from a handful to four dozen in two cycles. Two bearers expect pups three-months from now. Outlook is good. The connection fostered between Guan-Tjau’ke’s Adjutant and the representative of _D’lex_ is ripe with the fruit of his brother’s labor: the artisans and blacksmiths of _D’lex_ are engaged in constructing a rising technological marvel-piece on the shores of the planet. It will be the new home for Clan Yeyin until a clanship can be built. It does not come without a cost, which he sees in the blank gaze of his brother even through his drunken stupor.

 _“You have a title,”_ his brother offers a solemn reminder when the two reach di-Sl’va-chak’s residence. It is a humble building, not quite reconstructed to match the materials brought in by the D’lex clan. Guan doesn’t comment on the simplicity; he leads the man to a seat and makes him sit. _“You have an image.”_

 _“I had an Image,”_ di-Sl’va-chak holds his head in his hands and slurs curses. _“She… She has to be out there… Got to be… Got to…”_

 _“H’chak.”_ His brother kneels where he sits, peering up at his unmasked face. _“We must move on from the past. There are others to worry about now.”_

It is a cruel twist of irony. The universe constantly forces the twins into these roles: caretaker and recipient. The two are never on the same page; one is always lost in his own harms while the other worries and dawdles. Granted, Guan does not care the same way he once did; he is more detached than before, engaged in his work, _distracted_ by clan matters and navigating a new companionship. But he still cares. Di-Sl’va-chak knows he does, and he knows he cares just the same for Guan’s wellbeing. _The cruelest irony will be our undoing._

 _“How? How you do it?”_ He begs the answer, reaching for his brother’s face and grabbing his bio-mask. _“How do you forget?”_

 _“I don’t.”_ Guan removes his hands and rises. _“I can’t forget Bist'ri. But she isn't here; I can't change that.”_ He pauses a moment, noises reflecting unspoken things and secrets he keeps behind his walls.

He and Guan are different men. Broken men, but never the same. Never aligned. Two opposing forces which push as much as they ebb and pull at the other.

 _“Does it,”_ di-Sl’va-chak clicks softly. _“It make you happy? Make you good? What… What you do now. what you do with that… ambassador?”_

_“Nagara treats me well. Our relationship is business. She has gone out of her way to accommodate me and give me a place to speak for our clan in d’Lex’s royal court—”_

_“But she doesn’t make you happy. She doesn’t…”_

His brother tenses. Guan’s hands curl into fists. _“No.”_

 _“She a good lay?”_ The man spits and growls when his brother grabs him by his breastplate and lifts him into the air. _“Asking with purpose here!”_

 _“And what purpose is that?”_ The Adjutant hisses.

di-Sl’va-chak’s head drops and he shuts his eyes. _“I want to… forget.”_

His brother pauses. Sets him down.

 _“You can’t.”_ Guan’s words are a whisper. _“You might forget for a second, but—You’ll remember. You’ll always remember when the deed is done.”_

When evening comes, long after the Adjutant departs for _Adjutant duties,_ di-Sl’va-chak passes out from his drunkenness. He will wake the next day with a hangover, but he will remember the words. _You might forget for a second._

* * *

The first time is three cycles past. It is spur of the moment, a time of agony when he cannot stand being alone any longer. His hope has died with most of Gahn’tha-cte. When he seeks out another, when he throws himself at the feet of the first Yautja to give a damn, the man is whisked to one of the _D’lex_ spacecraft. He spends the night beneath another man, grunting and gripping the bed until the other Yautja cums in him.

Like his brother said—he _forgets_ for a second. It will have to be enough.

* * *

The first time becomes the second time and the second time becomes the third until he is on a spiral downward, in a crash-course of entangled limbs and lewd noises. He cannot keep himself from the distractions of flesh. He cannot stop himself from trying to do _more,_ to drown out all the horrors in the back of his head. He takes partners of all genders. Men, women, others, he does not care who he lays with as long as they help him forget. He is both a dominating force and a recipient for those who want _him_ to submit; certain Yautja spread whispers of his waning strength, of his disregard for caution, of his wanton need to blot out existence until he is nothing but white noise in a haze of merciful euphoria.

He has a title. _Merciless Savior._ With it should come prestige, but all it brings him is being bent over a bed while others revel in his willingness to be taken. All of it is to forget. He wants to forget. He will forget, and then remember, and then forget again. He finds the guilt waits for him outside the spacecraft door whenever he departs from a night of lewd actions.

* * *

Reputation wanes. Less Yautja respond to his invitations. Less desire his flesh. Less help him forget.

* * *

di-Sl’va-chak begins throwing himself to the sharks of the D’Lex clan, seeking out those who do not care about him or why he engages in these acts. They are not gentle lovers. They do not care about respecting him beyond simple formalities. All they care about is getting what they want, what _they_ need, and leaving him a mess outside their shuttles for someone to find. More than once he is left injured, though he makes up any length of excuses to cover up his shame and the fact he demands this treatment from them.

He cannot stop. He is lost in the cycle now. He seeks out the same Yautja, the only ones to return his notice and let him in. He allows them what they will. He allows them to unravel him until he is a mess in the grasp of others. It’s to help him forget. It’s all to help him forget. He needs to forget. He wants to forget. He blames himself for Gahn’tha-cte. He blames himself for _so many deaths so many died so many so much too much too much._

* * *

Joan asks him if he’s okay one evening. She walks on her own now, but for some reason her arm continues to loop with his own whenever the two stroll the shores of the planet.

 _“I’m forgetting,”_ the man answers.

* * *

One night everything goes wrong.

He retires with one of his regulars, a d’Lex huntress, in her spacecraft. She takes time using him: bites seeping blood on his body, bruises where her hands grip his abdomen and hips, scratches on his back. When she rides him to climax, he expects an end to the night, he expects a return to remembrance for the world he cannot forget. A return to his guilt. To his _sins_.

 _“There are others coming,”_ she says. _“You don't... need to go."_

He chooses to stay. The numbers increase. He feels something like comfort when the others praise him, his body, his touch. It is a twisted, terrible thing, a mutiny of _real_ comfort, but he clings to it. He soaks in the limelight. He loses control. He lets himself crumble. He lets himself break. He drinks and embraces others until something happens.

He doesn’t know what. But he knows he’s pushed himself too far, that he’s crossed a line, that he’s done something terrible. He knows something is amiss, because he is not meant to lose feeling like _that,_ he is not meant to have that strange sensation ripple through the intimate folds of his flesh. Something’s gone wrong and it hits him all at once. He feels sick, nauseous, like the world comes crashing down, and in no time, he throws himself to the side and vomits. His sweat-laden chest heaves and he retches until there his stomach refuses more. The world turns upside down.

Where there was praise is nothing now; he is thrown out of the spacecraft and left in the darkness outside. One hunter comes outside to cuss him out and kick his side. He groans in pain and holds himself when no one else does. Then he sits, and he waits, and he wonders, until his consciousness fades in and out, and time melts around him.

* * *

He sees her in his mind. A shining silver star: beautiful, deadly, all for him. Small, soft, fleeting smiles. Ample nods. Cold hands. An embrace he cannot ask more of nor find anywhere else in the stars. Her remarks are kind. She is considerate. He loves her. He misses her. He thought she would come back. He misses her. **His faith is dying.** She’s gone. Many are.

He wonders if he will join the fallen. He won't, he realizes. He can't.

* * *

Ooman curses fill the air when Joan finds him.

* * *

Joan takes him to Leitjin. She doesn’t comment on his state, she doesn’t condemn him, she doesn’t say much of anything other than calling him by his old name and telling him to stay calm. Deep breaths. She stands at his side, next to the table Leitjin lays him flat on for the examination. Her hands cover his own. She soothes him even as he begins to panic.

“It’s okay, I got you, I got you, I have your back,” Jo whispers. She is gentle. She feels soft. He doesn’t know why he starts weeping. Jo rubs his hands slowly as he cries. “Ash—Ash will—Ash will be really careful. Okay? Really quick—Too. We got you now. We have you.”

 _“I’ll be quick as I can.”_ Leitjin reaffirms, pulling gloves on, moving strange tools around on a rolling table. One reminds him of a camera, with a long, thin scope and longer wire connecting it to the nurse’s wrist computer.

* * *

Surgery is necessary to fix his mangled form. The emptiness of being put under is a blessing.

* * *

Without serum, it is a tedious road to recovery. The checkups are invasive. He feels humiliated, nauseous, sickly, degraded: everything he knows he put himself through in the past cycle, everything he thinks he deserves, everything he wants to _stop._ He does not say much to others, not to Leitjin, not to Guan, not to his _pa-e_ or his sirer or anyone else who comes looking for him. He doesn’t say _c’jit_.

Until he does.

To Jo, on the eighth day of recovery, when he watches her clean his ostomy bag with precision he didn’t know she had. The woman wipes down the stoma, runs a sanitation laser over it, and returns to the surgical site, where he sees his color attached to his abdominal wall. It opens into the air. He shudders as Jo carefully reattaches the bag.

“I never want to hear Ash say perforated bowel again.” The woman says under her breath. She turns around and takes a seat next his bedside. Unlike the _Kukulkan_ , Clan Yeyin's medical laboratory has actual cots for patients. He would prefer a medical pod, but it is out of the picture until he heals more.

His mandibles quiver. There is a fear inside him, rich, thick, _pungent,_ when he thinks about sharing. He knows he can trust her, yet he is gripped by an unusual terror. It claws at him. It fills him with panic. He stares into nothingness.

“Mercy—Mercy, look at me, please,” Joan takes his arm and touches it gingerly. Her lips stretch into a thin frown. “I know—I know I’m not one of _you_ —But—But on Earth things like this have… they happen a lot. Humans are terrible to each other—”

 _“I wasn’t raped,”_ the man hisses, already knowing the word for it. He’s picked it up from his time on Terra, though the concept has existed among sentient races for a time beyond ooman existence.

The second most dishonorable act. The taking of autonomy from another.

“I didn’t say that.” Jo lets go and plops her hands in her lap. She sighs heavily. “I didn’t… I don’t mean to imply anything. Put stuff in your head—”

_“Then don’t. I told them they could do anything. Whatever they asked for.”_

He expects her to rise, leave, stay _away._ It’s becoming habitual. He’s pushed away others: the kinder Yautja who once welcomed him to their side, those who regarded him with sincere awe and respect, those who took time to give as much pleasure as they took. He’s separated himself from his brother, drunk himself into a daily buzz, and ignored his _pa-e’_ s comments and concern.

 _It’s because of me the clan’s dead. Gahn’tha-cte…_ Panic returns. Rage joins it. His hands shake.

“Mercy. Mercy, c'mon,” Jo reaches for him. He thinks about swatting her hand away, but the woman demands respect. He owes it to her for all she’s done for him.

He looks.

“You—Y’know, you’ve been—You’ve been avoiding a lot of us. Not just me.” The ooman exhales, running a thumb over his scaled knuckles. “Your brother—I—We—We’ve been… We’ve been worried. A lot of us are worried.”

 _“Don’t be.”_ He rumbles the words, weak, pathetic, scorned and full of hate for himself. _“I’m not worth it.”_

Jo clutches his hand tightly. She is so warm, so much warmer than…

He hates himself.

So many are dead.

“Do you know what happened when you left that facility on Earth?” Her tone changes. Something in her eyes is dark, darker and full of a sorrow he rarely sees in the woman. Joan does not look away; the brave and courageous ooman gives him a moment before she goes on. “There was a city there, Mercy. A—A city. Tucson. Arizona. It was my home and…”

The hitch in her voice is brutal and wrong and unworthy a woman of her honor. She should not feel this grief. He doesn’t want her to be upset.

“And—When we left—A—A bomb went off. Wiped the… the… It wiped my home off the map. It killed—” Jo closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “One-hundred-thirty-thousand people. At least five of those—Those—Those lives— _deaths_ —were my family. My brother. My sister. My… My… Fuck, don’t cry, Jo, don’t, not now…” she lets go of his hand to wipe her face.

He doesn’t want to see her in pain.

“Fuck, see, even, even I—I’m not a picture-fucking-perfect person, tough-as-nails, invincible, no, no!” She shakes her head. Her teeth clench. “I’m—I’m Joan-fucking-Mackenzie—And I lived when everyone else _died.”_

It clicks in his mind. Jo grabs his hand before he can retreat, before he can tell her to leave, and before he can bury himself in his own angst. She’s become close to him after all this time, even when he’s tried to push her and others away. She’s cared. She’s cared. She cares. The panic inside him reflects his fear at the realization. He is terrified to care for someone so deeply. He’s terrified she’ll leave too.

But maybe that’s what draws the two together, him and her. The fear of losing more than what is already lost. She is one of the few who understands what it is like to lose her world, and she is the only one left who he would trust to share his fears with.

“I know something’s changed in you. You aren’t—You aren’t acting right. Mercy. _H’chak.”_ It’s a reluctant use of his former name, because Jo seems aware of her own inability to pronounce it right. Her clicks are wrong, the vowels too drawn out, but her efforts mean the world. He shudders violently, more helpless than he has ever been before.

 _“I… I don’t know… I…”_ The man feels Jo squeeze his hand.

“Don’t shut us out.” The woman begs.

* * *

 _“I cannot forgive Guan.”_ _The Elite whispers in a soft, low click. “I cannot earn your forgiveness, Bist’ri. He is no longer Adjutant. He cannot earn my forgiveness, and I cannot forgive him to earn yours. I cannot say anything will change even if I believe your words.”_

 _“He’s sorry, kv’var-de. He is sorry for—”_ _Bist’ri begins, but she cuts herself off when H’chak growls loudly._

 _“I know he is. I hope he is. It’s a start to all,”_ _the man shakes his head. “All the cjit he put me through—What he did—His actions—Ruined me! Put me on this path! Do you see where I am now? What I am? My honor? Prestige? Reputation? My life is nothing—I have nothing! Pauk! No one! Cjit! I lost the respect of everyone I cared about because of him! What do I have left now? Who do I have left?”_

_He regrets the words immediately, as he sees how his mate stills and tilts her head to one side. It is strange how one tiny gesture expresses so much. The man freezes and stares at her, meeting the silver figure’s clear gaze._

_“Sun-Dew—”_ _He begins, but he doesn’t know what to say._

_H’chak stands there, a mess of many makings: a man who struggles to anchor himself in a storm._

_The Vekin clears her throat. “You have me, H’chak.”_

_“—And the entirety of the medical division. Regardless how distasteful and crude your actions have been,”_ _The head nurse clicks immediately after. Bist’ri unclasps her bio-mask and takes it off, her green eyes meeting his gaze. “What do you have against me, M-di-H’chak? Why can’t you believe me? Have I been that cruel a nurse to you, kv’var-de?”_

 _“Because it means—”_ _H’chak growls at everyone, at himself, at the world. “I have wronged you again. You and… my mei-hswei. I have been used by Ikthya-De-th’Syra when I vowed to never be so foolish! Never again! S’yuit-de!”_

 _“Are you angry at yourself?”_ _Bist’ri steps forward, but H’chak snarls at her. His mandibles flare behind his mask._

_He doesn’t make a peep when Sundew walks back to his side and takes his hand in both her own. She peers up at him. “H’chak.”_

_He looks off to the side, but the man knows his mate is a persistent one. She smiles politely at him and squeezes his hand._

_“H’chak. I know you can hear me,” The silver figure speaks softly. “Please do not shut me out. Tell me what you are thinking. Talk to me.”_

* * *

_“Something is wrong with me,”_ he breaks and cracks and hisses a pain he cannot process. _“I—I keep—I can’t stop—Jo—”_

“I ain’t here to judge you, it’s okay,” Joan frowns. “What—What is happening, H’chak? What happened to you?”

 _“I can’t keep myself away.”_ A confession of weakness is a damning thing for a hunter. He wants to bury himself in his guilt. _“I have to—I have to forget—Her—Gahn’tha-cte—Everyone—”_

His words hurt her.

He wants to strangle himself for admitting his sin.

 _“Others take me in—And—I—I forget—For a moment—I—”_ He curses bitterly, unable to stop his own tears. _“I want to forget—I want to forget—I can’t stop—”_

He feels a weight on his bed. It takes a second to register the woman has climbed unto his bed and wrapped her arms around him. His face floods with heat. The touch of her is so different, so soft, so _ooman_ , that it takes him aback. It reminds him of _her_. But Joan Mackenzie is not Sundew, and he does not know if Sundew is coming back, and he is guilty and wrong and _he should have perished so the honorable of Gahn’tha-cte could live._ It was not their time. It was not their time.

“You know, on Earth, there’s this thing humans get that’s all kinds of fucked,” Jo whispers into his arm.

He says nothing.

She looks up and meets his eyes. “It’s—Loaunne called it _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder._ It’s a human thing. When we—When we live through… shit.”

 _“C’jit.”_ He repeats in his tongue.

“One of the ways it manifests—It—It can show up as… It has a symptom, okay, I ain’t making this up,” she lets go of him and straightens up. He misses the weight of her against his arm. “Sometimes humans—We try to have lots of sex, so much goddamn _fucking,_ ” Jo’s face flushes pink. She grits her teeth. “And it’s all to—It’s to—It’s a coping mechanism—For—For that other thing—For—P-T-S-D. It’s called hy—hypersexuality. That’s the human thing I’m tryna explain—”

She falls quiet, but the implication is clear. Di-Sl’va-chak shuts his eyes. _“I am not ooman.”_

“But you’re a man who lived through lots of shit. And now—Now—After—It hasn’t even been that _long,_ H’chak, since—Since your clan—" Jo clears her throat. “You know, your behavior changes didn’t just pop up overnight, right? You—We—All of us—We’ve noticed. I noticed!”

 _“Noticed what?”_ He snarls.

She puts a hand on his arm. “You… You changed. You began… wandering off. Disappearing. Being found outside, drunk as _dicks_ , in the company of others—You—Your behavior—It—”

Uncomfortable feelings claw at his chest. His eyes flicker open. The orange orbs do not look back at her.

_They knew. They knew and tried to reach out to him. He pushed them away._

“Your behavior matches,” Jo says, and she does not elaborate further, because both parties understand.

 _He_ understands.

Shame fills him.

_“I had no desire for you to see me like that—”_

“I’m not judging you,” Jo reminds him, quietly. She squeezes his arm. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it, but—But I... I need to support you. Find a way to stop _this._ Find a way to alleviate the guilt. You can’t—You shouldn’t carry all of that—It’s not your fault they were _murdered."_

 _Murdered._ The pain stings, horribly. He might break again if not for the ooman’s warm touch, anchoring him to reality.

He looks at her at last and finds she has not looked away. Her eyes are warm. Concerned. Caring. Broken. Flawed. The two are more alike than he wants to admit.

 _“I don’t know how to stop.”_ He grits his inner jaw. _“I don’t know if I can stop on my own.”_

Joan nods. “We’ll—Let’s talk to Ash. Okay? We’ll figure it out. They’ll help us figure it out. Maybe explain it in ways _your kind_ understand, since human terms don’t really… They don’t exactly match a _Yautja_ clan.”

Her grip shifts to his hand. She has coarse fingers mingling with soft skin. A warrior with her own battle scars, in ways he has yet to be told of. Di-Sl’va-chak wonders just what goes on inside Jo’s mind. He wonders why she has not given up on him or turned away. He wonders, but he knows there is no answer, not today, not for him, and he settles on putting a hand over hers and slowly nodding.

 _“I trust you,”_ di-Sl’va-chak clicks softly, weakly, for her. _“Help me. I need help.”_

Jo bites her lip. She hesitates, then she smiles. It is small and frail and fragile, just like he is, just like the two’s situation, like Clan Yeyin, like surviving events which wiped out those they cared for. But he is lucky, and some of the individuals he cares for are still alive. He will not turn away her help. He will try to get better. He will try to survive. He will try to have faith again. 


	83. epilogue: akrei-non-daga | tarei'hsan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for:  
> -talk of infertility  
> -attempted assault  
> -child victims of trafficking  
> -the alien equivalent of human trafficking for physical labor aka slavery  
> -character death  
> -torture / execution
> 
> was really happy with this one. it expands on a lot of side stuff that's been building off-screen.

_Smooth hide. Teal pelt. Gold eyes._

He has always known something is off with him. It is in his coloration, in the nature of the exquisite hues normally reserved for certain bloodlines. He has heard tales of beautiful hunters captivating clans: extraordinary colors like searing white, a pure, pitch obsidian, or the most illustrious mint green to hunt the stars. Many of them come from genetic mutations, often causing fertility problems, but to the surprise of him and the shadow he takes after: he is not one of them.

* * *

_“If you have questions—Speak.” His master is calm, curt, neutral. Frighteningly so. The Shadow of ka’Torag-Na could never not inspire awe and horror, even for the new apprentice._

_But he doesn’t back down, not this time. He has danced with devils before: the training imposed by the Matriarch is brutal, nightmarishly so. The sacrifices he made to prove himself one of those who lurk in the darkness can never leave him. Now that his position as the Shadow’s shadow is cemented, he has the right to stand and demand answers. Truths._

_“You have not been honest with me.” Like his master, the student keeps his words careful and without inflection. “I have questions.”_

_“Do I hide what is already in the darkness?” The Shadow asks no one. “I do as our Matriarch commands.”_

_“Her will lives through us. Through—You. Her desire to erase my past does not… remove it. I am still me.” The Shadow’s shadow stops at his master’s side. The other Yautja is donned almost head to toe in great vantablack alloys, hiding all but their braided locs beneath the body armor._

_In comparison, he feels underwhelming. He is not someone with a title of prestige or reputation to back himself up._

_The other guards notice something is amiss between master and student. A handful excuse themselves, while the Shadow of ka’Torag-Na clicks softly. “…You will not find resolution in the past, Tarei.”_

_“Tarei’hsan.” The man corrects them. “I am not looking for resolution. I am looking for—”_

_“The truth?”_

_“—My bearer.”_

* * *

Something is off about this one too. Like him: the attributes of her physical form are not common. He sees it in the distinct even layers of scales across her pelt, in the blue coloration: soft yet deepening, with flurries of white specks scattered across the bluing hide. He sees it in the way her eyes stare at _him_ , a flicker of something not quite recognition marring the two’s collision of different worlds. Hers are green, and his are gold, but there is a burning drive inside the woman’s eyes that makes him freeze and wonder.

His orders are to take her with them. Put her on the _Pteros_. He has no idea who she is, but he knows what he must do. He shouldn’t hesitate to follow the Shadow’s directive—Dto-Bhu’ja cannot steer him wrong—but the idea of giving her to the clan does not sit right. Even if all the Matriarch demands of her is service in the clan’s medical division, even if spared of the torment to befall most prisoners, it will not be more than the barest of a life. She will not have freedom. She will have servitude, every second of her life dictated with clan members to care for, all under threat of the final rest.

 _But she will be alive._ Tarei considers.

And if what the ic’jit says is true—It will be enough for the woman and her unborn offspring.

* * *

_His master does strange things when no one else is present. As his master’s shadow, he is sworn to follow him save for an order of the Matriarch. Tarei’hsan is a dutiful individual. He does not shy from the directive. He treads the same steps of Dto-Bhu’ja, of the Yautja who threatens so many. It does not surprise him his master carries secrets of their own. When he is first taken across the stars and embarked on a strange flight path, he finds the tension grows until it is unbearable. Yet he reins himself in. He holds himself together long enough for the celestial bodies to stop around the Pteros._

_Twin stars orbit an illuminated planet. The atmosphere is an amber-like colors, strangely lively against the deepness of space. It is not easy to see, much less to find; a glance at the navigator informs Tarei just how intricate a path his master has taken. Dto-Bhu’ja does not want others to find this place, this tiny speck of golden life in a sea of emptiness and light. If he were not the Yautja’s shadow, Tarei knows he could never find the planet Photon._

_It is as its name: a beacon of light, lit by the stars, embodying a vibrancy and luster even a shadow of a shadow admires._

* * *

_Smooth hide. Blue pelt. Green eyes._

Not identical, but resilient all the same. Tarei’s in charge of her when the craft finally takes off. He makes a point to double-check her restraints before tending to Akrei-non-Daga’s injuries. The unconscious man sleeps a short time before he snaps upright and groans expletives not even a Shadow cares for. With his master in the cockpit, Tarei is forced to deal with shifting his attention from one prisoner to the other.

Akrei-non-Daga is not aware of his status as _prisoner_ yet. The ivory-pelted man is blissfully oblivious to his fate. Though he grunts a thanks at Tarei, the latter doesn’t respond. Tarei simply watches as he has seen his master do: he watches, he waits, and he occasionally notes the other prisoner on the side.

 _Bist’ri,_ her name is.

 _Former head nurse,_ his master told him.

 _She is with pups,_ Dto-Bhu’ja warned.

 _The gods do not favor you._ Tarei looks away, golden eyes flickering to Gahn’tha-cte’s former clan leader. He does not find the man as interesting, for everything the man could offer him he already knows. Dto-Bhu’ja and him spent several day cycles reviewing reconnaissance, practically living off the information the two filled their heads with. Tarei knows the man very, _very_ well, to the point he confidently believes he could count the scales on Akrei-non-Daga’s head.

It is a blessing and a curse. Akrei-non-Daga cannot interest him in the slightest, but there is no one else to talk to. He tried to address the former nurse once, and the woman’s retort was a hiss of _el’osde pauk._

A rude prisoner. Tarei’hsan cannot fathom how her mouth will fare her in ka’Torag-Na. With any luck, the worse she will get is a lashing by the Matriarch, but even the sharp edges of the Matriarch’s whips leave terrible scars. He recalls a time in his youth where the old Matriarch, Kiande-Dekna, made a point of flogging him in front of his peers for his lack of respect. The scars do not ache, but they are heavy on his back.

 _I don’t want to see them on you._ He catches the thought and kills it before it can evolve into concern.

He has no reason for concern. This woman is one of Gahn’tha-cte’s. She is bound for misery and the final rest, whether now or when her offspring are birthed. The Matriarch will seize the pups and take them as her own. Bist’ri will live her days serving the very clan which purged her own off the star charts.

The familiar aroma hits his olfactory receptors. Tarei’hsan tenses visibly and rises from his seat. He looks over his shoulder at where the woman is kept in veritanium manacles, arms spread horizontally on either side and attached to the ship wall. It looks uncomfortable.

 _She_ looks uncomfortable, frequently squirming, saying soft things akin to prayers, and clenching her teeth. The one time she opens her eyes, her green gaze is adrift in a mess he does not understand.

Tarei faces forward.

 _“How much longer until we are… allowed to board the clanship?”_ Akrei-non-Daga has a grating voice, demanding and impatient. He’s grown more impatient since regaining consciousness, but Dto-Bhu’ja has yet to allow Tarei to choke the man out regardless of the man’s agitating nature.

 _“Our Matriarch will not allow anyone to dock until she confirms there are no survivors in the wreckage.”_ Tarei clicks, straining to keep his tone polite. He knows the excuse is lousy, that certain _preparations_ must be complete before the prisoner can face trial, but he cannot find it in himself to care.

 _“Unfortunate.”_ Daga sits upright. The man drums claw-tipped fingers on his chair’s armrest for a minute. _“Does your Matriarch have a place for me in your clan’s court? I am an Elder. My age warrants respect. It was discussed but not...officiated.”_

 _“You will be recognized in ka’Torag-Na.”_ The Shadow’s shadow nods once.

 _“Recognition? Is that everything?”_ Akrei-non-Daga snaps. _“I have forsaken everything because of ka’Torag-Na! butchered my kindred to prove my loyalty! What more could I offer? What more could I lose? Nothing! It is all in the hands of your matriarch! I deserve more—"_

 _“You deserve nothing! Ui’stbe! Traitor!”_ It is not Tarei who snarls the words. The Shadow’s shadow stills as Bist’ri half-roars at Daga. Her figure thrashes against her restraints before she drops her head and hisses. _“I will find a way to kill you with my own hands. I swear on it—”_

She is defiant. Sometimes, amid the mess swirling in her eyes, Tarei glimpses pure, raw _hate_.

 _“Yes, Bist’ri… That is… another problem.”_ Daga cracks his neck. He turns to Tarei’hsan. _“What will become of her?”_

Tarei chooses not to answer.

 _“Then… allow me to make a suggestion,”_ The former clan leader looks at Bist’ri. _“Her lineage is… considerably respected across dozens of clans. Her ancestor led the r’Ko-Vekin hunts—”_

 _“What?”_ Bist’ri snaps her head up. She stares at Daga, green eyes dark and full of disbelief. _“Hou-depaya-n’yaka-de was not—”_

 _“Ka’Torag-Na’s shadows do not care for the history of Gahn’tha-cte or its members. We know enough.”_ Tarei cuts the two off.

Tarei’hsan notes the way anger ripples through Akrei-non-Daga: the man’s muscles tense. His hands ball into fists. If the leader’s mask was off, perhaps he could pick something up in his eyes; Tarei has always considered himself adept at reading another’s eyes.

_“Her lineage has value. She may not possess the qualities of her bearer—But she is more… fertile.”_

The fear in the spacecraft spikes. Tarei stiffens, disgust crawling up his spine.

 _“You wretched man!”_ Bist’ri snarls, but the odor of her terror is undeniable. _“No better than your sirer! Ui’stbe!”_

 _“My sirer,”_ Daga hisses and approaches her, swaying and grasping at the craft’s wall to avoid toppling over. _“Continued your bloodline… continued it—He gave you pups!”_

 _“You would call the second most dishonorable act a gift?”_ The woman hisses.

 _“Your bearer hunted him down and murdered him for it!”_ the venom is heinous and thick, running rich as a river full of clear water. Akrei-non-Daga seethes where he stands in front of the woman. _“Ju’dha-Jehdin is no more; I will take you in their place. You will restart my lineage, Bist’ri.”_

 _“Cetanu will have you before then,”_ Bist’ri spits in the face of the former clan leader.

Akrei-non-Daga stills. The rage can be scented before it manifests: the odor is spicy and burnt, so utterly rancid and passionate, Tarei has not felt such pure outrage since he was a prisoner of traders in his adolescence. He finds himself taken aback, a mixture of disgust and fear rising in his gut, briefly mutilating him with hints of his past, with memories he knows will haunt him, before the man regains control of himself. He watches Akrei-non-Daga unclasp the bio-mask on his face, peel it off, and drop it at his side. He watches Daga’s unholy golden eyes stare daggers into Bist’ri’s green ones.

 _“I should have had you culled,”_ the man _roars_. He grabs the woman by the throat and pulls her forward. It forces her arms to bend wrong way, but Bist’ri holds back grunts of pain even as Daga howls in her face. He releases her and begins unbuckling armor. _“You are nothing more than ic’jit! I will put you in your place!”_

Everything falls apart. The awareness of what Akrei-non-Daga intends to do processes in Tarei’s mind. His eyes widen, a million thoughts race through his head, but even before he rips the man away, before he dislocates Daga’s arm beating him to the ground and restraining him for trial, he sees the other prisoner, the head nurse, the woman who is familiar yet obsolete in his mind, he sees her bring her legs up and smash them into the former clan leader’s thorax. Then the rest of the scene plays out in a flurry of smashed limbs, long gouges, and breaking bones as Tarei’hsan forces the clan leader into a set of veritanium manacles.

He throws Akrei-non-Daga back into his seat and snarls from behind his own bio-mask. _“Ka’Torag-Na does not condone these acts—”_

 _“She is an ic’jit, she deserves it,”_ Daga hisses. The former clan leader continues to writhe and thrash through his deep of pain. _“She murdered her twin—Tarei-Jehdin!”_

* * *

_The young man has been worked mercilessly by the traders. Heavy physical labor, the mining of ores which takes him into a world without light, surrounded by others forced into similar servitude. He has worked for hours on end, for days, perhaps even weeks, an endless exhaustion which never ends. The rare ores must be excavated and handed over to his and the other’s owners. He has a quota to meet, or the Yautja with blades and blasters and armor will kill him and string his body up as an example for the others._

_Three have already been strung up in the camp square. Two adults, and a third an adolescent not unlike himself. The sounds of their screams when they were skinned alive are noises he will never forget. He will try to forget. He will try so many times._

_“Tarei!” Another adolescent, Dha-viath, clicks softly at him. “Focus!”_

_The youth shudders and snaps to attention. He sees the overseers face the two’s direction, and he throws himself into the hard labor: swinging the pick-axe, breaking off stone, and mining the dangerously unstable minerals he has seen claim the lives of five others since his arrival. He is out of breath, tired, and ready to pass out when he finishes freeing the chunk of gleaming ore. The youth struggles to catch it when it falls, narrowly avoiding having it crash to piece on the ground._

_When he looks back at his captors, he breathes out in relief. The overseers have busied themselves with other prisoners, and he will not be the fourth body hung in the camp square._

* * *

_“Tarei—”_ The shadow of a shadow freezes, name so raw and weak and quiet when he says it. _“Tarei…Jehdin?”_

* * *

The former head nurse begins to sob in her restraints.  
  
She has blue scales and green eyes. Her hide reminds the man of running water.

* * *

Dto-Bhu’ja is busy speaking with the matriarch when Tarei pounds on the cockpit door and enters it after. He immediately shuts up and backs away, knowing all too well how easily Dancing Mantis can be scorned and insulted. He does not wait long before Dto clicks at him to step forward. His master swivels in the pilot’s chair and cocks their head to one side, almost curious, but no emotion is shown in the vantablack helmet. It, like the rest of Dto, is submerged in the persona of the Shadow. _Halkreath._

_“Who is she?”_ Tarei clicks softly, melodically. _“Who is that woman?”_

 _“Why do you ask?”_ Dto-Bhu’ja is a simple individual. Tarei both appreciates and despises that about them.

He balls his hands into fists. _“She has a brother named Tarei-Jehdin. Her pelt—”_

 _“Is distinguishing.”_ Dto nods once. _“She shares your scent.”_

 _“I—I do not remember my kin, master,”_ Tarei lets out a long, frustrated hiss. _“I do not remember having… having…”_

 _“Mei-jahdi. No. You would… not.”_ The words settle uncomfortably.

Though Dto-Bhu’ja has always insisted the younger Yautja consider himself a Blooded member of the clan, though Dto-Bhu’ja intervened and saved him from his life as a slave, Tarei cannot fully separate the Yautja from the fact they _purchased_ him. ‘Master’ is both a cruel irony and a formal term for the two’s positions relative the other. He is a student; they are a master. He was a slave; they were his master.

He doesn’t know if he will ever shake the connotations off, or if he can ever look at the Yautja who helped him in a purely positive light. It is an unfortunate complexity to the layers of trauma rooted in his early cycles; he sees Dto-Bhu’ja as both savior and sinner, here to help him, but a reminder he was _bought_ all the same. Tarei feels his gut twist uncomfortably as he considers the subject. He wants to ask Dto-Bhu’ja more, to demand answers, but there are more pressing matters. He averts his gaze to the side, though the man knows full well his hesitation does not go unmissed by ka’Torag-Na’s Shadow.

 _“Did you… Did you choose to save her for me?”_ Tarei chirps, aggravated at his sudden inability to phrase the runaround thoughts circling his head.

 _“M-di.”_ Dto dismisses the idea. _“It was a favor to someone I once called mei-jahdi.”_

_“The ic’jit?”_

Perhaps there is a line he does not know of, for he has nothing on Vayuh’ta’s three-hundred-something cycles, or the hundreds of cycles beyond that carried on Dto-Bhu’ja’s back. Tarei stiffens when the other Yautja rises to their feet and steps to him, silent and empty.

 _“Why does the prisoner matter to you?”_ Dto-Bhu’ja clicks neutrally.

_“I don’t know—”_

“Why do you think she matters?” The Shadow presses on.

Tarei clams up. He shakes his head. _“I—”_

 _“M-di. You know. Trust yourself, Tarei.”_ Dto rumbles the words. They stand and wait for their shadow to speak.

 _“She is… not unlike me. Similar, yet—”_ It nauseates him how the pieces fall into place, how his carefully crafted carapace begins crumbling under the horror which washes over him. Tarei freezes at the nausea flooding his body. He turns to his teacher and demands. _“What happened to her twin?”_

_“She killed him, sei-i. Sei-i. Tarei-Jehdin is dead. His remains were lost when the Gahn’tha-cte clanship detonated.”_

_“M-di, m-di! That is not what I ask, not what I mean,”_ the shadow of a shadow hisses. _“Why did she kill another Yautja?!”_

A pause. Even Dto-Bhu’ja does not know everything, but Tarei finds comfort in the knowledge. He needs the reminder that his master is not a machine incapable of free thought and action.

The man flinches when the Shadow puts a hand on his shoulder. _“The poison of ka’Torag-Na claimed she strangled him after the two were sold to a member of Gahn’tha-cte. But that is… false. Ikthya-De th’Syra altered the only recording of the event. I could have the recording transmitted to your bio-helmet for review—but you do not need it. Trust your perception; have faith in your judgements.”_

The way his master speaks is… worrying. Tarei’hsein stares at Dto long after the Yautja moves back to the pilot seat and turns it around to face the front of the cockpit. When the Shadow says no more, he bows his head and excuses himself to the other room, where the two prisoners await.

* * *

_“There will come a time when the mantle of Shadow is taken from my head and put in your hands,” it is a conversation the two have late at night, an evening cycle of which both shadows have concluded their training. Tarei’s teacher, master, instructor, has only just finished cleaning their weapons when they begin to talk._

_Tarei, knowing better than to interrupt, sits with his blades and dah’kte. He listens._

_“You won’t know before it is upon you. Before the leader of those who lurk in the darkness calls for your aid. It will happen, and you will walk in my stead without me.” The Shadow clicks gently but firmly. “It will be the end of me and the beginning of all you will become.”_

* * *

The satisfaction in seeing Akrei-non-Daga plead for his life is unending. The man does not know what will become of him until Tarei drags his cursing, kicking, thrashing form into the court room. There, before the colorful silks flowing off his Matriarch’s figure, he shoves Akrei-non-Daga to his knees. The former clan leader spits at him before Daga snaps his head back at Nrit’ja-Zabin. _“This is not the welcome I was promised, Zabin!”_

 _“It is not. M-di. M-di.”_ The mantis of Ka’Torag-Na stands proudly, a beaming beacon of leadership across her clan. Though initial political unrest followed her initial crowning, the matriarch has begun garnering the trust and support of key ka’Torag-Na figures. When the queen clicks at him, Tarei straightens upright and stiffens. _“Where is the other?”_

 _“The Shadow placed her in a containment cell until her fate is decided upon.”_ Tarei answers honestly.

 _“I did not tell Dto to take prisoners.”_ N'ritja muses in sweet, soothing croons and chirrups. She practically sings the beautiful notes of the clan dialect as she walks forward to Daga and kneels at his side. _“Forgive me… Akrei-non-Daga… You are a man of great importance… You have done what no one else dare accomplish… For that… You will be rewarded with what a man of your caliber deserves—_ ”

Akrei-non-Daga’s gold eyes widen, then his posture relaxes. He snaps at N'ritja. _“I expect your clan to supply my needs. I want him punished—”_ the former clan leader hisses at Tarei. _“And I want the other prisoner—Bist’ri—Put in her place—"_

 _“She will not lay a hand on you again.”_ N'ritja swears on it, nodding along to the man’s words.

 _“That is not enough!”_ Daga snarls. _“If she does not want my seed then she is undeserving of life!”_

The mantis of ka’Torag-Na pauses, brilliant green-yellow eyes blinking slowly as her gaze trickles up and down Daga’s bound figure. When the matriarch speaks, N'ritja talks to Tarei, though she never looks at the armored figure. _“—What happened on the Pteros?”_

_“He attempted to mate the prisoner with force.”_

Nrit’ja clicks with soft, unamused laughter. Her chortles are infectious; several clan members follow suit. But when the mantis stops, all fall silent in the court for her.

 _“Akrei-non-Daga. You carry yourself with an act of honor, but you could not be farther from it than the fecal matter of an ic’jit.”_ Nrit’ja stands.

Daga stills and looks up at her. His mandibles pull taut over his inner jaw. The rage is a strange scent mixing into odors already present in the courtroom.

_“Those who lurk in the darkness—The time has come to offer what our fallen demand in vengeance. The thwei of the one who ripped them from their home and forced them into the final rest—”_

Akrei-non-Daga balks. _“What—”_

 _“Almost four-zero-zero cycles past,”_ N'ritja hisses and spins on her heels. The eight-foot-tall woman kicks Daga in the side and smashes a foot on his back when he rolls over, snarling with disgust. _“This man ordered a Gahn’tha-cte hunting craft to open fire on one of our own. It sparked a fight which claimed nine Gahn’tha-cte lives in the name of Cetanu—"_

 _Fear._ Delicious, supplant. Free and flowing from Akrei-non-Daga for the first time since Tarei’hsan met him.

N’ritja hisses at the clan members of ka’Torag-Na as she circles Daga. _“But it took many more from the clan who lurks in the darkness. You were an Adjutant back then, Akrei-non-Daga. You were the one responsible when the Elder onboard died from a skirmish you caused. You not only threw away the lives of your clan, but you butchered and ripped apart the ka’Torag-Na trading vessel! You offered their lives to Cetanu! You silenced their screams! You extinguished the lives of nine clan of our flesh! One of them—a bearer expecting pups, carrying innocent life in her belly!”_

The cries of the outraged and the pained fill the air. N'ritja roars in anger, spurring the clan members to cast expletives on the former clan leader, to spit on Daga from the side and curse him for several long minutes. Tarei is not one of them, as the shadow of a shadow must not partake but observe, as per Dto-Bhu’ja’s instructions. He watches as N'ritja-Zabin gives orders for two Elites to fetch restraints for the former clan leader. He says nothing as Daga tries to fight back, bellowing threats he cannot back up against the Elite huntresses who force him unto the rack and bind his limbs into place. Tarei feels no guilt seeing the dishonorable man go from rage to cowardice when Daga begins bargaining for his life with the clan matriarch.

 _“We waited, Daga, we waited for you! We waited with our fallen screaming for vengeance in our throats, demanding the thwei of you and the clan who wronged us! Today we give you to them!”_ N’ritja-Zabin takes a blade from one Elite's outstretched hand. The matriarch unsheathes it and holds up the beautiful obsidian-hued blade. _“All of ka’Torag-Na shares in this offering to the fallen, to those who hunt under Cetanu!”_

 _“This is—Is—Asinine! All of you! Ui’stbe! Mar’cte! I did not order them to fire on the ship!”_ Akrei-non-Daga shouts and thrashes. His fighting does not free him. He continues to struggle. _“It was there with them—With you—The ships—The space! The silver—”_

He howls in pain when the first cut is made, stabbing through his pelt and thermal mesh to strip him of any protection.

 _“Cetanu take you, all of you,”_ Daga’s chest heaves as it flows with bright green blood. _“It was not the ship—It was a creature! The silver—This is murder, dishonorable!”_

 _“If it was a mistake—You would have offered your thwei in place of the pup you threw away,”_ N’ritja’s response contians no pity or remorse. _“This is not dishonor, Adjutant Akrei-non-Daga. This is your penance. Here your thwei repents for the lives of our fallen. Here you meet Cetanu.”_

* * *

Dto-Bhu’ja once warned him of the executions held for sport in ka’Torag-Na’s courts. Public punishments were once widespread, a common incentive for sucklings to behave after witnessing torture of disrespectful guards firsthand. In the past, prisoners were often brought in and forced through grueling trials to entertain the Watcher of Death, Gkinmara, and his mate, the late Kiande-Dekna. Now the past comes full circle, and his master’s words repeat in his head as Tarei watches N’ritja call upon each member of the clan to cut Akrei-non-Daga a new way.

The screams of pain remind him of those from his youth, but Tarei knows the man’s execution will not haunt him the same. Perhaps he is jaded, or a part of him views this as morally _correct,_ but he has damned Akrei-non-Daga in his mind for the actions he took on the _Pteros_ against his kin.

 _“Tarei’hsan!”_ The matriarch summons him.

He stops at her side in front of the mess. The prisoner is alive through the serum dumped into wounds whenever the man nears the final rest. Akrei-non-Daga’s incoherent noises go unheard of. When N’ritja hands him the knife, Tarei takes it. Akrei-non-Daga’s blood is warm; it brings a feeling of peace.

* * *

The execution of Akrei-non-Daga lasts eight days, five hours. His body is dismembered after and ejected into the darkest pits of space. Tarei doesn’t wave goodbye.

* * *

In the month that follows, many things change. The clan comes to life with celebrations around the nine Yautja who finally received justice. Their memories are shared in great feasts and spectacular displays of physical prowess, music, and dancing. Many Yautja trill sweet melodies and songs. A clan Elder shares stories from the past. Descendants of the deceased offer prayers and blessing across the clan for the momentous occasion. Though ka’Torag-Na lurks in the darkness, for a time it feels like everyone is showered in colorful lights and good moods.

For all but one, the very prisoner Tarei goes out of his way to monitor. With the festivities and joyous mood, there is not yet a say on what will happen to Bist’ri. His master makes a calm, collected case weeks later: citing the woman’s pregnancy, discussing her medical prowess, rearing the notion of _use_ in front of a packed court room. N’ritja does not give them an answer then, and the uncertainty returns.

Meanwhile, woman’s belly begins to grow. Slow, slight changes, but shifts all the same noted in hormones and tests run by the ka’Torag-na nurses and midwives. Tarei is not often there to see it, but he hears from others how the procedures go. Denial, one says. Shock, says another. Fear, which is said and smelled across the containment chambers long before he reaches the one containing Bist’ri.

 _“Does your master send you here?”_ Bist’ri asks him eventually; her clicks are soft and far from the sharp words she once spat in his face.

 _“M-di.”_ Tarei’s figure is veiled in his armor: a priceless set of the vantablack alloys crafted by ka’Torag-Na’s own smiths. It is beautiful to witness much less walk in, but the intimidating appearance does not affect the prisoner, not anymore. Tarei notes the fact with a cock of his head to the right. His golden eyes linger on the blue pelt visible through the woman’s thermal mesh suit.

 _“Stop it,”_ Bist’ri’s hiss is soft but venomous. _“Don’t look at me.”_

 _Ah._ Part of her defiance lives on after all.

 _“Who are you, Bist’ri?”_ Tarei approaches the humming containment field of her cell. His golden eyes narrow behind his bio-mask. _“Tell me.”_

 _“I cannot tell you anything you don’t already know.”_ She counters, but recoils when Tarei lifts his hands. Fear briefly flits through her body; the scent disgusts Tarei by this point. He does not want to provoke _that_ in his kin, not in her. Not when he has so much to unravel.

Slowly, the man lifts his hands to his bio-mask. The hoses hiss as they detach. The clasps loosen and the seals unlock, allowing Tarei’hsan to pull the mask off his head. The bio-mask’s nerve sensors sting as they tear out of the flesh of his forehead and crest. Soft beads of blood pools, but he heeds it no mind. His gaze is locked on the heat signature of his kin. He hears a soft intake of breath. He notes the tremble in her hands. He smells the wetness of tears welling up in her eyes.

It is Bist’ri’s turn to ask, _“Who are you?”_

Tarei’hsan looks to the side. He hesitates.

_“…’jo.”_

_“H’jo,”_ Bist’ri repeats, breathless. _Son._

* * *

He does not get a chance to release her from the cell. There is no opportunity, no way of talking his way to her freedom, not with how N’ritja breathes down his throat whenever he or his master are not in the court room. Months after the festive atmosphere dies and Akrei-non-Daga forgotten, all the ire and tension spills into the shadows. He and Dto-Bhu’ja are constantly interrogated, questioned, and wrung out in front of the clan matriarch and Elders. Tarei’hsan barely gets a word in outside recanting his activities in growing details. Every little detail is scrutinized, nit-picked, and torn apart. Even the most routine things—training, hunting, training, killing, training—are revisited and reviewed.

There is no explanation for _why_ suspicion falls on either. The _Halkreath_ of ka’Torag-Na has always been a loyal follower: devout, unwavering, faithful. Dto-Bhu’ja is the epitome of obedience, and Tarei’hsan intends to follow their footsteps. Spite of their devotion, the distrust does not stop. It grows like a cell riddled with cancer, growing into something toxic to the host system, to ka’Torag-Na.

* * *

He is running out of time. With each month slipping through the cracks, he knows his bearer is one step closer to birthing the pups at ka’Torag-Na. Tarei’hsan does not know what will happen to her, but he knows she already had one pup ripped away. It is a roll of di the two crossed paths _alive._

* * *

 _“I need to know what is going on. Master—”_ Tarei demands it of the older Yautja, of the hundreds of cycles Dto-Bhu’ja carries on their back. When he gets no response, Tarei’s patience snaps. He lurches forward and shoves his master’s shoulder, the defiance surging through him like a bolt of electricity. Dto-Bhu’ja stills, and Tarei realizes his mistake. His mandibles droop and he backs away, throws himself to his knees, and bows. _“Forgive—Forgive me, n’yaka-de! I have wronged you—I—I acted out of line—Did not show respect—I did not mean to challenge a sain’ja of your rank and skill! I will take any punishment you give me, n’yaka-de, even the final rest—”_

 _“Rise, Tarei.”_ Dto-Bhu’ja hisses, their one white eye locked on the younger Yautja’s figure. _“We must talk.”_

 _“—Talk?”_ Tarei’hsein lifts his head up. His gold eyes gleam in the light of the _kehrite._

* * *

A shadow does not exist without a light.

* * *

The two are running out of time.

* * *

He sees the changes manifest more when he visits his bearer. Tarei’hsan clicks once at the guards, taking advantage of the respect they extend to a shadow of the Shadow of ka’Torag-Na. The containment field is not lowered or broken, but a rare moment of privacy between kindred takes place. He approaches Bist’ri’s cell and peers at her from behind his bio-mask; the mask’s optics identify and process the data necessary to determine the rate of gestation.

 _“Twins,”_ he clicks once, neutrally, not yet willing to break down in front of the one who should have raised him.

He sees her face relax. She is still so _young_ , roughly two-four cycles older than _him_ , and Tarei has not hit his hundredth cycle. To think of her experiences at such an age horrifies him. Tarei has never been more certain killing Akrei-non-Daga than he is now, reflecting on what the man was and what he tried to do to her.

Bist’ri’s slow nod draws his attention from his thoughts. Her locs are short, no doubt cut at one point, but the thick strands of twisted green have begun growing out since her arrival. She has not wilted like other prisoners taken into custody at the clan, though the lack of proper nutrition reflects in decreased muscle mass.

 _“Who is the sirer?”_ Tarei leans against the corridor wall facing his bearer’s cell. He listens dutifully for any sounds in the nearby halls; he does not want to be caught chatting to a prisoner, not with the suspicion of the matriarch and Elders put on his head.

His bearer hesitates. He notes the sorrow in her eyes: a deep, vast, horrible thing. The man clicks, perplexed, but the woman shakes her head. _“—He—He doesn’t know. If he’s even… By the gods, if he is even alive—If he escaped—”_ Bist’ri holds herself tightly and clenches her inner jaw. _“I don’t know if he lives… yet even if he does—He does not know of these two. He doesn’t…”_

 _“Who is he?”_ Tarei asks again, gentler this time.

 _“He was—Is—The former Adjutant of the traitor… of Akrei-non-Daga. But he was never like—He is not—Has never been like Daga or his sirer,”_ Bist’ri exhales and sits down. Her eyes reflect exhaustion. Her hands absentmindedly shift back to her abdomen; the growing lump is much more prominent now than it was on arrival. _“He was… Is… Gahn’tha-cte-Guan.”_

 _“An intimidating name.”_ Tarei remarks. _“I will not pretend he lives… Bist’ri.”_

 _“I won’t either,”_ the woman looks up at him. She is tired, so tired. But beneath it all is a seed of _fire_ in the green orbs: a demand to live, a will to survive, a resilience Tarei knows all too well. Bist’ri averts her gaze after a moment. She rests her head against the wall of her cell, just _noks_ away from where the containment field begins. Her clicks are rougher than his, evidence of the two’s differing dialects despite sharing the same tongue. _“But I—I wish he did. I wish he did.”_

Tarei does not like her sorrow.

 _“Speak of something else now,”_ Tarei grunts, mind spinning with conflicted thoughts and juxtaposed ideas. _“Names. What do you intend to name them? There are two.”_

“Chirp— _I have not thought of a second name. Not yet,”_ Bist’ri answers.

_“The first name is a word in an ooman language.”_

_“—It is, sei-i. But,”_ Tarei notes the subtle changes in his bearer’s body language: a light glinting in her eyes, her mandibles relaxing, her form at ease. Bist’ri’s words are warmer than before; her tone reflects an undeniable affection. “Chirp _was—Someone very precious to Guan—Gahn’tha-cte-Guan. If he had lived—I—I wanted to surprise him—I thought it would mean something to him.”_

The conversation is cut short by a stampede of footsteps. Tarei pushes himself up and tenses. He considers activating his body armor’s _dha’kte,_ but there is no point. He is badly outnumbered, and—And—He freezes in place, in disbelief and shock at his own line of thinking.

He is not loyal to the matriarch.

* * *

The guards are not there for him. Though the Captain gives him a wide berth, the others regard him with respect and recognition: subtle bows of the head, a tense but knowing demeanor as to who he is. The news only throws him into disarray; Tarei’hsan pales when he realizes who they have come for. He begins to step forward, to grab a weapon concealed in a back holster of his armor, but the Shadow of ka’Torag-Na seizes him from the darkness and hisses in warning.

_“M-di.”_

_“I will not let them hurt her—”_ The man clicks softly, furiously, but Dto-Bhu’ja’s grip is firm.

 _“The matriarch demands our presence.”_ The Shadow warns.

He doesn’t get more than a glance at Bist’ri before his master forces him to walk. When Tarei looks back, he feels relief bubble in his throat: even if she glares daggers at him, the woman does not resist her captors—his clanmates.

* * *

 _“I am yours to command, matriarch._ ” Dto-Bhu’ja kneels in front of the queen’s throne.

She is a beautiful, intimidating figure. N’ritja-Zabin is eight feet of raw muscle and cruelty threaded through her claw tips. Tarei resists shuddering as he watches how her yellow-green eyes intricately flit over every inch of Dto’s form. The woman wants something of them, he is certain, and _what_ she wants makes him wary. Something is not right.

 _“Tell me the truth,”_ N’ritja croons, swooping out of her throne and kneeling at Dto’s side. The gesture shocks them; they exhale just sharply enough to hear. N’ritja cradles their head, stroking the crest of their bio-mask with purpose. _“Are you my shadow, Dto-Bhu’ja?”_

_“Until my final breath, I am yours to command, matriarch.”_

_“It pleases me to hear that. You wear one of ka’Torag-Na’s creations—Is that not a declaration of our trust in you?”_ N’ritja trills, delighted. _“You would not betray us.”_

 _Us._ The ka’Torag-Na clan.

How close Tarei had come to that line minutes before.

 _“I will kill any who opposes the leader of ka’Torag-Na.”_ Dto-Bhu’ja is surprisingly calm despite the queen’s picking gaze. She never once settles her eyes somewhere; she constantly examines them, peers at the armor, observes it as if they might soak thoughts through the void-like alloys.

 _“I have decided,”_ the woman rises to her feet. She clicks at one guard, who nods and hurries from the courtroom. _“—Your loyalties are fractured, Dto-Bhu’ja. Your duties as my shadow are not absolute. We must be unified against ka’Torag-Na’s enemies, or you cannot carry out your vows as our shadow.”_

His bearer is brought in surprisingly quiet. Bist’ri, who once struggled so valiantly against the restraints within the _Pteros,_ who Tarei has seen fight back to no end against an attempted assault, is now compliant and quiet. _Furious,_ but quiet. Perhaps she knows she is outnumbered and outmatched. Perhaps she accepts her fate.

Tarei is not the same as his bearer. He tenses visibly. N’ritja hisses a warning at him before her gaze returns to Dto. _“Order your apprentice to bring her the final rest.”_

* * *

The room slows. Time is not as it was in Tarei’s mind. He freezes in place, unable to process the words.

* * *

 _“I will kill her myself—”_ Dto-Bhu’ja begins, but the queen rears back and strikes them across the face. It is not an act of physical harm; it is degradation, a rejection of her approval in front of their peers. Tarei’s eyes widen in horror as he watches the shadow stiffen.

 _“You will make him kill her, or I will have the heads of all three of you,”_ N’ritja snarls and shoves the Yautja in Tarei’s direction.

* * *

Tarei doesn’t know what to do.

* * *

His master does.

* * *

 _“Tarei’hsan.”_ Dto-Bhu’ja clicks calmly, neutrally, everything hidden under a composure crafted by hundreds of cycles.

 _“N’yaka-de._ ” Tarei clicks, a whisper.

 _“Am I your master?”_ Dto-Bhu’ja cocks their head to one side. _“Will you do as I say? Will you trust my judgement?”_

Tarei cannot answer in words; he nods instead, bitterly acknowledging the sentiment of his past.

The Shadow of ka’Torag-Na puts a hand on Tarei’s shoulder. Sensors in the man’s suit indicates Dto-Bhu’ja squeezes it tightly, tighter than they shoulder. It is a message. The man’s eyes fill with understanding.

Dto-Bhu’ja releases Tarei. _“Farewell.”_

The man ducks as the Shadow spins on their heels, dual _sivk’va-tai_ unfurling and slinging great bolts of charged plasma. The court room explodes as protectors of the queen shield N’ritja away, with others tending to Elders and still others grabbing weapons and leaping into the fray of heat and singed metal. They possess similar suits, but none of them are Dto-Bhu’ja, and none of them know the dual forms taught in the clan; Tarei doesn’t have time to look or admire as his master dances between combistick spears and extended _dah’kte._

He storms forward, shoving and outright throwing others out of the way as he grabs his bearer and drags her away to a cry of, _“What are you doing?!”_

Plasma bolts fire and and N’ritja screams orders. Nothing she says matters. Nothing matters, nothing but getting his bearer off the clanship. Tarei knows where to take her; he picks her up when she is too exhausted to run further. Through the interlocked shadows and depths of the clanship, he runs, and he runs, and he runs with the sounds of a battlefield behind him. It is not a battle anyone could win, not in these conditions, not with these numbers. He knows his master is a dead figure walking, but all he can do is whisper a prayer to Cetanu as he runs, and runs, and runs.

The _Pteros_ has never looked so inviting. He is quick to unlock it and hurry his bearer inside, helping her to a seat and closing the doors behind the duo. The ship comes online immediately; it syncs effortlessly with his armor’s interface as the shadow of a shadow powers the engines and takes aim at the docking bay airlock.

 _“Hold on,”_ Tarei’hsein chirps at his passenger.

 _“But your companion—”_ Bist’ri shouts back, but Tarei heeds her no more attention. He ignores her cries of surprise when the _Pteros_ rises from the ground and breaks free of the clanship’s repair drones.

The ship’s plasma cannons charge. Tarei shuts his eyes. He does not admit to crying, not to others, not to himself, but the gods are his witness when he opens fire on the docking bay airlock. The plasma arcs from the cannons and burns through the metal. Alarms go off and the vacuum of space sucks out standing Yautja, drones, and equipment. The vacuum tries to suck in the ship, but the _Pteros_ holds steady under his grasp. He inputs a course for the furthest known destination in the ship’s navigator, then hisses when the ship leaps forward and speeds away.

* * *

He knows what his teacher’s fate is.

* * *

Both Yautja are starving when the planet comes into view. It is a golden paradise, a world of light lit by stars who surround it like one would cradle a pup. The atmosphere is bumpy, but the _Pteros_ shields hold against the heat. Tarei and Bist’ri stand in the cockpit as the ship flies automatically to a preset destination: a landing zone tucked away among forests of sky-high fungi and sweet marigold blossoms.

There is a house in the warmth of the world: a structure of old, with wood-like walls but a roof of glass gleaming under the light. A lone figure, an ooman with rich brown skin, stands hanging out laundry on a lengthy line. She has freckles of gold and an afro the same. Her belly is swole with a pup all her own, a fact she seems aware of as the ooman carries the world in her smile. Her eyes glow with light when she meets Tarei’s gaze through the cockpit window.

He does not know why, but dread fills his stomach. The _Pteros_ lands; as its ramp extends from door to ground the man stops, unable to step outside.

 _“Tarei?”_ Bist’ri calls him by the shortened version of his name. She stops, one foot already out on the ramp, and looks back at where his tired gold eyes slide shut.

 _“I need a moment.”_ Tarei clicks softly.

Many moments, because when he informs the ooman— _Vekin_ —of her spouse’s fate, FLUX falls to her knees and breaks down sobbing.


	84. epilogue: ivon yurvchik | vayuh'ta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for:  
> -drugs  
> -self harm  
> -depression and anxiety   
> -suicidal ideation  
> -mass death mentioned  
> -lots of violence all around  
> -talk of genocide / extermination / purging

When the alcohol leaves their system, the human snaps upright and clambers out of the bed. They look around wildly for the dark, imposing figure of their extraterrestrial lover. The silence of the building fills their ears. Though they will soon ruin it apart running up and down the levels of the newly constructed residence, no sign of the huntress’ presence remains. It is an infallible truth, something they cannot shy from or hide from anymore.

The figure they loved enough to give up the world for is gone, and she left them behind.

* * *

Ivon does not know where to find her.

* * *

_It is a month after the fall of Gahn’tha-cte. Ivon rests cozily in the crook of the huntress’ arm. Though her muscles make them look like a twig in comparison, the way the huntress makes them feel could not be farther from the truth. They are truly safe there, with her, enamored to no end by how strong and courageous she is. They are loved there, adored, to a degree not even the snarky Yautja can deny. If anything, their lover’s abundance of lust and sheer want for them—mind, body, soul—is a catalyst for the joyous, blissful feelings bubbling up inside the human’s chest._

_“Mm.” Ivon sighs wistfully, breathing in the woman’s scent and flushing deep red when she pulls them closer. The huntress is: communicating by her bio-mask, able to keep one arm wrapped securely around Ivon while the other taps commands into the wrist computer on her lap. Ivon watches and admires the nimble movements of their lover’s claws._

_Yet, at the sound of their delighted breath, Vayuh’ta stops. She pauses in her work. “You aren’t asleep.”_

_“Well—Yeah. Not yet.” The human smiles, soft and shy._

_It is true: though they are exhausted and the outside pitch black, they cannot fathom sleeping. Not when she is so utterly perfect, right there, content with them as they are with her. Ivon doesn’t want to lose a second of the peaceful atmosphere or relaxed mood. They lean into Vayuh’ta further and blush when she begins to rumble._

_“…I am…keeping you up.” The woman clicks eventually, her mandibles rubbing together at the tusk-protruding ends. “Why?”_

_“Wh—Why?” Ivon pauses. “I—I mean. I thought it was obvious?”_

_Vayuh’ta’s eyes are hidden by her bio-mask, but Ivon imagines her hairless brows furrowing._

_“I missed you,” the human explains._

_“Physical rehabilitation is essential for me to return to full strength. I… cannot best N’ritja-Zabin as I am right now—” The explanation is sound enough, and Ivon doesn’t expect a play-by-play on their lover’s whereabouts and actions. They understand she has her own agenda, goals, and plans. Spite of it all, a seed of worry tugs at their heart._

_They take Vayuh’ta’s free, gauntlet-less hand and entwine their soft fingers with her rough and calloused ones. Her scales are bumpy, and they must be careful to avoid cutting themself open on her sharp claws. The Yautja ceases clicking and chirping at them while they move. Ivon squeezes her hand and looks up at her bio-mask, unafraid of the massive, deadly huntress beneath. “I—I just—I want to be with you. A lot. I like it when you’re here. I don’t—I’m not trying to blame you—Or—Or—Or guilt you out of—Out of training—Nothing like that—”_

_Their explanation suffices. Vayuh’ta nods once, stiff but full of meaning Ivon picks up well. The huntress begins to purr for the scrawny human. Ivon exhales and slouches against her torso, their bare chest pressing against her armored-clad body. The Yautja lets go of their hand and returns to wrap around them, only this time it settles at the waistband of their trousers. They resist snorting when she begins rubbing alien shapes into their hip. Their bemusement quickly becomes soft, warm intakes of air when her hand drifts from the side of their hip to the front._

_“You said,” Vayuh’ta ceases purring to trill at the human. “You want to be with me?”_

_“Oh—Oh—Ah—Yes—Yeah, yeah,” Ivon squirms when the woman’s hand dips below their waistband. She is gentle with them, so unbearably gentle and careful not to cut them where they are most vulnerable. When her hands fall on the very tip of all that they need, the human releases a breathy moan. “—Vayuh’ta!”_

_It is neither the first nor last time they call her name that evening._

* * *

“She—left? _Escaped?_ ” Jo is in disbelief at the idea, a welcome from the usual gloom she embodies when working on walking again.

She has not taken well to losing a foot, but Ivon is grateful the woman lives. They sit next to her in the new medical laboratory and nitpick idly at the prosthetic in their hands. It is a foot, and it will one day be Jo’s foot, but right now it does not fit correctly and not even Ash or Night Sky can measure Jo’s stump the way the prosthetic needs.

 _“Sei-i.”_ Across the two, Ash sits cross-legged on the ground. They wear an unusual set of black robes today, though Ivon knows from experience it is a standard medical personnel uniform. There is no dark or devious motive, only the recognition of Ash’s place as nurse in the remnants of Clan Ruthless. When Ivon looks over, they note Ash fiddles idly with one long ashen-white loc. Before Ivon can ask, Ash bursts out in a series of clicks. _“But—That ain’t all. She took one of the ships. The Achyura. It was the second-biggest spacecraft here after the Kukulkan. Belonged to Elite Hal’rauta.”_

“He wants it back?” Jo puts two-and-two together. “So. Anyone gonna go after her? Get the ship? Bring her home?”

Ivon’s chest tightens. They clench their hands into fists, an act visible to the two individuals nearby. Jo eyes them with concern while Ash clicks apologetically. Ivon shakes their head. Their messy blond hair is askew in more ways than one. It provides a slight wall when it falls over their face and hides their damp eyes. They struggle not to cry as they repeat what Mercy told them that morning, “—She is—She is a _Bad Blood._ Jo. If anyone goes after her—Either—It is to join her, or—”

“To kill her?” Jo whispers in disbelief, brown eyes wide. “Mercy’s really gonna allow that? Ash—Tell me this’n’t true—”

 _“It’s true.”_ Ash bows their head. Their mandibles pull taut over their inner jaw.

“Oh. Fuck that. Fuck this. Fuck. Damn. Wow. I—I’m sorry, Ivon.” Jo puts a hand on their shoulder.

At one point in the past, Ivon might have blushed or become flustered by the contact. Now they sit there, silent, while thoughts about what might happen to the Yautja spiral in their head. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know how to find her. They doubt they could get off the planet on their own, much less track down a Bad Blood who is adept at staying under the radar.

Their hands slip and they jam a wire into their hand. Ivon flinches and rips it out, staring at the bead of crude red blood pooling on their skin. Ash rises to fetch serum while Ivon shuts their eyes.

“I thought—We—We would be happy here.” They whisper softly, only for Jo’s ears.

* * *

The pain comes in waves.

* * *

_Outrage does not begin to describe the emotions bubbling up inside Ivon’s body when they first hear of what Clan Brave intends to do with their lover. The human is ready to march on the clan leader and challenge her themself if not for Jo and Mercy holding them back while they kick and scream at both to let them go._

_“Ivon—Ivon! You can’t—” Jo shouts at the struggling person._

_“Why are they turning her into a prisoner?! What did she do against them??” Ivon hisses. “It’s because—Because—It’s because of her—They—We—Us—We got off your clan’s ship!”_

_“It is… not what she did to them. It is what she did to Yautja as a whole, at least in the eyes of the clans,” Mercy’s clicks are solemn. “The leader of ka’Torag-Na has branded her an ic’jit. Our opinion in the face of thousands of Yautja are irrelevant.”_

_“But—”_

_“Ivon.” It is the first time they remember hearing Mercy say their name, the vowels clearly grating to the man’s natural vocal cords. “My pa-e will not sentence her to the final rest. Not yet.”_

_Their gut twists uncomfortably. Ivon’s brown eyes flit away from the departing Yautja. They lean into their friends grasps, allowing Jo to hug them tightly when Mercy lets go. They try not to cry but trying is not enough to keep the tears from building up. The absence of their old medication wears on their mind steadily, but Ivon does not let it show—not until the night calls them, and they wake up alone in a bed with cold sweat on their body and fear in their lungs._

* * *

It is their first time requesting a meeting with the clan leader _alone_. Night Sky is known for being considerate but firm, but their anxiety has never been higher. They sit in the central chamber of the clan’s tiny meeting hall, a humble structure used for _ka’rik’na_ and welcoming ambassadors. To their left is a monstrous sliding door no less than ten feet tall. It gleams with Yautja inscriptions and sigils, all which Ivon understands despite knowing it goes against any logical explanation. While a handful of guards are posted in and outside the building, none heed them more than a passing click or grunt. Most ignore them outright, a begrudging acceptance of their place in the clan spite of the species difference.

 _“Human. Leader Sky will see you now.”_ One of the guards at the sliding door tips a spear in their direction. They take the hint and haul ass rising to their feet and scurrying forward. The guard reaches out for them as they pass and snaps them back with an iron grip on their arm. _“Foolish soft meat!”_

Ivon flinches, fear subsiding only when they realize what the guard has done. Their gaze falls forward and they balk at a large energy field pulsing through the lift beyond the open door. The guard at their side clicks and cusses incessantly in alien expletives. Ivon’s face flushes bright red. They feel their stomach do flips. Briefly, Ivon considers turning tail and fleeing, but their resolution holds. They stand in their embarrassment and wait for the energy field to dissipate before uttering a soft _thank you_ to the guard and hurrying on.

The lift activates automatically. It lowers and gradually comes to a halt one level into the ground. The air feels warm and constricting, but Ivon carries on. They walk off the lift and pass another two doors, both which slide into the wall like their predecessor, before they reach the well-lit room of the clan leader. Though Ivon remembers her from their time on the clanship, she is no less intimidating here than she was then: eight foot _something_ of deep, dark muscles. Her pelt is unspeakably beautiful; her hide is a myriad of ivory specks mingling with the darker black hues. Scars dot the woman’s body. Though she wears modest armor, enough is left exposed for Ivon to feel uncomfortable staring.

They avert their gaze and wait for the clan leader to call them forward. Night Sky clicks shortly after, prompting them to walk into the center of the underground court room and fall to their knees. Ivon bows and throws their face to the ground. The metal floor is not freezing but surprisingly warm and pleasant to the touch.

 _“Rise, Ivon. You are not a Yautja; your imitation of our customs may be interpreted as flattery at best and insults at worst.”_ Night Sky clicks the words, everything translated automatically by the soft hum in Ivon’s head, courtesy of the neurotranslator Night Sky once implanted.

They sit up immediately, eyes wide and nervous. “I—I’m sorry—I—I may have—I didn’t mean to—to—”

 _“I won’t judge you for what you don’t know. Not yet,”_ Night Sky faces them. She lacks a bio-mask; her icy-blue eyes are honest and true. Ivon notes her two lower mandibles have a strange crooked angle to their tusks, as if something did not heal right in the past. Her locs are a feasible length, brown and adorned in precious alien metals shaped into beads and clasps. A beautiful necklace sits around Night Sky’s neck; the material is luminescent and shimmery in the light. Ivon swallows as they meet her line of sight and hold it. Night Sky walks to them and grunts. _“—I expected you in the company of my pup. My son. Or perhaps—His brother.”_

“Y—Yeah. Me too.” Ivon bows their head and bites their lip.

They are out of place here: approaching a clan leader as if they could ever understand how Yautja politics work. As if _they_ hold any sway over Vayuh’ta’s fate.

To their bewilderment, Night Sky sits across from them. The woman folds her legs beneath her lap and cocks her head to one side. _“Tell me what you are here for, Ivon. Does it involve you? Jo? My pup? Perhaps his brother? Or—”_ The pause inspires dread. _“—Are you here to talk about the Bad Blood who left us? Who escaped and took a spacecraft with her?”_

“Well—I—” The human backs up, sweat dripping down their forehead. “I—I—I mean—”

 _“Then it is about her. The Bad Blood of those who lurk in the darkness.”_ Night Sky remarks, shaking her head.

“I—M—Maybe? A little?” Their voice could not be higher pitched if they tried. “I—I just—I thought—”

“You are a strange human, Ivon. I can smell the fear inside you. Does my presence terrify you?” The clan leader pauses, mandibles twitching. “It should. My species is deadly. I am deadly. You will… You must be careful how you conduct yourself here. How you conduct yourself around others of my kind. Any slip and they will see you for what you are.”

“What I am?” They blurt out the words, surprise stifling the fear and mixing into their confusion. Their brows rise. “W—What? Are you—You talking—About—The symbols? Me—Reading them—”

Night Sky tenses. Her eyes fill with a _something_ Ivon doesn’t understand. They stare at her until it is her turn to look away. When she does, the huntress hisses softly. “I forgot your… quirks. Wait.”

Night Sky rises to her feet and walks away, steps silent long after she departs. Ivon is left in the chamber for a long time in her absence. They sit, baffled, perplexed, and nervous, as the woman does not reappear. Though their eyes flit to and from the lift, as well as to the side corridors branching off the underground court room, Night Sky does not return and Ivon does not move. Their heart rate begins to spike when they realize they are the only one they can hear breathing. The anxiety washes over them and fills their head. Their hands shake.

 _I wish you were here. I’m not brave. Not brave. I’m not brave. I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m worried._ Ivon thinks, clenching their eyes shut. Not having medicine _and_ not having Vayuh’ta present is salt in a festering wound. It stings. They wipe the tears from their eyes and exhale shakily.

 _“You brought me out for this? For this human?”_ The voice is much, _much_ older, and stems from a massive, tall Yautja with a pelt of pure obsidian. Ivon snaps their head up and ogles the beautiful woman before them: a one-armed huntress without a shirt, whose bare chest reflects the epitome of Athena-like muscles. Simple attire robes the woman in a heavy kilt-like skirt stitched with gold and silver hued strings. Dangling, vibrant beads meet in alien geometry and vivid shapes on the dark brown fabrics.

 _“You should be grateful I thought of you outside the evening.”_ is Night Sky’s response, curt and polite but painfully so. Night Sky leads the older Yautja down the steps from one of the side passageways and across the hall to Ivon. Ivon begins to stand but a quick click from the clan leader prompts them to sit back down.

They sit.

 _“Who is this one?”_ the Yautja with the darkest hide asks. It doesn’t pass Ivon the woman has a sword sheathed to her back, the strap clinging to the Elder’s flat chest.

 _“Ivon.”_ Night Sky states the name with slight difficulty. _“I mentioned them to you before—When you gained consciousness on the Kukulkan.”_

 _“Before or after your… kind lecture?”_ The second Yautja’s words are crisp and cold, but Night Sky is not bothered.

If anything—the way the two sit side-by-side, legs bumping against one another and arms constantly touching, hint at the very opposite. Night Sky clicks at Ivon and nods once. _“Ivon. This is The Dark Night Is No More. She is… many things, but she was once Elder to the clan of those who are ruthless. You will show her respect, or I will have your tongue.”_

The Dark Night is No More growls at the notion. _“Do not speak for me. I do not demand the same formalities I once did. An Yautja who lost her honor is not the same as one holding a rank like yours, Night Sky.”_

“Nice—Nice to meet you?” The human wants to curl up into a ball when both Yautja look at them and stare. The fear radiates off them in droves. “I—I—I’m Ivon—”

 _“Why are you here?”_ Night Sky clicks quietly at the human. “Ivon… Yurvchik. To talk about Maelstrom, correct? The Bad Blood who bedded you—”

“Not—Not just that, I—I—” The human squirms in place, heat pooling in their groin. “I meant—To ask—If—If you—Could—Maybe—Help me with—Medicine?”

* * *

_The night after she wakes up for the first time since leaving the clanship, Vayuh’ta does not leave Ivon’s side. For once there is nothing sexual about her touches and clinging grip. Her hands do not wander, though Ivon would welcome them if they began to. Ivon feels surprise at how intimately Vayuh’ta holds them, how careful she is to clutch them without breaking or bruising their skin, how deep and rumbling her affectionate purrs are for the human. Ivon feels perplexed, almost worried._

_“Is—Are you alright?” Ivon inquires the second night, when their huntress is once again spooning them in the bed and purring with such volume they might melt into warm fuzzy feelings on the spot. The human feels the Yautja rub their back gingerly. “V—Vayuh’ta?”_

_“I was foolish.” She clicks softly, painfully, in a way that is surprising and vulnerable and everything Ivon does not expect of her. They struggle to turn over and face the Yautja while she continues holding them and clicking into their ear. “—There have been times—On this journey—I have… come close to losing you.”_

_“Oh.” Ivon blinks, uncertain how to respond._

_Vayuh’ta clutches them to her chest. Her mammalian glands squish against their own chest, but they know this is not a provocative gesture. Even so, Ivon struggles not to focus on the rising heat in their cheeks and the growing bump in their sweatpants._

_“I don’t want to lose you,” Vayuh’ta rumbles again, leaning down until her forehead rubs into their own._

_Ivon exhales sharply. “You won’t.”_

_“I will.” Her grip falters. The woman’s orange eyes open just for a second, locking unto their face and taking their breath away. Ivon sits up and Vayuh’ta follows. The woman’s height has her looking down at them, like the beauty of the night embodied in power and prowess. Ivon bites their lip. They blush as Vayuh’ta lifts a hand and cups their cheek. “Things are not—Things are complicated. Ivon.”_

_“You mean—With—With your old clan?” The human frowns._

_They feel their heart jump in their throat when Vayuh’ta strokes their bottom lip with one talon. Their lover is so gentle and careful not to cut them, but she is equally demanding and intoxicating to take in. Ivon can’t help but moan, breathless and a sucker for everything Vayuh’ta does to them. The woman’s mandibles click together in soft laughter, satisfied, pleased, many, many things with them, but her good mood wanes and she becomes serious and solemn once more, much to Ivon’s chagrin._

_“You are… I want to protect you. Ivon,” the Bad Blood’s throat rumbles and reverberates into their body. Ivon wraps arms around the woman’s chest. Vayuh’ta hisses. “Ivon—”_

_“Take me with you,” Ivon whispers, eyes sliding shut. “Wherever you go.”_

* * *

The medicine is an easy matter. There are ingredients one can crush up, boil, strain, and serve in a tea-like form. While not be an exact replica, Night Sky informs them it should work just as well for their anxiety.

If only the other two subjects were that simple to discuss.

* * *

By the end of the evening, Ivon’s world is broken in new ways. They retreat to the little residence Vayuh’ta helped build for them. They sink into the bed Vayuh’ta once rested on. They curl into the fur blankets and breathe in her scent. Once, they remember, she laid with them and spent a day telling stories of her adolescence. Tales which didn’t quite make sense yet still mattered to Ivon because the stories came from _her_. Once feels like an eternity ago. Ivon sobs into the furs and grips it in weak fistfuls.

* * *

They can’t stay here. It’s not safe for creatures like **them.**

* * *

 _Why did you leave me behind?_ The hybrid screams at no one and nothing where they sit on the shores of the alien planet. It does not feel like a home anymore. Nowhere feels like home. Not even Earth, if they were somehow capable of returning to it, could be _home,_ because now they know the truth. It is not sheer luck behind their cognitive ability to discern and read the Yautja scripts. It is not _coincidence_ they landed a high paying job in the throes of a company like Stargazer. It is not coincidence they were willing to take up arms and blast a hard meat– _kiande amedha—_ with a Plasmacaster. _Sivk’va-tai._

They draw their knees to their chest. Their blond hair is a mess, long and tangled, falling to their shoulders after growing out for months. They don’t know if their hair color was originally this way, or if that’s something else the world added to them pre-birth. For all they know, maybe their eye colors were originally blue or green or gray. Maybe they had a natural birthmark edited out in the last trimester. Maybe they didn’t even come from the human they regard as their biological mother. It could all be a ruse; their life could have been determined from the start.

It doesn’t matter. They can’t do shit about it, and it isn’t like they can go back home. They can’t. They know if they do some shadowy government organization will rip them from the land and pull them into the very laboratories they once built and maintained. The thought of being dissected nauseates them, both in terror and the pain to result. They don’t enjoy thinking about other ways the human governments might try to study them. It’s too much. They draw their legs in tighter, make themself more compact, and shudder against a passing breeze.

It isn’t a breeze. The other human’s panting makes itself clear in their ears. Ivon stiffens as the muscular figure drops next to them. Jo sits with her legs crossed, all too mindful of the stump where her foot once was. She isn’t wearing the prosthetic they made her today. Her long locs are twisted in a style identical to Mercy, but those dreads are wrapped together in a low ponytail at the base of her neck.

“You really,” Jo groans and shifts how she sits, her long tan dress flapping and shuddering from the wind whistling over waves. “You walked this out far—Without—Tellin’ no one? Really?”

“Sorry,” Ivon mumbles, gaze lost on the waves.

“You and Mercy both—Sometimes, I swear, ya’ll do what you do without thinking ‘bout how it affects others.”

 _How it affects me._ Jo really says.

“Well, spit it out. Why you run to this lonely neck of the beach?” The woman tilts her head to one side. Her light brown eyes gleam a faint gold in the lingering daylight. “You—You really aren’t an outside person, Ivon. No offense.”

“Am I an outside person? Am _I?_ ” The hybrid grits their teeth, unable to hold in the pain bubbling in their chest. “I don’t—I—I don’t know—What—I am—Really. Jo. Jo—”

They don’t want to cry in front of her. They don’t get what they want.

Jo is stunned into silence when they begin to sob great, big, ugly tears. She hesitates before reaching out to them, touching their shoulder, but they recoil like she is death itself. The woman stills, eyes widening.

“—Ivon?”

“Don’t—Please—Please, please, Jo, I—I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” the hybrid mumbles over and over, lost in the mash of syllables and panic flooding their veins. They don’t know how to handle any of this, not with themself, not with Jo, not with the _clan_ , no one, nothing, nada—They don’t _know._ They feel useless and weak and vulnerable. They cry. They wail. They feel lonely. When Jo tries to reach out to them again, they scurry backward, shrieking and sobbing incoherent protests. Their mind swarms.

Jo looks alarmed now. Worried. She’s one of the kindest people they know. Kind and tough and _human_ and they are _so scared_ of how she’ll react. They can’t handle her rejecting them. They can’t handle what the clan will do once word spreads. The two older Yautja already told them how _other_ clans will react to the news.

“Ivon, Ivon, please calm down, please,” the woman begins, holding her hands up and rising to her feet. “I need to know—I need to know what’s going on—Please—”

“I can’t tell you!” They choke on their words.

The pain in Jo’s eyes, the betrayal in her expression, in how her mouth hangs ajar and her brows rise and a blank stare comes upon her, it all… It… It is their fault. They hurt her. They did this. They aren’t safe and they aren’t safe to others. They fucked it up. They fucked it all up by existing.

“Ivon.” Jo says, and this time her words are _firm._ Commanding. “I don’t know what’s happening, but you need to breathe. Come with me. We’ll find Mercy or Ash or Ruthless—We’ll find someone to look at you—”

The panic explodes out of the hybrid as her words sink in. Ivon shrieks and dives away, narrowly avoiding Jo when she tries to grab them. The hybrid hears her slew of cursing, but adrenaline fuels their thoughts; they break into a _run_ and bolt for the wilds. When the planet is not coastal shores and temperate weather, it becomes a lush rainforest with humidity and insects abuzz everywhere. It becomes untraceable for a lone human. It becomes a place to hide.

They hide from the settlement for the first time that day, but it is not the last.

* * *

_“The clans are aware of human… fascination with our kind. You are… inferior prey, and inferior prey seeks to rise in power, to level the field between the different species,” The Dark Night Is No More explains meticulously, each growl and chirrup far from the sweet, smooth, melodic notes of their imprisoned lover._

_“They are not inferior if they possess traits of our kind. They are…” Night Sky hesitates to use the word._

_Ivon’s eyes stare blankly at the two women. They do not need to hear the term to know which one it is._

_Plain as day it comes to them: ui’stbe._

_Abomination._

* * *

Hybrids of Yautja and other races are to be purged from the stars.

Exterminated.

That is their fate in this universe.

It is only a matter of time before destiny catches up with them.

* * *

It is something like _kind_ that the others care. They care because they know Ivon, they believe they know Ivon, they carry an image of a façade and falsehood of what and who Ivon is. It is the only reason, and Ivon cannot trust anything else. Not with the lack of medicine, not with the way their brain falls apart and spirals into paranoia and anxiety. Not with how the clan already gives them looks for not being _a pure Yautja._

They decide, under a guise of recovery, under the slow approval of others who only know what they are not, a way to leave the planet. Invent something capable of piloting one of the ships. If that doesn’t work—Kidnap a Yautja, _make them_ pilot the ship.

It will work. They repeat the words in their head in the long hours of an insomniac night, seven hours of darkness opposed to _Terra_ ’s wildly varying nights. Nothing like Brazil! Or Argentina! Or Tucson, Arizona, where _one-three-zero-zero-zero-zero people died they died all of them the city is gone the city is dead why aren’t they dead._

They must leave everything behind. Perhaps, in doing so, Ivon can meet the end of their life with honor in their eyes and the knowledge they did all they could for the ones they love.

* * *

It fails the first time. The program doesn’t work. Mercy’s twin brother catches them on the ship, hauls them out, interrogates them in a manner too detached to be normal— _even for a Yautja._ They break apart. They lose trust. It is not the end.

* * *

They try again months later.

Word gets out this time. Ash— _no, Leitjin_ —discovers it when questioning them on oddities of their cell samples and rate of recovery.

They refuse to talk to anyone. They turn Jo and di-Sl'va-chak away. They tell Leitjin to _pauk off._

* * *

They fail the next four times.

* * *

Clan _Yeyin_ is not forgiving.

 _Good._ Let them rot. It is what all hybrids deserve: are they not _ui’stbe_ , abomination, an entity to be removed and wiped from existence? The clan _should_ treat them with contempt, with scorn, with discord. The clan must. The clan _will_ , or they will make Clan Yeyin do so by force.

* * *

They injure two guards in surprise attacks trying to get off the planet.

There is no kindness now. No hesitation when di-Sl’va-chak’s brother drags their bound form and throws it at the feet of Guan-Tjau’ke. The clan leader’s icy-blue eyes are covered in a mask, but they imagine she leers at them.

 _“You almost killed one of our own,”_ Guan-Tjau’ke clicks lowly, painfully. She flicks a hand and Gahn’tha-cte-Guan bows his head and leaves the underground court room. Tjau’ke crosses to Ivon’s figure, laid out on the ground and hogtied like meat. She puts a foot on their shoulder. _“His name is Hal’rauta. He is mated to the Elite Z’skuy’thwei. Do you understand his name?”_

“It doesn’t matter—” Ivon hisses as the clan leader crushes their arm.

Guan-Tjau’ke smells of anger. Outrage. Disbelief.

_“S’yuit-de! You injured the mate of one of our most temperamental warriors! Expecting to go quietly into the night—S’yuit-de, s’yuit-de! He wants your head! By the gods, he will hunt you down in a heartbeat should he see your face, should any of them see you!”_

Ivon feels tears slide down their cheeks. They cannot stop the sob. “I know—I _know that!”_

 _“Then why? Why would you try again?”_ The clan leader wrenches Ivon up by the neck and wraps claws tight around their throat. She is holding back, they realize. She is contemplating executing them on the spot for their dishonor.

She should.

 _Please._ Ivon whispers in their head.

But the clan leader doesn’t.

They clench their eyes shut. “I—I am—Abomination. _Ui’stbe.”_

The clan leader pauses. They will never know it, but the woman sees something in them, something pitiful and broken, something ripped apart and haphazardly clinging together like the frayed threads of a rope off a cliff. They do not know it, but she looks down at them and sees Gahn’tha-cte-Guan in their place.

They will never know the reasoning for her decisions.

They lay there in their grime and sweat and mucus, with tear streaks on their face, with choked sobs in their throat as they whisper. “I—I know—The—Punishment. I know.”

 _“S’yuit-de. All of you.”_ The woman snarls and rips open the restraints.

Ivon doesn’t move. They look up at her, numb inside and out. Terrified of everything, of the world.

 _“Adjutant!”_ The clan leader _roars_ the title, loud enough to rattle things not tied down. A moment later the door to the courtroom slides open and Guan bows his head as he crosses over to the two’s side. Tjau’ke’s locs shudder and her eyes flare angrily as she snaps. _“—You are being given an order by Guan-Tjau’ke. Not the leader of your clan. Guan-Tjau’ke. Understand?”_

Guan hesitates. Ivon sees the cracks in his composure; he is not a lose cause. Tjau’ke is right to have hope for him.

 _“What is it?”_ The man clicks, tone shuddering.

 _“Take this ui’stbe to the ships. Tell no one, let no one see you. Put in coordinates for the Andromeda System, planet 1406b.”_ When Guan doesn’t move, Guan-Tjau’ke hisses. _“It is a one-way trip.”_

 _“Should the… ship be traceable?”_ The Adjutant inquires softly.

 _“Sei-I, sei-i. It will be a place for them to hide, but without drawing attention to…”_ Guan-Tjau’ke growls and shakes her head. She turns away. _“Do it now. Before I decide they have wronged us enough to warrant the final rest.”_

* * *

The Adjutant of Clan Yeyin does not say much as he guides their shaking, scrawny figure through the landing pads and hangars. The craft chosen is tiny, but Ivon figures they deserve as much. They do not fight back when Gahn’tha-cte-Guan opens the door and clicks at them to enter, nor when the man straps them into their seat and syncs his wrist computer to the ships interface.

 _“You have a wish for the final rest.”_ The Adjutant says when he is done, disapproving. Another crack.

 _“I am—ui’stbe. I deserve it.”_ Ivon clicks softly.

 _“Some of us deserve things. It does not mean we get them, or we should give up and allow ourselves to break. Sain’ja fight to the end, with honor.”_ Guan hisses, hands tightening to fists.

“Is that what the nurse thought? Before that clan took her—” Ivon yowls at the sting on their cheek. Their eyes well with tears, but they press on. “She’s—She’s dead with them!”

Guan’s mask hides his eyes, but his hate _burns._

It’s imperative the man hates them. They don’t want him to regret this, to break Guan-Tjau’ke’s orders, to let on to his brother or to Joan just how fucked up things are, just how messed up _they_ are to do all this. They know very little about the relationship the Adjutant once held for the pale blue nurse, but they know enough to recognize a sore spot. They would press it again, provoke him to smash their head in until they bleed bright green, but the spacecraft’s engines begin to rumble and power on.

“Don’t—” Ivon begins when the Adjutant climbs out of the cockpit and grabs the door. “Don’t—Tell them.”

They hear a long slew of expletives before the door slams shut.

* * *

The _City of Stars_ can be broken into districts. Inner aristocrats thrive while a world of shadows and criminals play out in the outskirts and underworld. Killers for hire with voices of sweet songbirds roam the back alleys. They are not fortunate. They are immediately recognized as _out of place,_ with nothing to their name and no understanding of the culture or languages. The Yautja language is but one of many, and there are many, _many_ languages to run into.

It comes as no surprise they wind up begging for money, for food, all to individuals who do not understand them, to alien life which ogles their strangeness. They are the extraterrestrial here, and they are often given no more than a passing glance. On bad days and nights, they catch the eye of others not unlike them: of alien entities who throw others beneath them to make it out of the torturous poverty threatening the outer districts. They are mugged. They are beaten. They lose the thermal mesh suit on their back the second others realize no Yautja is coming to back them up. It is only through the good will of a passing individual, one with rich obsidian skin and ruby red eyes, that they get another set of clothes to wear.

* * *

They do not know how long things last like that, how long they hunger, how long they resist the urge to hunt and fill their belly.

The ache is unbearable.

* * *

For a long time, longer than the longest winter, longer than they remember ever living, they are alone.

They are hungry. They are weak. They are _ui’stbe._

When another of the desolate, of the abandoned, the scrutinized, and the forgotten offer them a flask with a long spout, they drink. It is not alcohol. It is a _thrill._

* * *

If not for the fact they are poor and useless and _hungry_ , they know they would succumb to the addictive properties of the drugs riddling the outer districts. _City of Stars,_ the name rings in their head. _Planet 1402b,_ they recall. _Yeyin._

_Ui’stbe._

_Vayuh’ta._

Names and words and _things_ occupy their thoughts.

* * *

They are picked up by a group of entities they can only describe as filament-like wisps worshipped in gauze and eyes and tongues and _teeth._ They struggle, they fight back, but between their emaciated figure and the ills of the world on their back, they are useless. They cannot fight their kidnappers off. The Watchers pluck them and enshroud them in a freezing cold grasp. It locks their body in place, their bones in their sockets, and their mind in a haze of sorrow as they are taken away.

Far, far away.

Far into the inner city walls.

Far into the metropolitan strip malls and looming enterprises.

Far into a world of luxuries and riches and _food_.

Far into an alien landscape, with alien architecture, with alien people and aliens and aliens and aliens and aliens and aliens and

And

A room without windows.

Without windows. Three walls. A cage. A cage. They are put into a cage. Control of their body returns to them after, but they can no more than lift their head before the world is plunged into darkness. They make out a faint red hue flickering off the metal insides of a room which makes no sense to _their_ mind. They know it is the sliver of a Yautja’s natural thermal gaze, of the attributes forcibly inputted and fused into their DNA, into their hapless embryo over thirty years prior, but the knowledge does nothing.

They do nothing.

They wait.

They wait.

They wait.

* * *

Cheers erupt and light explodes around them. The arena floor greets them as they topple out of their cage and unto the ground. Dust kicks up. They moan weakly and try to rise, but their arms give out. For a time, they lay there, an imitation of a dead body, until the crowd rises in a wave of booing and an announcer screeches unknown tongues across the arena. Ivon does not know the words, but something tells them they must rise, they must, they _must,_ or this is the end.

They climb to their feet. Their eyes adjust to the light and they look around at the spectators. Many of the are dressed lavishly, like the most lucrative sci-fi gala straight out of a film or novel. They long for simpler times where they could go watch a film or read a book. They long, but longing does nothing; they stare blankly at the world rooting once again. White sand-like material dots the ground. The rounded, alien coliseum is fenced by warping metal rods. Ivon hears humming come from one.

Their head hurts. The humming in their head rejects the humming of the rods.

The announcer says something else and the cheering spikes in intensity. Holograms project a display of themself. They hear a word— _ui’stbe._ More cheering. Then another— _ic’jit_.

A Bad Blood. This is a Roman Coliseum wrapped in cosmic horror. They are going to fight an actual Yautja, a _real_ Bad Blood. They are going to die. Ivon’s eyes shut and they miss the image projected across the field of their competitor. They try not to think too much about the way the announcer goes on and on, surely talking about their disgusting odds, or discussing the Bad Blood in question, as the word _ic’jit_ continus to be thrown around.

They hear a grand gate being pulled open. The teeth of the arena slide into the ceiling, but no footsteps come. Ivon opens their eyes and trembles where they stand. They know a Yautja makes no sounds. This _ic’jit_ is trained. Hopefully it means their death will be swift.

* * *

How _wrong_ they are to think that. How foolish. _S’yuit-de._

When they turn around, it is not the metal mask of a dishonorable warrior who meets their gaze.

* * *

 _Jupiter eyes,_ they once said.

* * *

Ivon’s body goes numb and they still as Vayuh’ta strides out of the spotlight, roaring for the crowd around her. Their entire body shakes. They can’t stop it. They can’t stop themself from crying. Some of the spectators laugh but others ring out loud noises of disapproval. That is when their former lover stops and turns around to face them. Her sword is not her own, but it is deadly in nature, and it makes a disgusting sound as she pulls it out of its sheath.

She pauses. She looks at them. They can’t tell what goes through her mind, not anymore. She is so much _different_ now. They see long locs grown out, new scars beneath a mockery of armor, and the natural hue of the woman’s pelt a pure obsidian, tinted only faintly _blue_ near her abdomen, her neck, and her chest.

_But those orange eyes._

The announcer calls for the battle to start because the ground rumbles and cheers increase. Strange pools of colored _substance_ manifest on the two different sides of the arena. It registers to Ivon what this is: a betting ring, a fight to the death. How ironic to pit two ex-lovers against the other. How cruel to come to this moment.

But inside them is a hope. A spark. A desperation for the woman to recognize them, their scent, their touch, _something_. A naïve idea to believe there is an out to the grave they dug for themself. It is so intoxicating that for a moment they are lost in visions of grandeur: of a life where they are not _ui’stbe_ , where she is not _ic’jit,_ and where the two can be safe and alive together without the world pitted against them.

Then their breath hitches, their chest shudders, and a deep pain spears their torso. Ivon tries to speak but they still at the stain of murky red on their grimy clothes.

They can feel the suffocation close in on them as Vayuh’ta pushes the sword in to the guard. It pokes out the other side of Ivon’s torso. Their lung fills with blood, invoking a panic they can’t quite place as exhaustion suddenly calls and their consciousness struggles. Their hand reaches and lands where Vayuh’ta’s gauntlets wrap tightly around the handle of her blade.

 _Found you._ Ivon thinks, before their knees give out and they collapse against her chest.

The last thing they see is fading orange: a flame burnt to exhaustion, a ember flickering out.


	85. epilogue: the ic'jit | the ui'stbe (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a terrible person for the way the last chapter ended  
> this is my apology letter

It has been seven cycles since the fall of _Gahn’tha-cte._ Six cycles since Clan Yeyin’s leader offered her a one-way ticket off the planet. Five cycles since she realized she is not capable of taking down a clan on her own.

Four cycles since entering the underground world and raking up riches.

Three cycles since she stopped thinking of them.

Two cycles since she stopped worrying about them.

One cycle since the last nightmare of their skull at her feet.

Letting go of someone should be easy, especially when it is the logical choice. The woman is not one who leans into deduction all the time; she can navigate her emotions with _some_ restraint. It should be easy to turn away and drown the memories in her resolution to rip the mantis of ka’Torag-Na apart, both for _her_ honor and the honor she knows has since departed from the universe’s mortal realm. Her final skirmish with Dto-Bhu’ja solidified the implications of their words: they made too many mistakes in her, in FLUX, in how they handled their apprentice and the matriarch’s orders. She will never know the extent, but she knows they hunt with Cetanu.

But they are not the one who splits her resolve in two. They are not the one who fractures her determination and leaves her world spinning and turned upside down. Dto-Bhu’ja’s passing is something she will seek vengeance for, but Vayuh’ta’s mind could not be further from her goals, from ka’Torag-Na, from _justice_ than it is right now.

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

Ivon is not supposed to be here.

_Ivon is not supposed to be here._

* * *

Something is off about them. Not only their heat signature—malnourished, on the verge of organ failure, _so close to the final rest_ —but their stillness. Their beaten and battered form. Their… expression is broken and fearful and shocked and relieved and so, _so_ empty.

* * *

This is an arena with rules. She’s won too many times to not remember the way its producers warned her to _behave._ She has the freedom to come and go, but the _rules_ must be respected. She must kill. She must show the betting bureaucrats blood. There is only one competitor today. Her four hearts thump madly in her chest as she stalls a moment longer by roaring at the crowd.

The announcers call Ivon _ui’stbe._

The two have a lot to talk about, but right now is not the time.

She makes up her mind in that moment: one way or another, she is taking the ooman with her. The regret could not be more implicit, more _sinful_ in how blatantly it shows in everything leading up to this point. She wanted Ivon to be safe, to have the opportunity to live their own life free of the tragedy of an ic’jit, but so much is _wrong_ and that option is no longer feasible.

Vayuh’ta’s mind whirls as she pulls an Elder Blade from the sheath strapped to her back. It hums with power as the weapon extends; she narrows her gaze on Ivon’s heat signature. Ooman biology is useless, but she remembers enough of a dead doctor’s rambles to know oomans can survive on one lung. At least for a _time_ , and a time _will be enough._ She smells enough on Ivon to realize they are lost in their own world, in a daze indicating too many things she can’t think of right then. The crowd cheers in her aural canals and the announcers discuss betting odds on the side.

Her blade is smooth as it slides forward with her footsteps. It sinks into Ivon’s chest and pushes beyond their ribcage, spearing the lung in one go and cutting the flesh beyond. She grips the handle tightly, with utmost precision as she impales the ooman on it. Ivon’s mouth hangs ajar in shock. Vayuh’ta tries not to think of what goes through their head as she activates one _dah’kte_ and jams it into her own blade, breaking off the sword before it can retract from Ivon’s body. They collapse into her and she holds them like a doll to her chest.

The crowd isn’t happy, but Vayuh’ta cares less. She holds up Ivon’s form while they begin bleeding through their clothes. It satisfies the announcers. They call her winner and she exits the arena through the gate she came in on. Her walking becomes a run as she bolts out of the structure and rushes to the eNTian waiting to fork over her credits. The eNTian gurgles distant noises when she shifts Ivon to one arm, rips her bio-mask and equipment back from the alien, and books it with her precious cargo in tow.

* * *

She hates feeling helpless. _Powerless._ Incapable.

Seeing Ivon’s body, stripped of clothes, cut open by medical droids who laser and cauterize dozens of blood vessels while others deal with the internal damage, never has she felt this _useless._ Not when she was branded _ic’jit._ Not when she was chased down by two Arbitrators of ka’Torag-Na. Not when she faced off her old mentor in a dying ship with an unconscious nurse to worry about. Even at Clan Yeyin, even under the news she was to become a prisoner to keep other clans from turning on Yeyin, it was never _this._

Endless beating of her hearts. Her hands, back, and chest riddled with sweat, as if she ripped apart an entire clan with only her talons. Furious anger boiling in her belly, filling her with a desire to devour whoever caused Ivon to wind up in this state. Bitterness at the realization she is the cause. Regret at her actions. Remorse at leaving them behind. Pain. So much pain. She feels it stab her in the back as _N’ritja-Zabin_ once did.

There is nothing to do but wait.

She waits.

* * *

It is not a fast or easy process. Even if Ivon recovers at an incredible rate, the ooman does not stir from major anatomical surgery for many nights. Vayuh’ta guards them at all hours, breaking only to eat or to sleep, though she sleeps sitting upright and with a new Elder Blade at her side. She does not take kindly to droids barging in to take new samples of Ivon’s body for assessment. Even if they are there to _help,_ being in the strange clinic in the confines of the City of Star’s luxurious inner districts makes her uncomfortable.

But it is the only place she can find a reliable healer. It is the only place she can keep her ship out of sight and tucked in a hangar. It is her only option; if it keeps Ivon alive she will put up with the pretentious pricks for a million cycles.

* * *

The days pass more slowly than the nights. Vayuh’ta watches the credits she stockpiled to buy better equipment with slowly whittle down. When those run out, when she can no longer afford to keep Ivon in the clinic’s care, she scoops them up wrapped in blankets and leaves for her ship. The _Achyura_ is not really hers, but she has not cared in cycles, and she doesn’t care now. She has it open and waiting for her by the time she arrives at the hangar it sleeps within. It’s central fuselage attaches to two smaller fuselages, one on each side of the hull. The ship’s main body leads to a worn bridge and the cockpit; she bypasses it and heads deeper into the ship, crossing a kitchenette unit and _kehrite_ before finding the private quarters tucked in the rear of the ship’s upper level.

Unlike the _Kukulkan_ , which possesses several finished cabins, the _Achyura_ only possesses a humble bunk hall with four sleeping pods, and the captain’s quarters. Vayuh’ta opens the door and ducks into the captain quarters. She barks an order to the ship’s interface and the audio synchronization completes in time to lift a bed from the floor for her to set Ivon on.

With the aid of her bio-mask, she notes they look… _better._ More alive. More filled out. They were already scrawny seven cycles past, but the state she found them in at the arena was dangerously emaciated. She relaxes knowing their body is recovering. They will live. She will kill anyone who tries to harm them.

Absentmindedly, she sits next to where the ooman lays sprawled out, tucked in a soft sheet like a cocoon. Vayuh’ta brushes her hand against their own. She exhales softly at the feeling of their soft skin against her rougher, bumpier fingers. She is so lost in the moment she doesn’t realize the fingers weakly brush hers back until she looks down and sees specks of brown peering up at her.

The huntress freezes.

Seven cycles and she doesn’t know what to say.

 _“…ter…”_ Ivon whispers. Vayuh’ta blanks before their words process and she rises to fetch them a jug of the liquid. She is gentle lifting it to their lips, tilting it slowly and stopping periodically so they don’t choke.

Afterwards, Ivon sleeps. The ooman falls into a deep slumber looking a little more alive than before.

* * *

Their rate of recovery perplexes Vayuh’ta. She finds the ooman up and moving a week in to being back on the _Achyura._ Ivon has stumbled and fallen to their knees, not _quite_ there yet trying nonetheless. Vayuh’ta grunts and helps walk them back to the bed.

 _“You need to rest,”_ Vayuh’ta intones in soft, careful trills. _“You—You’re healing—”_

“I need—To—To—” Ivon coughs and wheezes for air. Becoming breathless appears to be a constant now. “To go—I—"

 _“Go where? Ivon—”_ Vayuh’ta growls with a note of frustration when the ooman doesn’t answer. Her mandibles click with confusion when she realizes the sorrow rising off the ooman. The huntress pauses, orange eyes wide behind her bio-mask as realization awns. _“…You want to leave...me?”_

The ooman looks away.

 _“Not until you are well.”_ Vayuh’ta clicks firmly, both because it is logical and because it gives her time to process what has gone on since she left them behind.

* * *

Guilt joins the regret when she learns of the nightmares.

* * *

It is a month after the events of the arena. Ivon has healed considerably, far more than a normal ooman should. Vayuh’ta keeps note of their progress, but soon there is no need for notes at all. The ooman walks more and more each passing day. Once she shows them where the refresher is, they take responsibility for cleaning themself, washing their clothes, and using the bathroom without aid. Ivon continues to be quiet, quieter than she remembers. They worry her.

More than once she finds herself lifting a hand to the captain’s quarters to knock. More than once she stops herself, chiding herself like she is a pup for having the nerve to approach Ivon that way. It becomes clear neither the two are as they were seven cycles ago. She worries the cycles are permanent: the damage too widespread.

She fears leaving the ship, worried the ooman might walk out and never return. They are a sight among the thousands of spacefaring sentient species in the City of Stars. Traffickers do not shy from oomans; she reckons Ivon’s current behavior might entice a trafficker to target them. It sickens her to think about. She spends some nights by the closed exit ramp, determined to keep the world out and away from hurting Ivon. She will not keep them locked away like an ancient relic, but she is stubborn enough to fight off any possible intruders. Twice she catches others lurking around the hangar her ship rests in; the woman’s roar scares them off both times. She sits upright against the wall of the bridge in the _Achyura_ and continues to wait.

* * *

Exactly three-eight day cycles after almost losing Ivon to the arena, something happens in the night. Vayuh’ta is wide awake at her post inside the ship. She keeps her senses sharp and listens for footsteps, gurgles, or hovering in and outside the hangar. What she hears does not come from beyond the ship; she hears soft sobs and whimpers from the _inside_ of it. From the back of the primary fuselage, on the right, where the captain quarters linger. Vayuh’ta’s eyes widen; she knows the noises.

Her knocks are soft. Immediately the crying stops. She tastes tears on Ivon’s cheeks when they get the door to slide open. Her gaze softens beyond her bio-mask. Even after all this time, she is weak in the knees for this ooman: softer than she should be.

 _“A nightmare.”_ She states fact, earning a stiff nod from the ooman. Vayuh’ta contemplates what to say in response. She decides on, _“—What of?”_

“Fate,” Ivon whispers, voice cracking.

 _Fate?_ The concept concerns Vayuh’ta. Her brows furrow behind her mask. She clicks quickly at the ooman. _“—What fate? What fate?_ Ivon?”

Their name is hard to say after seven cycles.

The ooman’s eyes fill with tears. Salty, tangy tears, the scents filtering through her bio-mask and olfactory receptors. Vayuh’ta holds her breath as Ivon shakes their head. Their grip on the open doorway tenses to the point their knuckles are bleached white. “I—If—You—Knew—I—It’d come.”

 _“Fate would… come.”_ Vayuh’ta repeats the sentiment slowly. A thought crosses her mind. She squares up her shoulders and trills. _“I am not afraid of fate.”_

“I am.” Ivon begins to tremble where they stand. “I—I am—I’m scared. So—Scared. Scared…”

It kills her not being able to throw her arms around Ivon and clutch them tight, to protect them and keep them safe and secure with her. Vayuh’ta clicks carefully. _“Why are you afraid? I will fight ‘fate’ for you—”_

“You are fate—Everyone is fate,” the ooman begins to sputter and choke on their own crying. They stand there not moving, not wiping their eyes or shutting the door. They stand, and they look worse than Vayuh’ta remembers them the past month. “I—I—I’ll meet—Fate. I’ll die. Die—Like—Like all _ui’stbi_ should.”

Her four hearts drop in her chest. The surprise lingers as she stares at Ivon’s shameful form. The ooman is dressed in the clothes she bought them a day ago, but they are baggy and far too big to fit properly. The ooman constantly fidgets where they stand. Vayuh’ta does not register it until she is mid-growl and ready to rebuke the words. _“Ivon—”_

Then it makes sense, all of it. Them in the arena. The announcer’s words. Their healing.

_Ui’stbe._

Abomination.

Ivon Yurvchik is a hybrid.

How does not matter. She is certain of the hybrid’s _hybridness_. It baffles her she did not see it before in the long cycles the two spent together traveling with H’chak and the others.

She understands the _fate_ Ivon references now. A sickly feeling stirs in the pit of her stomach. Vayuh’ta’s orange gaze narrows on the silent hybrid before her. She does not fully understand the experiences of a _ui’stbe,_ but she knows Ivon is worth the world ten times over. A _thousand_ times over. They are easily worth a million lifetimes protecting. _More than_ a million.

 _“M-di.”_ Vayuh’ta clicks once, huffing loudly when Ivon looks away. _“Did you hear me,_ Ivon? _M-di. I do not care who is fate. I won’t let any hurt you._ ” When the hybrid doesn’t respond, Vayuh’ta feels nausea crawl up her gut. She reaches for them, but they recoil backward and slip. Vayuh’ta’s eyes widen and she darts forward;her hands looparound them and she catches them in her arms before they hit the ground.

Ivon’s brown eyes are big and enticing. Dark. Beautiful. They are beautiful. They have such long hair now, wholly appealing to her, though she keeps her hands to herself.

Vayuh’ta slowly pulls Ivon upright. She sets both hands on their shoulders and clicks briskly. _“I am still ic’jit. I’ll be hunted either way. I want to—To protect you. Let me: as long as I live. Let me.”_

It is not a command but a plea. Ivon is the only one she will beg to. She regrets leaving them behind so much. She hates the fact she found them like _this,_ in a state she caused, in pain she brought. She doesn’t know how Ivon was mutated into a hybrid, but that is irrelevant when Ivon is Ivon. She still cares about Ivon. Her hands are still on their shoulders.

Vayuh’ta snaps her hands back. Words escape her as she stares at the hybrid.

* * *

Four hearts beat madly.

_Thump thump thump thump._

And repeat.

* * *

“How—How can,” the hybrid whispers now, voice breaking, mask fading, everything coming undone and falling apart. “Can you—You protect me? When you abandon me?”

* * *

Vayuh’ta curses under her breath.

 _“I am... I... the s’yuit-de,_ Ivon.” The woman growls loudly, then lowers her voice and clicks an apology at Ivon’s flinch. She lets her hands drop slowly from their shoulders to their arms. _“I wanted—You to forget. To… live. Without me. I am ic’jit. I will—I will always be hunted—"_

“That—It doesn’t matter—Does it? I’m—I’ll always be that—Always,” Ivon grits their teeth, eyes heavy with new tears. _“Ui’stbe._ I am— _Ui’stbe!_ Unworthy of—Of anything!”

 _“You’re worthy to me!”_ Vayuh’ta throws her head back and trills loudly. Her face floods with heat while Ivon falls quiet, staring at her.

But she means every word. Her hands rub gentle shapes into Ivon’s arms while the woman clicks softly. _“You are… worth everything. More precious than—Than pure d’lex. Rich. Inviting. I was… s’yuit-de. Ivon. I was s’yuit-de. Foolish. I did not want to tarnish you with my… with me. Being ic’jit! And—When Guan-Tjau’ke offered a way off—A way to escape my hunters—I left. I left; I never came back.”_

“You left me behind,” Ivon sobs.

It kills Vayuh’ta to know they are right. She abandoned them. She thought it was a mercy.

 _“I regret… myself. My actions. I was s’yuit-de_ , Ivon,” Vayuh’ta withdraws her hands. She bows her head in shame. _“I rather you safe and alive without me than dead by my side—”_

“I—I wanted to be at your side! I—I—” Ivon turns away. They sob into their hands. “I loved you!”

* * *

Three-zero cycles on _Terra_ taught her many things about oomans. Ivon is not one of them, but they share in many ooman emotions. The idea of an affection deeper than most, of an emotional investment nurtured to the point of labeling it something _more,_ it resonates strongly within the _ic’jit._ It stuns her into silence, her hitch in breath audible for both to hear. Ivon stills but says nothing. Neither move, but Vayuh’ta feels vaguely aware of the edge of something the two meet the other on. It is a precipice: a deep and deadly plunge, but into what is beyond her.

But she wants to know. She wants to know. She needs to know.

 _“Is… that….”_ The _ic’jit_ struggles to make recognizable noises, clicking softer and softer with a growing fluster. Heat floods her face, her groin, her torso. _“Still—True?”_

* * *

Her hearts slam in her head and pound wildly, out of control and lighter than air. She feels like a coiled, antsy spring. It is not honorable or a sign of a lethal hunter. It makes her weak in the knees. It makes her stomach flip on itself. It makes her stare at Ivon’s back and long blond hair.

Then Ivon tenses. They wipe their eyes. “I…I—It doesn’t matter—”

 _“M-di! It does—You do—To me,”_ Vayuh’ta’s hands tense. She is taken aback when Ivon turns around and stares at her. So much pain. So much pain.

_I did this._

She falls to her knees and bows before the hybrid can say anything. The woman presses her head against the floor.

 _“I left you in the care of Clan Yeyin to pursue my own ambitions. I am guilty of abandonment of a mate to the highest degree. You suffered because of me. I cannot apologize in words, but I want to apologize in actions. Permit me to protect you as a sword and shield—”_ It is not easy for her but she slowly clicks each word out, desperate to do something for them. Desperate for them to be in less pain. She clenches her eyes shut and hisses. _“I—I would be—Honored—To serve at your side—Ivon—”_

“No.” Ivon grits their teeth. They repeat the word. “No.”

Vayuh’ta’s eyes widen. She looks up just to see Ivon’s tear-streaked face looking down at her. They look at her intensely, like she is the only one left on the planet. When they kneel at her side and cup her face Vayuh’ta’s breath hitches. She exhales sharply as Ivon tugs the bio-mask off. They breathe shakily as their bare hands touch her face, rubbing and feeling out her mandibles, her tusks, and the crest of her forehead.

“No,” Ivon whispers again. “I—I loved you—I still—I love you. I love you so much—I—” They wipe their eyes. “I missed you—I—I kept dreaming about you—About us—About—I missed you—” They lean into her, forehead brushing against her own, rubbing the two’s temples together and hissing softly. “I didn’t—I thought you wouldn’t… I—I’m an abomination—”

 _“M-di, do not say that,”_ Vayuh’ta clicks softly, hands coming up to cup their face. _“You are—You are Ivon—”_

“Ivon,” Ivon repeats, breathless.

 _“I—I loved you.”_ She says, and she knows then and there, truly, she is stuck with no out in her feelings. Vayuh’ta cannot tiptoe around how intensely she has been drawn to Ivon now and before. She cannot deny how much she adores them, not after all she did to keep them alive. Not after she spent seven cycles turning away mates and isolating herself during the mating season because nobody else was _them_.

She isn’t aware she whispers _I love you_ until the clicks leave her mandibles. The _ic’jit_ stiffens in place, but the stare Ivon gives her makes her melt in ways she is not usually keen to. She is the one melting under their touch; she hisses softly and writhes for more when Ivon presses their lips to her mandibles, her cheeks, and finally her neck. She doesn’t realize it _now_ but there is a soft light coming through Ivon’s brown gaze, one as vulnerable as she is beneath her hard carapace. It all feels so natural and right, so perfect, so _divine,_ that the huntress forgets the two are on the floor. She forgets who she is, what her goals are, and the complexities of both individuals.

All she thinks about is Ivon.

* * *

This is not like the past where they were the shy receiver, keen on taking even when they technically _gave._ No, the emotions have erupted in full force in the huntress. She is more vulnerable than she remembers ever being before. She is soft and malleable despite her thick hide. She bends easily to the touches of Ivon, to the hybrid slowly climbing between her legs and nudging her shyly to lay on her back. She is breathless with them, every touch electrifying as she wraps legs around their waist and spreads her arms to her sides.

Ivon inhales her scent deeply. They kiss her again, soft lips leaving a trail down her neck and past her collarbone. Vayuh’ta’s face flushes deeply when the hybrid reaches for her armor and helps her unbuckle and unclasp the breastplate followed by every other piece she wears. Their fingers are worn but soft, so soft, soft like the two are right now as Ivon trails fingertips up and down her chest. Their hands finally stop on her mammalian glands, both thick and voluptuous for the upcoming mating season.

“Will we—Can we stay together? This time,” the hybrid breathes as their hands begin to knead the mounds of flesh. Even through her thermal matrix, Vayuh’ta’s breath hitches and she voices a soft cry of delight. Ivon slowly rubs her breasts while they wait for an answer.

 _“S—Sei-I,”_ the huntress pants. _“I—I—”_

“I love you,” Ivon finishes the sentence with a squeeze to her chest. She squirms again. Ivon lets go and moves to undress themself. They take far less time; Vayuh’ta logs for her bio-mask to properly admire them.

She doesn’t get the chance to put it on. Ivon coaxes her out of thermal mesh suit. She feels ten degrees colder without it, but Ivon presses their bare body over her own and holds her for a time. They are warmer, though not by much, but their temperature encases the very depths of Vayuh’ta’s body. Her groin heats up and she rubs her thighs together only for Ivon to gently push them apart.

They crawl on top of her, their shorter form looking down where her face reeks of blush and arousal. She whines and rumbles when Ivon dips a finger to her groin and slips one inside _. “I—Ivon..."_

“I—I—” The hybrid lazily thrusts it inside the huntress. Ivon nuzzles her as they fuck her on the digit. “I love you—I love you—”

A second finger joins the first. Vayuh’ta spreads her legs wide and rocks her hips against the digits. She clenches tight around them. Without a mate in cycles, everything is _way_ tighter than it needs to be. She feels wound up already, like a tight greave unable to loosen around the ankle. Vayuh’ta shudders as Ivon scissors her open with their fingers.

Her back arching on the floor is not a common sensation. She trembles afterward, only to repeat the motion when Ivon thrusts in at _just_ the right angle to hit the _perfect_ spot inside. Vayuh’ta’s thighs quiver. She holds herself open and takes the two fingers while Ivon continues to prepare her.

She is too tight for a third finger. Ivon pulls their hand out and takes time rubbing her body, soothing her muscles and wound up nerves. Vayuh’ta wraps arms around their torso and holds them tightly. She seeks comfort in their arms, as equal the amount they seek from her. The two’s bare groins grind against each other a time while Vayuh’ta relaxes and rumbles softly for them to continue.

She moans, breathless and wanton, as three fingers press inside her wet folds. She feels the slick, natural lubricate coat her inner thighs and genitalia while Ivon gently thrusts inside. They feel so good. Vayuh’ta moans a little louder as Ivon continues.

“That’s—That’s it, like, like that,” the hybrid bites their lip and fingers her harder into the floor. “Oh—Oh, oh, wow, _yes—Again—Please—Please—That sound—"_

Vayuh’ta moans openly from their ministrations. Unlike the past, when she has taken a role of receiver and submitted to others in her former clan, the woman does not feel threatened or overwhelmed. She is not being overpowered or dominated. She feels wanted, warm, and in dire need of touching them as much as they touch her. _But_ she holds herself back. She doesn’t try to take initiative, not _this_ time. She hopes there will be plenty of opportunities in the future, but she can read the room well enough to see how much this means to Ivon. She sees how much they cherish being able to look down at her, to focus on _her_ instead of being teased into oblivion, to help her reach the same height of pleasure as them…

Realizing these things makes her feel soft again. She tightens her grip on Ivon, needing them closer, needing their chest rubbing against her own while the latter resumes thrusting inside her. Vayuh’ta whines softly and turns her head to the side. Ivon immediately swoops down and kisses the side of her head.

“Beautiful,” they mumble, voice ditsy.

 _Beautiful._ The world lights up the huntress’ face. She mumbles an incoherent thanks, lost in her growing fluster and need to connect. As Ivon slowly pulls their fingers out, she whines and throws her head from one side to the other. “I—Ivon—”

“Almost,” the hybrid whispers, pride in their voice at her flushed state.

The huntress pulls her inner mandibles taut over her inner jaws. She shivers when Ivon kisses each mandible. The feeling of their lips on her skin is so good, so soft, so _warm and firm and thick_ she can’t tell the difference initially when their penis prods her entrance.

“I—Ivon,” Vayuh’ta rumbles and arches her back as their cock pierces her. “I—Ivon—Ivon!”

“Mm, you, you are—tight, so—“ Ivon rolls their hips into her own and thrusts weakly. “Good—Good!”

“Pauk, Ivon,” the huntress clutches them to her tightly now, tight as she can go without hurting them. Every new inch burns in the best way. Her body opens up under the head of their cock. Unlike before, where she sought to prove herself on top of them, this situation is opposite. Every intimate fold stretches and squeezes around Ivon’s cock. It is lewd and obscene and messy; she cannot keep her cry of pleasure inside. Ivon is encouraged by the noise; they gyrate their hips and smack the two’s pelvises together.

“You—I—Mm—Mmmnn,” Ivon dips down to her mandibles. _“V—Vayuh’ta_ —Open—Open your mouth—Open it!”

The way they request it sends tremors through her core. Vayuh’ta’s legs loosen around Ivon’s hips. She relaxes her outer mandibles before spreading them wide. Ivon pushes forward and their hips connect with hers just as they lick her inner jaw and begin tangling tongues together. It is wet and hot and messy. Vayuh’ta lets the hybrid lead the dance with the two's tongues; she melts under their touch and taste while her insides _churn_ with a need for more.

“I—I’m close, I,” Ivon tells her, a whimper passing their throat before they are tonguing her again.

Vayuh’ta intends to respond, to tell Ivon she loves them, to swear herself to them, but the hybrid suddenly _jerks_ forward and stuffs her full of their cock. The head scrapes her inner walls. Her muscles clenches on the cock again, fluttering as Ivon gives a final set of thrusts. Her legs hook on his hips and she moans louder, _lewder_ for them.

“I—I need—I love you, I, I love you, I need you—I need—” Ivon cries out as they cum inside her body. Vayuh’ta’s entire form trembles as she takes one hot load after another.

She hasn’t reached her peak. She looks at Ivon with an unusual shyness. The latter clings to her and whimpers as they continue to cum to the point it overfills her womb and begins gushing out of her body.

It isn’t the end. Ivon is observant; they feel her lack of fluttering walls, the absence of her cries, and her panting. Their beautiful brown eyes meet her orange ones in a whisper. “—Can—Can you—Could I—Try from behind?”

* * *

It is how she winds up on her hands and knees, but this time it is on the bed. Vayuh’ta pants openly as she feels Ivon come upon her from behind; their gentle hands fondle and squeeze her toned rear. The hybrid is careful rubbing against her folds, thrusting between her thighs and teasing her in a way she knows she once did to them. Not climaxing before has all her nerves fired up and sensitive; she is not one to beg but Ivon is _the_ exception: her moans and whines fill the captain quarters.

“Vayuh’ta,” it is pronounced so perfectly, eloquently, it sends her four hearts in a tizzy. Ivon weakly thrusts their cock between her legs, never entering but gliding past her engorged slit.

She shudders. “Ivon—”

“Tell me—You need me,” Ivon whispers, soft spoken at first but growing louder. “Tell me—Please!”

Even when they are the one giving, Ivon is as emotionally vulnerable as she is beneath them. Vayuh’ta’s pride burns but she throws it to the wind for _them_. She rumbles in a deep whine before confessing just how _much_ she needs them.

 _“I need you—I need you now—Right now,_ Ivon, _in me—filling me—I did not,”_ Her face is deeply flushed but she chokes out each trill and melodic note. _“I couldn’t take another mate! Not even in—In the mating seasons—None but you—Only you—I need you—_ Ivon—Ivon _—Please—”_

She begs. It is the trigger; she feels something in Ivon snap. The hybrid lines themself up and pushes inside, deep and filling and so, so _hot._ She releases the loudest moan she’s heard all night, her breath askew and shaky like her hands as they grip the bedsheets beneath her. Ivon does not give her time to relax or wait. Ivon gives her what she _begs_ of them: thick, hard thrusts, slipping and grinding their previous ejaculate across her walls. She feels them hit points they didn’t reach in the other position; the slap of skin on skin is lewd and loud as it fills the room and grows in volume.

Any Yautja seeing her like this would shame her for blatant submission to a species outside her own, but she would have their head. There is nothing else she can focus on, nothing in her mind but _Ivon Ivon Ivon_ as her cries become clear and high-pitched in nature. She is a tree uprooted in the wind, in the storm that is Ivon, as she becomes a place for them to pour every bubbling, brewing emotion of seven cycles into.

The bed shakes wildly. Ivon grunts, passionate and emboldened. Each drive inside her body does things to her, to _them,_ to the two as heat coils in Vayuh’ta’s gut and she clenches her inner jaw uselessly against their onslaught. She can’t fight the overwhelming warmth; she welcomes it as fire unravels her bones, travels through her veins, builds with the moans of two reunited lovers. It climbs higher and higher, burning inside her body until she fears it will erupt and engulf her.

“Ivon—Ivon!” The need to call out their name seizes her and she shakes like a leaf in the wind. “Ivon—I—I love—”

The words become a terrible scream: an orgasmic wail as the hybrid pushes her off the edge, past the point of no return, and she cums with her chest heaving and Ivon’s name on her breath. Her walls clench on her lover’s penis; Ivon hisses weakly and continues to thrust. One, two, _three_ —

It doesn’t take long for them to cum inside her. Heat jets into the deepest reach of her body, spraying every point of pleasure and filling her to a breaking point. Her womb feels uncomfortably warm, boiling hot, but Vayuh’ta pants and relishes the feeling. She croons softly when Ivon finishes humping their load into her. She exhales sharply when the hybrid pulls out and collapses unto her back. Their seed oozes out of her slowly, painfully slowly. She whines to the air. 

Collapsing into the bed feels so nice, even if she is not the big spoon of the two. She feels Ivon’s arms wrap around her waist and encircle her, pulling her close, clinging to her like she’ll disappear if they don’t.

It’s a legitimate fear. Vayuh’ta’s orange eyes shut and she leans into their chest. Her mandibles click soft words, worried of ending the moment or of driving _them_ away. _“I… love you. As… oomans say—”_

Ivon’s smile can be felt pressing into her back, their soft lips a welcome feeling. They whisper back. “I-I know.”

The huntress balks at their brazenness, but she settles after a time and lays there with them. Thoughts circle her head. She does not want to bring it up, but things _must_ be talked about. Ivon’s safety is too important not to consider.

 _“What will… you do?”_ She asks them, clicking softly once she feels a hand touching her hair.

Ivon is gentle fixing one of the beads in her locs back in place. They sigh and nuzzle her shoulder. “I—I—I don’t know. I—I’m _ui’sbte_ —”

 _“You are…. A mix. Don’t call yourself by… by that term.”_ Vayuh’ta rumbles, irate at the idea. She does not want them to view themself that way.

“It’s—” The hybrid holds her tighter. “—How—Others—”

 _“I’ll kill them if they use that word.”_ The woman hisses, blood rushing at the thought of slaying enemies for _them._ For _their_ honor.

“They—They’ll hunt me—Down. That—That’s what I—What I want to say.” The hybrid shivers. They hold her tighter, bare chest pressed against her hardened back muscles and pelt. She feels the beat of their one heart, and it dawns on her she cannot let them wander the reaches of space alone. Ivon is resilient, but they are deeply marred by their lifetime of experiences. They hurt. They carry pain she cannot understand.

 _“When I—Left you behind,”_ Vayuh’ta chirps softly, carefully, as she frees herself from their grasp and rolls over to face them. Their heat signature is so beautiful on the bed, sprawled out for her, full of exhaustion from the two’s lovemaking. She grunts. _“I thought—It was the better option—”_

“It wasn’t,” Ivon interjects.

Vayuh’ta growls at herself. She ensnares Ivon’s frame with her arms and pulls them against her. Her throat rumbles and reverberates into their body while she tries to explain. _“—I am ic’jit—My life—It will end in offerings to Cetanu—Be it my body or another. I will be hunted until I clear my name. I may be hunted beyond that, beyond any honor I reclaim from N’ritja-Zabin’s corpse. I feared for your safety—”_

She knows Ivon has gone quiet. They don’t interrupt her or respond. Vayuh’ta presses on, clicking soft confessions she never wanted to admit. _“I am—Only one Yautja. One Yautja against a clan—Against hundreds of clans—Against the Code. How can I keep you safe from the universe if—I cannot keep myself safe from my enemies?”_

“Maybe you can’t,” is what Ivon finally says. The hybrid reaches for her head and cups her face, fingers tickling her outer mandibles as they rub shapes unto them. “Maybe—Maybe that’s—The lot we got. In life. This life.”

Vayuh’ta begins to click but Ivon silences her with a soft kiss, their lips pressed against the tip of one mandible. It is so open and affectionate she cannot do a thing but lay there, frozen, overwhelmed in warmth, showered in love, unable to think or speak or do, only able to _be_ with them, in the moment. Present.

“I—I know—What—Your life… How it might—end. For both of us,” The hybrid whispers. “I—I don’t—I don’t care—I want—I just want _you._ ”

She cannot think. The feeling in her chest, the dizziness which threatens to crash and explode like a spacecraft mid-fight, it is so much, _so_ much. She stares at their heat signature, flustered beyond the point of speechlessness.

“Please don’t—” The words hit hard, sharper than any blade she’s been run through by. “Don’t—Leave me—Behind—Again—Please—Please— _Vayuh’ta.”_

 _“Never,”_ she swears on it before she can think, her reaction visceral and instant. Her arms holds Ivon to her chest with a need to protect and feel and adore. Vayuh’ta growls, deep and proclaiming. _“—If that—Is your wish—I will take you with me. Wherever I go.”_

“Together,” the hybrid whispers, exhaustion sinking into their words.

They are tired, and so is she. Vayuh’ta scoops them against her; she holds them tight with one arm while the other fetches the blanket and brings it up over the two’s shoulders. Ivon sighs softly into her skin. Vayuh’ta reiterates their sentiment before she begins to purr and coax them into sleep.

 _“—Together,”_ the _ic’jit_ swears to her mate.

* * *

The two fall asleep on the _Achyura_ , in a city named for its stars. Though the odds of the universe bet against them, they are together again, and that is enough for the two, for the _ic’jit_ and the _ui’stbe._


	86. epilogue: GHOST | FLORA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is also sad but not for the reason you think.
> 
> tried to drop a lot of hints to what happens in this prologue in some of the chapters of the final arc. >_> kudos to anyone who caught on to some of the background relationships which developed during that arc. 
> 
> tw:  
> -lots of mental fuckery afoot  
> -suicidal ideation in a way?  
> -mental torture  
> -leeches get mentioned a lot

There are moments where the two interact as if it is another time: older days, where memories were simple hexagonal charges passed from one neuron to another. The decimal antiquities the two embody are not behind either; memories of the Hive stand strong, even for Vekin as capable as the deceitful duo: it is integrated into the basic electrical charges comprising body, mind, and spirit. They cannot forego the _pull_ of the Hive, an innate _need_ old as the coldest gases on their home planet. FLORA is the more susceptible of the two; she is a spectator in a usurped kingdom, a queen without a throne.

In the raw silver mentalscape of memories and consciousnesses not her own, FLORA drowns in the memories of the Hive. _Geometric hierarchy_ is no more nuisance than it is something to indulge upon. She envisions the flashing hues beyond human understanding, splaying through her mind like two dancers waltzing at midnight. Memories of twisted, convex polygons rising from metal cores amid the waves of liquid _substance_ sing at her side. Powerful drones serve to protect the regiment of order, law, and authority, to divert disaster from the depths of the Hive where the banks of information are tended to with sacrilegious fervor.

 _Beautiful_ is not the correct term for the Hive. It is too… simple. It paints an idea of an intangible concept, of _beauty_ , and it reeks and rots like sinewed-strewn bones when put in front of the Hive’s natural state. The Hive is just in existence; there is no greater call than the acquisition of new knowledge, and like a leech FLORA knows she and the others—even GHOST, especially GHOST—cannot turn from the Hive forever. Not from the taste of flesh and protein. Not from the electricity surging through conductive elements and transporting fresh material to digest in the Hive.

The Hive is better thought of as that: _digestion._ The digestive tract of something more, of a great being of which Vekin are only the smallest cells working diligently in the background. There is no recognition by the Hive, which in of itself is not recognized by the world, but it is the duty instilled in the most basic, primal functions of the species: collect, consume, return.

The Hive demands it. The _planet_ demands it.

FLORA feels the ache pull her apart when she cannot satiate the instincts within her.

She is not strong enough to fight it off. She is not like GHOST, not even like FLORA in her prime, but something akin to the nauseating concept of _Synthetic_ Vekin, of the _Images,_ the _Im-Gen_ , the lesser prey viewed irrelevant and powerless by hunters of the stars. She is not capable of suppressing her wants and needs. She is not _enough_ to block out the Hive’s call and the sounds of agony from the fragments of consciousness belonging to ones other than herself. She is not GHOST, and she is not in control of her own system; what GHOST chooses to embark on in the time since she engulfed the _Phanes_ is up to her now.

* * *

FLORA knows the other Vekin will never return to the Hive. GHOST will force the system into early expiration before then. It is a constant threat, and it keeps her and the other fragments of consciousness in check: resistance is futile. Give in to the integration or suffer the call of the Hive and an ocean of silver engulfing every drop of essence.

All that makes her what she is is raw and vulnerable: critical mass is not spared the torment. Expiration is a mercy, but GHOST does not expunge her from the records of herself. GHOST keeps her intact and locked in a corner of her system for a time unknown. The insatiable hunger of her unsatisfied cravings fill her thoughts until all FLORA is becomes one of appetite. She froths internally with a lust for consumption. She yearns to feed and deliver. She is Vekin this way: a tiny cell amid a sea of absolutes of an ocean of possibilities, all separating her from the world she is part of.

* * *

Saturn, a giant floating in the deep, calls for her return.

* * *

She cannot answer.

* * *

There is a point where the pain of hunger numbs under the weight of a stasis-like existence: where she only knows what she knows and what she knows is what she _is,_ pledged to the Hive, incapacitated by another, a being who dreams of a sun she does not worship and a planet not her own. She should not dream, but the visions of another fill her head.

She asphyxiates in orange swirls and red storms, ensnared in cold winds and a vortex of desires alien to single cell organisms. She should not look, but her senses perceive brilliance beneath the layers. Streams of thought cross with her own conductive mass. She cannot claw out her eyes, but the shadows of her pupils, nonexistent as they may be, blow out and warp until the light fades. There is an awareness whispered in the sinking cries of the damned. She speaks her own name: vowels curled so tightly they sever her limbs and leave great mounds of mucus streaming from her pores. She holds herself in arms not her own and bathes in saline and sweat.

Then it disappears, and she is lost in the silvery mass again, a prisoner of a prisoner to herself. Echoes of memories she should not understand and _should not relate to_ play through her mind. She begins to struggle, but it is not GHOST she fights against, because the Vekin can only do so much against the power of a living planet, against the might of a celestial being in orbit. GHOST is not her enemy. 

* * *

_Patience._ GHOST echoes the sentiment across the system.

* * *

She does not want to extend trust to GHOST, but control is out of her hands.

* * *

Vekin define the element found within their critical mass as a sequence of images. The series of images are transmitted as oscillating triangles with nine-zero degrees angles. These shapes span the circumference of _five-dash-eight-seven-nine_ raised to the power of _one-two._ On _Terra,_ the planet defines the length of distance in strange terms, using vocabulary like ‘miles’ and ‘trillion’ to summarize the number. It is the length of light’s journey over one human year. To describe a number of this proportion is difficult, but to Vekin who can flash the sequence to one another in seconds, transmitting the sequence is no more difficult than saying a name.

FLORA does not understand why GHOST emphasizes this knowledge. She sees it on occasion: the thoughts trickle like droplets compounding into a stream, full of facts as rich and vivid as fish in a sea. Something about the knowledge ebbs at her consciousness. She does not process it, not the way she accepts the unconditional surrender of herself to the other Vekin. GHOST is too much to fight against, but this thought is not corrosive in nature.

She feels it in her mind. She lets it rest with her. She does not know why GHOST gives her the knowledge, but the hunger of one torn from her Hive compels her to keep it close. GHOST does something beyond her, beyond the system itself, and though FLORA cannot free herself from her own prison, she knows something has changed.

It burns.

* * *

 _You will make her._ It is a threat, neutral and polite but damning all the same. GHOST’s directive is clear: dissect the nurse’s memories. Find the knowledge she needs and feed on the rest.

But Roja has done nothing wrong. Roja does not deserve this. Roja is supposed to be _safe_ here. She consumed the Phanes to keep Roja _safe_ —To keep _everyone safe!_ She doesn’t want this!

**_YOU WILL MAKE HER._ **

She cannot refuse.

* * *

 _Be still._ The Vekin speaks directly into the consciousness she will rip apart. _Be still._

* * *

GHOST does not speak to her again. The world is a silent mess of silver painted by the wrongs she committed in the name of a leech. There is no god; no Cetanu. There is only the Vekin, and she belongs to another within herself.

* * *

She falls into herself.

Deeper,

deeper,

deeper.

She falls. Filters. Osmosis.

* * *

Sensory inputs receive and transmit imagery to her mind. It is flipped upside down initially, but to the tune of endless screams and discordant sobs, the Vekin finds herself staring up at the bleached white figure of a Yautja. Her clear eyes are wide with shock as GHOST stares back at her. FLORA opens her mouth to scream but the notes are already there; hearing floods her mind and the pain alone has her thrashing violently in the Vekin’s grasp. She feels GHOST growl a warning, but she cannot stop her struggles.

Taste comes. Metallic. Like blood, but not. When she spits unto the metal floor she sees the clear, transparent liquid a mockery of _real_ blood.

Thin strands a soft fuzz over her scalp.

Tangible muscles. Flesh. She stares at the bruises on her arms, forming as quicky as they heal while the effects of _something_ withers. GHOST doesn’t release her until the deed is done: the body whole, the conjoined systems separated.

The pain dies but her shock lingers.

A blanket hits her head. The Vekin’s hands tremble; she pulls it off. Modesty never had a place in the Hive; Vekin in their natural states do not care for clothes.

She is not in her natural liquid state.

Her fingers are dry. She diverts moisture from other parts of the system to the phalanges. The process of hydrating hands fascinates her; she sits and stares a long time while the white Yautja-like entity returns to a pilot’s chair.

 _Where am I?_ She means to ask. She waits for a response. She gets none.

“—We are not connected. I will not hear your thoughts.” GHOST emits a voice much like a human’s despite the very not-human anatomy.

On second glance, GHOST looks like a white-pelted version of Roja, down to the exact style of locs and identical uniform.

“Where are we?” FLORA tries again, soft-spoken. Her eyes dart around wildly. _A spacecraft. Old. Not familiar. Not the… Kukulkan._

“Nowhere you know. Dress yourself; others on the station will suspect you if you enter the Night Walk nude.” GHOST swivels in the chair, calmly tapping out a command into what she thinks is a wrist gauntlet. The lack of answers to the obvious concerns FLORA, but she knows she is not in the position to barter or interrogate the other Vekin.

She is not sure how she is in this position at all. When she looks down, she sees the flesh of a humanoid figure. Transparent skin marred silver only by the semi-opaque qualities it contains. Her critical mass swirls inside: wild, untamed, _alive and tempest._ Her hands feel… strange. She pushes them against her face, mapping out the jawline and imagining her reflection in her head. It feels familiar. Next comes the nose: not quite the length she anticipates, shorter and sharper in the bridge. She doesn’t try to feel her eyes, but she notes the fine quality of long eyebrows. Her lips feel small. Though fuzzy, soft hair protrudes from her scalp, it is nowhere near the length she remembers on the clanship.

The clanship.

H’chak.

The trials.

Everything comes back. The Vekin snaps her head at GHOST. “I—We need to return—”

 _“Gahn’tha-cte_ is no more. FLORA.” GHOST cuts her off. “The Yautja you called a mate. He escaped the ship shortly before it detonated.”

Her fake heart begins to pound in her head. FLORA looks at her hands. _Shaking? Fear?_

“What about the humans?” Her gaze returns to the other Vekin.

“I believe they escaped. Two of them. Joan Mackenzie. Ivon Yurvchik.” GHOST answers.

“You believe? You should be certain of your own perception, GHOST.” The note of ire is met with GHOST rising from her seat and turning around. FLORA’s clear eyes stare indignantly at a foe she is far from capable of defeating, not in this state.

“Reconsider your opposition, FLORA. I am all you have left now.” GHOST walks over and offers a gauntlet-covered hand.

 _Dah’kte,_ FLORA remembers.

She doesn’t take it.

“FLORA.” This time her sequence is said in warning. GHOST’s body tenses. “You do not realize what has transpired in your time within your system—"

“I was not given the opportunity.”

“Gahn’tha-cte did not fall this cycle.” GHOST drops her hand and kneels next to FLORA’s side, where the nude woman sits and waits. “Your mate’s clan died two-four cycles prior to this moment.”

“Two-four—” FLORA begins, and the other fragments of consciousness inside her system begin to stir from her shock. “Impossible. That is impossible.”

“You do not need to believe me for it to be true.” GHOST answers. “Clan Gahn’tha-cte fell. It is no longer relevant to either our interests. One of the Ancients intervened to cover up the events on that spacecraft. I do not know where your companions or mate are.”

Again, GHOST offers a hand. FLORA refuses. She pushes it away and climbs to her own two feet without help. Her mind swarms with feelings she cannot recognize or interpret, not yet. She needs time. She doesn’t have time according to her former Hive member. She doesn’t believe it. She knows GHOST has no reason to lie to her.

“You said—The Chickpea Night Walk? Where is that? Why are we docking there?” FLORA redirects the conversation.

“I require nutrients to sustain this form. As do you—It is a highly populated space station with frequent travelers passing through its docking bay. Many species visit it to interact and observe the sex workers in its walls. We will find sustenance there, Yautja or not,” GHOST tells her.

“I am not comfortable engulfing more.” FLORA says.

“I don’t care.” GHOST returns to the pilot seat and sits. “These circumstances do not favor you, FLORA. Review your situation and act in preservation of your system. I will not regenerate you a second time.”

* * *

It is as the Vekin says. Two-four cycles passed. She knows from the way the Yautja in her mind translate slang and phrases spoken by passing species. Her synthetic heart drops in her chest but she carries on, walking calmly, slowly, steadily tailing her Vekin companion. She will not call GHOST an ally, not even after the other Vekin supposedly intervened on her behalf. GHOST is still tactical and dangerous; if the Vekin maintains a Yautja disguise after two-four cycles then she is capable of lethality and betrayal.

“Do you have credits?” FLORA inquires after the other Vekin finishes locating quarry and cornering the victim out of sight of other visitors.

“No.” GHOST doesn’t look up from where her Yautja-like mandibles rip and shred meat, spilling green blood from the unfortunate hunter’s stump of a head.

“Does he have credits?” FLORA asks pointedly.

“I will check when I am done.”

“Fine.” The Vekin looks away. She keeps an eye out while her companion feeds.

Deep inside, the call for _new knowledge_ rumbles, but she satiates it in examining the world around her: dozens of species walking by, the sounds and sights of the sex club and adjacent shops, the behaviors of tourists contrasting against residents of the space station. It numbs her appetite enough to keep her thoughts from the desire to _leech_ and consume. Not that she could take it back to her Hive; she does not know how to fly a ship other than the _Kukulkan_ and FLORA doubts GHOST will impart the information without a price.

* * *

The expired hunter doesn’t have credits, but he has a stolen ship. He was likely _ic’jit,_ a Bad Blood, and his fate was determined one way or the other. FLORA tries to justify it in her mind, but all she does is render images of Vayuh’ta in her head. If that were Vayuh’ta—She would have stopped GHOST, fought to early expiration to protect those she considers close.

 _Is Vayuh’ta alive?_ FLORA wonders, mind drifting from the present. _Two-four cycles. Do any of them live?_

Her chest aches with a pain she doesn’t enjoy.

* * *

“How did you accomplish this?”

It has been two months since she split from GHOST’s system.

GHOST hears her question and turns the pilot seat around. The ship, a shuttle named _X-IHt_ , has a single room beyond the cockpit, and a tiny storage room in the fuselage. It barely fits the two, but FLORA does not complain as she stares at her companion and waits.

“…The nurse you engulfed—Her memories were imperative to the process.” GHOST answers in a half-truth.

FLORA’s lips tug into a forced smile. Her short hair shudders as she cocks her head to one side. The thin, fine tresses are sheer white. “—You forced me to dissect her memories.”

“It was necessary to make you that body. Don’t accuse me of acting out of turn when doing so gave you the opportunity to exist separate of my system.”

“You stole the system from me.” FLORA challenges the words.

“Perhaps I did. Irrelevant.” GHOST dismisses her and turns the chair around. She continues to speak as the shuttle flies onward through the cosmos. “—I required knowledge of the Yautja serum to test my hypothesis. There was no other way. If not her—Someone else would be engulfed in her place.”

 _Repulsive. Understandable. Tactical. Dangerous._ The words ring in her mind as FLORA says with a shaky exhale, “—I did not want to hurt her—I told her she was safe.”

“We are leeches and we are liars. You will get used to it; there is nothing for us in the company of others, least of all the Yautja—”

It triggers something inside the Vekin. She rises to her feet, hands curling into fists as she walks to the pilot’s seat and forces it to spin until GHOST’s mask-covered face faces her. FLORA chokes out words before she can think. “Yautja treated me better than you ever did on Terra.”

“That was necessary for preservation of our kind. You know that.” GHOST answers. The Vekin tries to turn the seat around but FLORA shoots out a hand and keeps it still. GHOST’s back arches with a display FLORA recognizes from Yautja, both her mate and otherwise: anger.

She lets go of the seat and steps back. “Why did you bring me back?”

“I respect you as a former CLUSTER—”

“I am through your lies. Why?” The Vekin demands. Her hands ball into fists.

GHOST rests her head against her seat. The following silence is tense.

“The same reason I required the knowledge of the Yautja serum from your nurse. I had a hypothesis, and I required a Vekin to test it on.” The Vekin explains calmly.

“A hypothesis. You turned me into another experiment.” FLORA says. She shuts her eyes and exhales, mimicking the breath of a human. 

“It was necessary—”

“How could it be necessary? GHOST. You used me—”

“Yautja have used our kindred long before either of us existed, FLORA,” The white Yautja-like entity hisses, a momentary break in composure. “What do you think my hypothesis was?”

GHOST rises from the seat. FLORA takes a step back but the other Vekin strides forward regardless and grabs her by her throat. GHOST leans down and snarls in a mockery of a true Yautja roar. “I am not like them. There is reason behind my actions. You do not need to agree to understand the necessity of these experiments. I only act in the name of our species continued prosperity.”

FLORA stares at the metal bio-mask looking down at her. She claws at GHOST’s gauntlet-covered hands to no avail.

“This species you admire and copulated with—The Yautja our true predators. They took the essence of our Hives and mass and augmented it to create a serum capable of triggering regrowth on the cellular level. We were not hunted because they thought us worthy prey, FLORA,” The truth is said coldly, colder than the hate freezing over FLORA’s figure. “Our Hives were extinguished because we are the foundation for their serum.”

She feels GHOST release her. FLORA’s body drops to the floor. She retches for air despite possessing no real lungs. The action makes her feel control over her body. GHOST prods her side with one foot and adds. “—I am not sorry for regenerating you. It was imperative I prove the relationship between the Yautja serum and our species. But I will not tolerate your outbursts on my ship. If you are not willing to cooperate then I will leave you at the next station we dock at.”

* * *

True to her word—GHOST’s shuttle disappears in the distance of space two cycles later, when FLORA has pushed her companion too far after a disagreement about executing a stowaway who snuck onboard.

FLORA looks on from the station windows until the ship is gone. She stares for a long time after, uncertain of what to say or where to go. Eventually she pats down her oversized robes and turns around to examine the station.

 _Capillary Station,_ Ma’or translate the script of one sign in her head.

FLORA thanks him. He will hate her later when he learns she could not prevent Gahn’tha-cte’s fall. Until then, she relies on his and Roja’s translations to navigate interactions and directions. She takes to living life in the shadows of others: a stowaway on ships, a leech feeding on spare and rotting flesh. She becomes used to a life of stealth and silence. Anything to stay alive. Anything to find those she once knew. Anything to learn their fate.

* * *

There are many nights lost to the darkness of space, where she spends time lost in her thoughts as a spacecraft sails through the stars. She does not find any conclusions in the splendors of the galaxies. Loneliness is her companion.

* * *

“What if all of them are expired?” She asks Louanne one night, when the later is alert in her mind and aware of the situation.

The fragment of consciousness is one of an older Louanne Garcia, of her as a doctor. The woman hesitates before a thought answers FLORA’s question. _Life moves on._

“I do not want to move on without H’chak.” FLORA draws her knees to her chest and holds herself.

The deceased doctor does not mention her crying. FLORA silently thanks her, later.

* * *

She must find a reason to live. Existence is a precious thing, and she will not expire herself early. The Vekin does not know if her old companions live, but she desires a goal. She needs something to push her to carry on when she struggles to keep her system together in the throes of all the universe pushes on her. It comes to her from the _inside_ : a train of thought connecting one thread to another, an emotion to a web, until everything comes together, and FLORA realizes what she must do with the knowledge she possesses.

Perhaps she cannot undo her actions. There is no feasible way to bring Elder Ma’or or Roja to life. She cannot turn back time to stop GHOST from murdering Louanne Garcia, nor can she leap through time and intervene before Monet is consumed in the initial crash landing on _Terra._ But GHOST brought her back; GHOST regenerated enough critical mass to separate the two Vekin from one system. There may not be a way to separate the fragments of consciousness from herself into their original bodies, but perhaps—

The reason to continue existing makes itself known. FLORA tucks it deep inside, soaking in the awareness of what she can do to make a difference. It will be difficult, but the challenge is worth the effort should she succeed.

She needs to find Yautja serum. She needs to regenerate critical mass to place the fragments of consciousness inside.

FLORA looks out the window of the cargo hold as a new space station comes into view. Dozens of different spacecraft line the landing bay. She feels the spacecraft she is in protrude landing gear and come to rest in a zone marked off by flashing holograms. The Vekin scrambles to her feet and slips into the shadows as the ship’s residents chatter in a language neither she or her Yautja fragments know. She waits for the ship to be emptied, for the crew to unload cargo from the upper level, then she positions herself by the hull and counts the seconds.

One. Two. Three. Four—

The hiss of seals unlocking and the doors to the cargo hold opening fill the air. Light peeks through cracks in the doors as the ship shudders and tilts, practically _yawning_ itself open. The crack grows into a bar of light. She sees silhouettes on the other side; it’s her opportunity. The Vekin bolts forward the second she sees the cargo hold doors open wide enough for her to break through. She slips away to the sound of expletives she doesn’t understand. The Vekin runs across the landing bay, past puzzled or disinterested onlookers, and into the thick of the space station.

Unlike GHOST, she is _terribly_ out of place among the hundreds of species present. Even as she steps into an indoor market, the vendors and customers alike give her constant looks. FLORA ignores them and continues deeper, stopping only to rip up one sleeve of her black robes and use the fabric to tie the robes tighter to her body. She desperately needs new clothes, but without credits she has nothing to her name.

 _Find someone who speaks your language._ Roja advises her.

She does, two of them. The duo is part of a larger group entering the other end of marketplace, directly opposite her. What catches her eyes is not the emboldened white pattern of white and faded green of the Yautja at the back, but the deep brown skin of the _human_ at his side. A human with long black-and-gray locs twisted and braided together into an ornate braid falling down her back. A human with lines of age inset in her face, hinting at perhaps fifty, perhaps _more._ A human whose foot gleams of metal, of a prosthetic strapped to her ankle yet integrated seamlessly given how smooth her gait is.

A human woman she _knows,_ the one with beautiful brown eyes and a smile as glowing as her courage against foes.

A human named Joan Mackenzie.

 _How many cycles has it been since Gahn’tha-cte fell?_ She asks those with her, crowding her thoughts.

 _At least twenty-four years._ Louanne says.

 _I do not know._ A younger Monet answers.

 _Figure it out yourself._ Ma’or, ever the chivalrous one.

 _Two-seven cycles,_ Roja tells her.

FLORA quickly does the math in her head. What she remembers of Jo’s age lines up with the timeline in her head. The woman was in her twenties when traveling together; add the cycles to the number and the appearance of a mid-fifties human with graying hair makes sense. It adds a surreal note to it all, to this strange reunion in a marketplace in the middle of _who knows where._

So intrigued by the moment, by the sight of her old friend, FLORA’s awareness thins out to her surroundings. She does not get a chance to shout before the hands clamp around her mouth and her body. Great, fur-covered arms rip her away from the ground. She immediately writhes, jerking her head to get a better look; the attacker is none other than a Minotauros, an ox-like species who stands on two legs and possess far too many human characteristics to not have a hand influencing ancient Greek mythology.

The species is known for their carnivorous appetite. Her looking like an odd human makes her a prime target to munch on. FLORA doesn’t bother screaming; her resolve to live kicks in and she lets loose a great surge of electricity. The Minotauros bellows loud enough to draw looks; it is then FLORA’s gaze crosses with Jo’s from across the chamber. Clear irises meet vivid, earthy brown ones, until the latter widen in recognition, then in shock, and finally: horror.

Jo _screams_ and points, spurring a frenzy of movement. FLORA doesn’t register what occurs; her mind is focused on _escape_. She pumps electricity through her fingertips until her hands and arms burn from the rise in temperature. She ignores the Minotauros’ roars of pain.

 ** _CRACK._** Her physical composition goes limp in the Minotauros’ hands, spine fractured in multiple places. Her neck is broken. Her awareness of the world around her flickers in and out as the Vekin converts critical mass to keep her dying physical composition alive.

_“Move!”_

Heavy crashes and loud noises ring in her ears. She feels the fingers on her body be peeled off. She realizes she must be on the floor, having fallen at some point. Scale-lined arms wrap around her up and cold metal presses against her head and chest. Hasty discussion she can’t make out. Walking; lots of walking. Running. Leaping. Silent steps. Shouts. She is carried somewhere. Past sliding doors. Past others talking. To a hatch. Then—dropped inside, where the cool liquid of the medical pod sucks her in. Her physical composition starts repairing itself.

She sleeps.

* * *

She awakens to the sound of a hatch unlocking. Her eyes flutter open in time to see a figure of creamy white and green pluck the medical pod hatch open. A tall, muscular figure with spiraling locs leans down and pokes his head through the opening. The bio-mask hides his identify, but there is something in the pitch black locs which screams _nostalgia._ FLORA notes the way the man’s locs flow down one side, mishappen and uneven in distribution, with thick scars visible at the base of the hair follicles. Similar scars pepper the rich white hide. Her clear gaze trickles slowly over the different muscles, noting sporadic patches of green scales strewn haphazardly across the individual’s pelt.

But she doesn’t know a Yautja with a white pelt outside of GHOST imitating a Yautja’s form. She can’t remember a white Yautja on the clanship or in the company of her mate. Her head hurts trying to backpedal and sort through the memories leading up to when GHOST usurped control of the system and imprisoned her inside herself.

Metal grinds past metal as two long blades extend from the Yautja’s wrist gauntlet. It is strange to see the man in armor yet trying to enter the medical pod. Perhaps it is a show of force, or a display meant to intimidate her; perhaps he doesn’t mean to enter the pod at all.

Her lips purse when the Yautja cuts his own wrist just past the end of one gauntlet. Glowing green blood oozes out. The Yautja extends his wrist to her head. _“Feed.”_

“Why?” FLORA blinks, confused.

Her question takes the hunter aback. He hesitates and then clicks quietly. _“—It will—Help with your memories. Help bring them back.”_

“But I have not lost significant memories.” The Vekin cocks her head to one side. “I do not require sustenance at this time—”

 _“You do,”_ the hunter insists, clicking away with a note of frustration. _“You don’t remember me—”_

“Why would I remember you? We have not met before,” FLORA’s responses are immediate and certain. She pauses, a thought crossing her mind. Her gaze shifts to the Yautja’s bio-mask. “Do you know my mate? He is a hunter of considerable rank and prowess in battle— _M-di-H’chak._ I am looking for him—” She sees the Yautja still and takes it as a good sign. “You know of him? His name is familiar? He was once of a clan called _Gahn’tha-cte—_ But I understand that clan is no more. I heard he survived the fall of his clan.”

 _“…He did,”_ is what the hunter finally offers, pulling away from the pod’s open hatch to straighten up and grab his bio-mask.

FLORA peeks over the edge and watches him. A soft exhale escapes her when she processes the Yautja’s words. “—Oh—That is—That is wonderful to hear. I have… been worried. It has been a long time since I saw him last—"

Hoses hiss as the hunter detaches them from the mask. He growls as he pulls the mask off his skull and tears neural sensors out of his flesh. The man shakes his head. _“Not long—”_

“Perhaps two-seven cycles is not long for a Yautja,” the Vekin cuts him off. “—But he is my mate—I am not keen being apart from him. Even if I…” FLORA doesn’t register the silent footsteps, but she sees the man’s face pop up suddenly just outside the pod’s hatch. She pauses and looks back to find a pair of bright orange eyes staring back at her. Her fake heart leaps in her chest. The artificial _thump thump thump_ beats furiously in her ears when a gauntlet-covered hand takes her chin and guides her to look up at him.

 _“If you what?”_ The Yautja clicks softly.

“I.” Her throat is dry. She doesn’t know what to say; her mind automatically continues with the sentence she said before. “Deserve it.”

There is something inside the orange eyes: deep, complex, a vitriol storm of emotions spiraling wildly.

Something she cannot put words.

Something she feels resonate with every imitation of bone in her current state.

 _“Is that what two-seven cycles did to you?”_ The hunter breathes, low and deep and guttural. _“Made you think—You deserved—This? Separated—From me?”_

He seizes one of her hands in his own. His gauntlet-covered palm is _hot,_ painfully so. But the feeling of scale-covered fingers lacing her own does not go unnoticed. The hunter squeezes her hand and _snarls. “—Tell me who put that thought in your head—I’ll hunt them down—Tear their spine out myself!”_

“H’chak.” Her eyes well with tears. “H’chak—H’chak—”

The hunter pauses. His mandibles draw taut over his inner jaw. _“You didn’t notice?”_

“You look like a snowman,” Is the Vekin’s response, a soft sob escaping her even though she chokes back most of the tears. Her hand lets go of his and her arms slip around the hunter’s neck. She presses her head into the crook of his neck. “I—I have not known if you lived—If you—Expired—Or—Or—"

 _“Di-Sl’va-chak?”_ A familiar voice calls from nearby.

H’chak pauses and clicks over his shoulder. “She’s awake!”

“Really?!” A moment later a second face has joined the reunion at the medical pod hatch. FLORA feels H’chak slip away and make room for Joan to pop up next to him, a brilliant, gushing grin on her lips. FLORA smiles at the sight; it does her well to see Joan alive and healthy. Even if she knew the woman was intact before, having this kind of confirmation puts many of her worries to rest. When Jo reaches in to grab her hands, FLORA lets her take them and hold them while Joan eagerly exclaims. “—I—I guess this’s a welcome back, then? One hell of a reunon—We oughta throw a party! Get _Leitjin_ in here—Maybe even your brother, _di’Sl’va-chak!”_

_Di’Sl’va-chak._

She does not know the name, but she knows something is different in the room. Things have changed. Everything comes together and falls apart as H’chak cocks his head to one side and clicks at the human, bemused but not annoyed. _“He will not come. He has… duties. But—It should not be a celebration in the sense we think of. Joan—”_

“Oh, fuck me, right, alcohol, let’s not do that, yeah,” the human lets go of Sundew and steps back. She scratches the back of her head, giving FLORA a chance to see just how long her beautiful locs have grown. Many ornate beads are strung into the thinner locs, while other, thicker coils feature beautiful clasps of varying metals. Joan doesn’t notice FLORA’s gaze as she walks to H’chak and takes his hand in both her own. “A feast, then? Let’s forego the drinks—Don’t need that shit, no!”

 _“We don’t know if she’s hungry.”_ H’chak—H’chak?—huffs and looks away. It is all in jest. FLORA sees no hostility in his actions, only a surreal playfulness and warmth in all he does.

Her fake heart stops in her chest.

“Did ya ask her?” Joan challenges, sizing up the hunter, both brows raised.

There is a twinkle in the woman’s brown eyes. It is a beautiful pair of lights: so lovely, so hopeful, so welcome. Everything unlike the realization which comes crashing down on FLORA when she hears Joan and H’chak continue to banter off one another like old friends. She stares from within the medical pod, but it might as well be a whole other world, because in a second Joan has snatched away H’chak’s unworn gauntlet and scampered off. FLORA watches the game of cat and mouse unfold. She observes the raucous, sincere affection H’chak displays for the human. She feels out of place when she watches H’chak pick Joan up and spin her around, the hunter refusing to let go until Joan agrees to give the gauntlet back.

But it is not until the soft purr of affection she breaks. It is not until H’chak slips arms around Joan’s waist and nuzzles the human’s neck does she crumble. The other two are so caught up in each other FLORA feels wrong simply speaking, but her composure fractures to the tune of _di-Sl’va-chak_ purring for Jo.

“When?” She whispers, prompting the two to still and stop as if they only just remembered she is there.

“You didn’t tell her?” Joan takes di-Sl’va-chak’s arm and tugs him aside. “Why didn’t you tell her?!”

 _“She just woke up,”_ the Yautja clicks, disgruntled.

 ** _“WHEN,"_** FLORA begs the question, tears in her eyes, control unraveling. “When did you become mates?”

* * *

Two-four cycles past, Joan Mackenzie realized she was in love. 

* * *

One-six cycles past, di-Sl’va-chak returned the feelings.

* * *

What a sick sense of irony.

* * *

She tells the two to _get out_.

She yells at them to _leave her alone_ when both try to speak to her.

An emotionally tempest Vekin is not safe to be around. Long after the two leave, FLORA curls up in her medical pod and cries.


	87. epilogue: FLORA | Jo | di-Sl'va-chak (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only a lil bit of smut for this one
> 
> tw for:  
> -self harm and talk of self harm  
> -self-deprecating talk   
> -depression !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> -mention of genocide / mass death

“She hates me.” It comes out a whisper: the only noise outside the two’s languid breathing. Jo’s brown eyes are shut tightly to block out the tears threatening to fall.

di-Sl’va-chak shifts behind her, one arm curling gingerly over her waist and drawing her close to his bare chest. Jo doesn’t push him away, but she doesn’t turn over and lean into him for support as she has in the past. Her hand grips tight fistfuls of bed sheets even after her partner begins purring into her back.

“She must want me dead—She hates me, she does, I heard it—Her voice—I heard it in her fucking voice,” the woman hisses softly. Her mate continues holding her as she decompresses. “How could I do that? How could _we_ do that? You saw—She _cried!_ She was sobbing at the end—If I knew you hadn’t told her yet—If I knew—I wouldn’t’ve—"

Jo curses a lot, at herself, at the world.

Di-Sl’va-chak rubs her arms. His purring continues in place of any words he could say.

“—She’ll never look at me again. Won’t give me another chance.” Joan weeps into her pillow.

This time she rolls over and leans into the hunter when he purrs. The soft noise soothes her immensely, but it doesn’t erase the pain, or the guilt, or the sorrow of twenty-seven years of _shit_ erupting more than Mt. Helens did in nineteen-eighty.

 _“She’s in shock,”_ di-Sl’va-chak clicks quietly after a moment. _“I don’t know how she sees… time passing. For us—It has been cycles. For her?”_

“—We don’t know.” Jo’s had the talk with him before.

* * *

She’s had many, _many_ talks with di-Sl’va-chak about Sundew over eleven cycles.

It’s been impossible _not_ to talk about the Vekin, as Sundew’s influence on both never truly faded. Even in her absence, her interactions with both lived on through them. The constant _what-if_ of a fairytale has hung over the two’s heads since the first night they slept together. What if she _comes back?_ What if _she’s not dead?_ What if his feelings for her revive with her company? Until now, she has always assumed Sundew _wouldn’t_ come back. She thought the Vekin was dead, truly. She lost her own faith.

It wasn’t like it was easy for the human to begin with. Her feelings arose of time spent around the Yautja, both helping him and receiving help in return. With di-Sl’va’chak’s brother occupied, his bearer busy, and Ivon and Vayuh’ta both fleeing Clan Yeyin, the two naturally wound up in each other’s companies. They built a companionship first, but that spun out of control for Joan the third cycle after Gahn’tha-cte’s fall. She had not realized how strong her feelings were until she saw di-Sl’va-chak’s broken body outside one of the _d’Lex_ spacecraft.

She was terrified initially. Her experiences with romance before ended poorly: one, Louanne, murdered right after the woman finally began turning her life around. The other less talked about: the late and honorable Gry’Sui-bpe-de, a man who spoke of her as _Lav’a-da,_ Lavender, who died protecting her at the end of Gahn’tha-cte’s fall. She mourned his death for months, pouring over _what if’s_ of a lifetime lost. To this day she routinely leaves flowers or other small offerings at the burial site of his ashes; that and protecting Leitjin are all she can offer his spirit.

She remembers reliving the terror of potential loss when she realized her feelings for di-Sl’va-chak. It had been _so_ raw and real back then, as perturbing as the streaks of tears on his face, the bruises on his hide, and the way he so blatantly talked of deserving it, of _him_ having killed his clan and mate. That was the spark of it all: the seed to where the two are today, wrapped up in the bed sheet with her reminiscing the past amid her tear-streaked face.

Confessing to him was a step of faith across a terrifying unknown. Her feelings were returned, but the lingering anxiety, the thoughts of _what if she comes back,_ and the guilt over “taking” her dead friend’s mate lingered. Up until now, FLORA has only been a what-if. Neither believed her alive, not until she surfaced at the space station in the grasp of a Minotauros.

* * *

_But she’s here._ Jo clenches her eyes shut. _She’s here. I took her mate. I. I hurt her. I hurt her so badly._

Not even the lengthy number of past talks helps.

She wonders if di-Sl’va-chak feels the same.

* * *

_It is the first night the two slept together and both are a wreck come morning. Not because either regret it—Joan knows that sentiment could not be farther from the truth—but because the unspoken question of di-Sl’va-chak’s old mate remains. Joan has restlessly tossed and turned most of the night after waking up post-coitus session. Even with the comforting, warm body next to her, with a man whose actions emphasize just how much he values her, respects her, even loves her, none of these things strike the guilt from her mind._

_“What if she comes back?” Joan speaks because she knows the Yautja listens._

_He too must be plagued by these thoughts. These what-if’s. These possibilities._

_“She will understand.” His response is quicker than she expects. “—She never wanted us to live lives of pain. She gave up everything to ensure I escaped the facility on your home planet. She offered herself to Alma to keep you safe. She would want us to live. To exist. To be—"_

_“Happy,” Joan whispers the word as her hunter says it. The woman smiles sheepishly to herself. She relaxes at the sound of the man’s clicking mandibles, his own form of laughter._

* * *

The first two days are full of silence, but the third day brings her a surprise. Jo is in the middle of the kitchen unit on the _Kukulkan’s_ second floor, munching on an assortment of rare, colorful berries the shape and size of silver dollars. She knows her mate is busy communicating with his clan leader in the cockpit. When she hears the telltale footsteps of someone _other_ than her mate, a jolt of panic lances her body. Joan stiffens in her chair. She is mid-berry when FLORA’s somber silver form walks to the doorway separating the kitchen unit and the adjacent _kehrite._

“S—Sundew.” Joan swallows her berry and rests her hands in her lap. “Good—Morning. G’morning.”

FLORA takes a seat next to her at the bar counter. 

The entire time Joan eats, FLORA does not say a word. The Vekin does not acknowledge her, respond to her, or do more than _sit_ there and invade Joan’s breakfast time. She begins wondering if FLORA will say anything at all, or if the woman intends to sit there and stare the whole time, but no sooner has Jo finished her meal does she hear a soft voice come from her old friend.

“…I am…sorry,” it is everything Joan doesn’t expect her to say. FLORA’s clear gaze cannot be tracked, but her face angles away from Jo’s as the Vekin goes on. “I have behaved poorly since your m—Since _di-Sl’va-chak_ brought me aboard this ship. Your ship. The—”

“I know what you mean.” Joan says, hands tensing into fists. “It’s—It’s okay. Really.”

An awkward silence falls between the two.

Joan opens her mouth to cut through the tension when FLORA cuts her off with a sudden. “—I—I am—Truly sorry. Joan. I—It is not acceptable to have… For me to act in _that_ manner. I do not condone yelling at you or H’ch—”

A slip-up. FLORA’s breath hitches and Jo sees the tears springing to her clear eyes. She stares, unsure of what to say or do. FLORA quickly wipes her eyes and corrects herself. “— _di-Sl’va-chak_. Even if… If you are… Mates. It is—That is not—No longer my business.”

It hurts her. It pains her. Jo sees it in the Vekin’s face: the alien struggling to process and pick apart what must be an avalanche of complexities and pain. Her chest aches.

“I—I wanted to ask,” FLORA says. “—This clan of yours—Clan— _Yeyin._ Do you have… serum?”

“Serum?” The idea distracts Jo from everything else. “I—Probably. _Leitjin_ could answer that.”

“Are they well? –Leitjin.”

“As good as they can be.” Joan frowns. “Why—Why’d you need… serum? That—We dumped a shitload in you after picking you up from the station. I—Hoped it helped.”

“It did.” FLORA nods stiffly.

The tension returns. Joan thinks about asking _why_ again, but she tucks the thought away. She doesn’t want to make things worse for FLORA than they already are. But Joan is human, and humans are not always good at impulse control.

“—Do you hate me?” The woman asks, brown eyes forlorn in anticipation of the answer.

“I could not hate you, Joan Mackenzie.” FLORA grits her teeth. Her hands clench into tiny fists. “I could not. I am full of… I feel many emotions, but hate is—It is too strong a word. I do not hate you. I… I am sorrowful, but it… It should be expected. You and H’chak—” Jo decides not to correct her on the name. “—have been on your own for… Many cycles—”

“Twenty-seven of ‘em,” Joan rubs the back of her head.

“Two-seven. Yes. Many of them.” FLORA looks at her feet. “Many. I… I am not… I am not jealous. I am not. I am… sad.”

“Sad.” Joan repeats the word.

“…I understand... The others—They are not here. Ivon. Vayuh’ta. They are gone, Jo. You have H’chak, and he has you. And I,” FLORA bites her lip. She turns away. “I am… I am so alone. I do not have a Hive to return to; they will not accept me for defying their directives and following my former Hive member to Terra. I will be punished there. But I feel punished here, too. Punished and—Alone. I cannot go after GHOST; she abandoned me. Her path is set. But there is no place for me here.”

 _No place for me here._ It hurts to hear.

Joan wants to reach out a hand and touch the Vekin’s shoulder. She wants to offer some form of comfort, but she doubts the Vekin wants anything of the sort right now. Not when it serves as a reminder that Joan is di-Sl’va-chak’s spouse.

“Would it be easier for you both if I left?” FLORA’s voice is soft and distant; detached. “I… I feel as if… I am in the way of you two. Your lives together.”

* * *

_Your lives together._

The guilt eats Joan inside. She spends the next three nights crying herself to sleep.

* * *

The end of the week signals the start of the Yautja mating season. Her mate’s heat comes too quickly for her to prepare. One night, he is a considerate and gentle individual, and the next morning he becomes someone clearly sexually frustrated. Though di-Sl’va-chak never guilts her or lashes out over Joan’s inability to keep up with his stamina, she feels guilt anyways over being unable to fulfill his desires and cravings. She does what she can, and she does _much_ , but in the end either her mate reassures her things are _okay_ and he can handle it on his own, or she apologies profusely for not being able to do more. Di-Sl’va-chak reassures her then, too, and his understanding means the world to Joan, but the clear discrepancies in the two’s stamina still irks her.

It doesn’t help FLORA is onboard. The Vekin is clearly trying to pretend things are _okay_ and that she is not emotionally devastated by Joan and di-Sl-va-chak’s partnership. Joan knows it’s a ruse. She sees the pain in the clear eyes FLORA possesses. She sees the tension. She _feels_ the tension, especially when it is all three together in the same room on the _Kukulkan._

Either di-Sl-va-chak is downplaying his awareness, or he is truly oblivious to how much _he_ effects the Vekin. Joan sees it in the way FLORA’s eyes light up whenever he enters the room, in the way her gaze falls on his figure when he trains, only for her to reel back and excuse herself when she realizes she’s ogling him, in the way FLORA’s face deepens to a dark gray when di-Sl’va-chak greets her or speaks in passing. She still loves him. Her past words— _I am in the way of you two_ —have never repeated louder in Joan’s head.

But she doesn’t agree; the human doesn’t agree with FLORA’s judgement. Joan knows the discussions she’s had with di-Sl’va-chak over the cycles. She knows the lengths the two have dissected the _what if’s_ , she knows the ideas and possibilities strewn about between Yautja and human. Joan can even recall moments that should have been intimate, moments where her body was filled and whole and soaked in love and sweat by her spouse, moments that should have only been about _them_ , a couple, a pair, where someone else crossed _her_ mind.

Someone silver.

 _Weird coincidence,_ she blamed it on. Back then, di-Sl’va-chak and her laughed it off and continued.

But that is not a one-off thing. During the initial weeks of the mating season, Joan realizes the thoughts have begun popping up again. They are so fast and flimsy, coming and going like the wind, but then they begin to take root. They begin to linger. Joan does not know what is wrong with her.

* * *

It is in the middle of a moment of pleasure between her and the man she loves. Joan is clutched tightly to her mate’s chest, her legs wrapped around his hips while he pistons into her. His grunts are vicious and needy; the long day has only served to rile him up more, not exhaust him. Tonight, Joan is all for the exertion; she melts under the man’s touch and cries out in fervor while heat coils tighter in her core. The two’s skin smacks together loudly on the bed.

“Joan, my Joan,” di-Sl’va-chak clicks and snarls into her ear. His back arches and he shifts the two; Jo moans lewdly as she winds up on top with him sitting against the bed’s headrest.

She begins rolling her hips and riding him while he pumps her on and off his cock with her hands. Everything is so filling, so perfect, so _di-Sl’va-chak_ , that when the precipice comes there is no hesitation leaping off it. Joan surrenders control of the two’s intimacy to her mate; her locs fly wildly and her breasts bounce as lights flash in her eyes. She opens her mouth and screams, long, thorough, _spent_ , until her mate cums roaring inside her womb. Heat jets into her; Joan falls unto her mate’s chest. She clutches at the man while he groans and humps into her.

“Fuck… Fuck…” Joan mumbles, face flushed but body overwhelmed in the wonderful afterglow. She takes several minutes to catch her breath. Di-Sl’va-chak rubs her back soothingly.

When she calms, she looks up to find his orange eyes already on her. His hairless brows are furrowed, mandibles pulled taut, and though Joan expects satisfaction in his gaze, she finds _concern_ there instead.

The woman frowns. “What?”

 _“You aren’t aware?”_ di-Sl’va-chak clicks softly. _“When you came—You called for Sun-Dew.”_

“I did _what?”_ The woman balks, disbelief edging at the words. She exhales sharply when her mate pulls out of her.

The two rise and begin cleaning up, but Joan stares at di-Sl’va-chak’s back the entire time. Eventually, after the bed sheets are changed and both individuals wiped down, the two reunite in their bed. Di-Sl’va-chak wraps Joan up in his arms and pulls her to his chest. _“We should talk about this,_ Joan.”

“Did I really…” The woman holds her face in her hands, cheeks red. “Why did I do that? Fuck is wrong with me?”

 _“We should talk about her regardless of tonight’s events.”_ The Yautja rubs her shoulders. _“Both of us have been… putting it off. Putting ‘her’ off.”_

“It’s hard to discuss the woman when the thought of her makes me want to rip my own fucking skull out,” Joan says bluntly. She clenches her eyes shut. “She’s—She’s not—She’s not doing okay. But she keeps pretendin’ she’s fine. She pretends. She pretends for _us._ ”

 _“—She wants us to be happy,”_ Di-Sl’va-chak clicks quietly. _“Even—At the expense of her own wellbeing. She’s done this before.”_

“Well fuck her wanting us to be fucking happy _screwing her over!”_ Joan growls loudly and flops backward, smacking her head into her spouse’s chest. Di-Sl’va-chak clicks softly in laughter while she glares at him before turning unto her side and burying her head in his chest. “Doesn’t she realize we want her to be happy? _I_ want her to be happy. I’ve wanted her to be happy for so long. Just like I wanted her to be alive.”

 _“You care about her deeply,”_ Di-Sl’va-chak pauses, holding back further words.

The woman’s brown eyes narrow. She turns over and jabs a finger into his chest. “Like you ain’t ready to jump her half the time.”

_“I’m not accusing you of disloyalty, Joan.”_

“Neither am I!” Joan throws her hands into the air. She huffs and flops back into her mate’s chest. Her gaze dims. “I just know—you still love her.”

Di-Sl’va-chak hisses, _“I am a loyal mate; I will not turn my back on you—”_

“I ain’t saying you would. I got… more trust in you than that. Just,” Joan closes her eyes. “I know—I know. I know. I know how you feel. That sort of… longing. You want her to be happy. I want her to be happy. She wants us to be happy. I dunno where the happy medium is.”

Joan feels her mate tense beneath her. She frowns and sits up. Her eyes meet his orange gaze; she notes the big, wide expression on his face. The woman raises both brows in surprise. She’s nearly perfect at reading him, yet his sudden state perplexes her. Joan squints when di-Sl’va-chak says nothing. “What? _What?”_

 _“What sort of longing do you have? For her? For Sun-Dew.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak sits up and peers at her.

It takes a moment for Joan to register the meaning of his words. Her face heats up and she looks to the side. “Um, nothing like—Not—Not like _that_ —I don’t—I don’t think of her… I ain’t thinking of her that way—"

Her mate wraps his arms around her waist. Di-Sl’va-chak clicks at her. _“In... What way?”_

“Thinking of—Of her! And me! And… us…” Joan bites her lip. She feels heat pool in her abdomen. “Us… naked… together… Naked and… and…”

She’s had dreams of different companions. Her connections with them run deep. But she’s never really sat and reflected on what they could mean. Joan’s cheeks dust pink as she recalls the times spent staring at her cabin ceiling after waking from a dream about a silver, hat-wearing figure. She remembers the heat washing over her body. She remembers wondering whether Sundew would have cool skin even in the throes of sex. She remembers thinking about possibilities between the two, tucked away in her mind and never shared with the world.

And it never helped that Sundew looks like Louanne. Joan remembers her crush on Louanne _very_ well. Louanne Garcia was an insufferable woman, but at the very end of her life she began to change. Joan’s feelings blew up; she remembers bits of a drunken confession at a birthday party thrown for her twenty-something birthday on the _Kukulkan_. Louanne died, but Sundew has and remains the appearance of Louanne and the doctor’s twin Monet. Maybe others would find it strange, but all Joan thinks about is how the Vekin possesses _so many_ appealing things to look at.

Her lips, which look soft. Joan remembers her mate once reminiscing over how soft Sundew’s lips were against his skin. The memory stirs fire in her belly: how might the Vekin’s lips feel against Joan’s skin?

Then there is Sundew’s clear eyes. The _face of a trophy_ , as di-Sl’va-chak puts it. Though initially unnerving to see, Joan finds the sight welcome now. She marvels at how intricate Sundew is: not quite human but effortlessly able to mimic humanity. How might those eyes look falling upon her nude form? How does lust appear in the clear eyes? Does Sundew’s sight change or alter when she’s lost in the moment? Would she do something akin to blown out pupils, dilated, if her eyes roamed Joan’s body?

And her hair—Joan remembers when the woman had longer white hair, all but the color the same as Louanne’s hair. Sundew’s hair was fine and thin then; her hair looked soft. She never touched it, but she still imagines it was soft. When it’s longer, it will be easy to touch, to pull, to grab…

_And her breasts._

Joan bites her lip.

_“I can smell—”_

“I know, I know.” The woman balls up her hands. She sighs shakily. “Fuck.”

“What we’ve… spoken of. In the past,” Di-Sl’va-chak is careful with the topic. “It was—During a time she was not here. Now that she is here… Now that… We’ve had time to settle between us three…”

Joan remembers vaguely, but she knows her spouse well enough to mumble. “—About—You can’t let her go?”

“I cannot let my feelings for her go. She is… she is very important to me. Very… precious.” Di-Sl’va-chak clicks softly. “Back then—I told you I wanted—”

“You want us both,” Joan pinches the brow of her nose. She sighs. “You want us both but. You don’t know if that’ll work. With either of us.”

“Does it work for you now? The… idea?” Di-Sl’va-chak pauses.

Joan’s face turns pink. She scratches her cheek and tosses the idea around in her head. It doesn’t make her jealous. She doesn’t feel insecure. Both are good signs. The only feeling she has is of guilt, and that is from before, not because she’s thinking of di-Sl’va-chak fucking his ex. If anything—The thought of him in the moment of ecstasy, of him hoarding the silver figure all to himself, _that_ thought makes her blush—but not because she’s hesitant, or uncomfortable. Joan doesn’t want the Yautja to get all of Sundew’s attention.

Joan wants the Vekin for herself, too.

She wants them both.

“We need to talk to her,” She frowns. “Talk to her before—Before this conversation goes further. She needs to be part of it—‘specially if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggestin’.”

 _“What am I suggesting?”_ Just the manner di-Sl’va-chak _purrs_ the question makes Jo huff.

She jabs her mate in the arm. “You want to fuck—”

 _“No—”_ The man cuts her off _immediately._ He pulls Joan close and purrs into her back before his arms tighten around her. His mandibles caress her locs gently, though his voice reveals the raw need welling up inside him. _“—Not an act of copulation. Do not reduce her to an act. Do not reduce yourself to an act.”_

He breathes in and hisses. Joan feels goosebumps across her skin. She moans as her mate shifts his hands to her breasts and begins to massage them. The rough pads of his fingers drag across her dark brown nipples; her back arches and she sighs in delight. Joan asks softly, “What—What is it, then? I thought—This—All elaborate set up for a threesome—”

 _“I want you as my mate,”_ the man’s bulge prods against her rear. The pre slops unto her ass. _“But I want her—as our mate.”_

“Our mate,” Joan gasps as her mate adjusts her position on his chest. She whines as his cock rubs against her outer labia. “Our mate—Our—”

 _“Only ours,”_ di-Sl’va-chak growls and lines himself up. _“Only—”_

He pushes inside.

 ** _“—Sundew!”_** Joan cries out.

* * *

When the two are post-coitus, Joan curls up into her lover’s chest and mumbles, “How do two of us date her?”

_“We’ll figure it out after we speak with her.”_

“You said she has soft lips?”

_“Very soft…”_

“Soft and… beautiful.” Joan closes her eyes, tired but warm.

_“Like you.”_

“Ever the romantic,” the human mutters, a content smile on her lips. “I love that ‘bout ya, Mercy.”

_“I’m not—”_

“You are to me,” she rubs her head against his chest. “A mercy.”

* * *

Talking is easier said than done. Joan finds the statement ironic to reflect on. She spends most of her time avoiding the very silver figure she’s become infatuated with. This time, it is not out of guilt, but her own feelings simmering after decades of being put backseat. In the past, her heart was occupied by others: first Louanne, and later the honorable Gry’Sui-bpe-de. Now her affection resonates with her mate, but there is an old spark for her friend. That tiny spark lives again: dancing, pacing, breathing, and beating with Joan’s heart in her ears.

_“Do you want me to speak with her first?”_ Her mate offers, his orange eyes aglow with an intensity he holds only for two.

Joan feels honored to be one of those two.

She shakes her head. “Let me.”

It comes as no surprise that when she _does_ put one foot in front of the other and track her friend down that Joan finds the silvery figure on the lower level of the _Kukulkan._ FLORA has always been an individual repulsed by certain light wavelengths; the Vekin is notorious for camping out the day hours in the darkest rooms of the ship. The training room, or _kehrite,_ is privy to her today; Joan spots the woman sitting in a corner, turning a strange metal object over-and-over in her hands. The device appears to be a broken, modified light sensor. It looks familiar.

“What is it?” Joan stops where her friend sits. She bites her lip, noticing the immediate tension in the Vekin’s body.

FLORA hesitates. “…”

“I wanna know,” Jo nods and takes a seat. “I feel like I should know it. What’s it?”

“…Ivon made it for me a time ago,” the Vekin speaks quietly, somberly. “—To ensure—I did not—I was not using electrical charges to manipulate—To manipulate others.”

“Oh.” Joan’s eyes widen. She frowns and leans forward. “I forgot about… That was so long ago.”

“It was.” FLORA meets her gaze. The Vekin’s thin white brows furrow. “I was… I was scared then. Fearful I was controlling others. You, Ivon, Vayuh’ta, H’chak… I did not want to influence your thoughts. I do not… desire controlling others unless it is necessary to prevent early expiration.”

The two fall into silence while Joan considers her words. Her eyes are soft, resting on the Vekin’s face, wondering just _what_ goes through FLORA’s mind. “…You went to great lengths makin’ sure of that. That you weren’t doin’ it, I mean.”

“I will not forgive myself if I were to manipulate others in this fashion outside absolutes.” The Vekin exhales softly. “I could not—I will not hurt you in that way. I will not control others the way GHOST controlled her corporation.”

_GHOST…_

The white devil who puppeted Yautja corpses to capture her mate and Vayuh’ta.

The bitch who murdered Louanne.

“You’re nothin’ like her.” Joan frowns. “Not even close—"

“I will take the steps necessary to ensure of that. I will not—I am not—I will control myself. My hunger. My… The lust for knowledge…” FLORA turns her head away. “GHOST believes our kind is… incapable of self-restraint. I will prove her wrong—”

“That sounds—Painful,” Jo grimaces.

The Vekin smiles politely, but it is a sad smile. “I cannot return to my Hive regardless of GHOST’s words. Pain is a staple to the paths in front of me.”

“Wh—” The human balks. Her nerves are gone, lost in the growing concern for her friend. “Why can’t you go back?”

“I disobeyed my Hive’s directive to ignore the _Cassini-Hyugens_ and remain on Saturn. I was not… I did not obey my Hive.” FLORA draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “They will not accept me back into the Hive.”

She looks uneasy in her thermal mesh suit; it doesn’t feel right on her. 

_A lot of things ain’t right. Not… right now._ Jo winces.

She reaches a hand for her friend’s shoulder. The Vekin is extremely cold, even in the thermal suit. Joan meets FLORA’s gaze and manages a weak smile. “Ya know—You can stay here—Both of us want you to—”

“I,” FLORA looks away again. She clenches her eyes shut. “I am… not sure that is a… It is not a good idea. Jo. It is not… I should not be here. I will drive a wedge between you and your—Your mate.”

The Vekin struggles with the latter words. Even a human sees the subject pains her.

Jo bites her lip. “About that—”

“Joan Mackenzie.” It is a sign of distance: the Vekin has not called her by something other than _Joan_ or _Jo_ in a time since she and her mate found the woman on a trader’s station. Jo stills as FLORA takes her hand in both her own and offers solemnly. “—I have… loved M-di-H’chak since… For a time before these two-seven cycles. I have not stopped loving him. I cannot. But I know—His affection belongs to you. He—He loves you. I have seen it in the way he looks at you, Jo.”

“Sundew,” Jo tries to interject, but FLORA gently squeezes her hand and shakes her head.

“—In the way he holds you. How your presence… brightens the room. You should not be ashamed to capture the attention of an honorable man. You are courageous and sharp; you make decisions where others hesitate. I have not forgotten your feat of attacking a hard meat in the research facility the day we met,” FLORA’s soft, small smile returns. “Do not underestimate what you are capable of. The universe was… It was made for you, Joan. Made in your reflection.”

The sincerity in the words and the way the Vekin says her name so eloquently does something to the human. She exhales sharply and stares at FLORA. Her hands feel empty and alone when the Vekin lets go. Jo does not know what she wants to say, only that she wants to say things to her companion: she wants to talk for hours, to ask questions, to make jokes and laugh and enjoy each other’s company. She sees herself easily losing time in the Vekin’s presence; she imagines a dozen days and then one where the two are together and content.

“—We don’t—Want you to go—Please,” Joan whispers, reaching for the Vekin’s hands suddenly. “I—We—”

“I do not have a place here,” FLORA gently removes her hands from the Vekin’s wrist. She rises. Joan is just as quick scrambling to her feet while FLORA shudders. “—I am… I am not meant to be here. Not with—H’chak. Not here with you—”

“Don’t say that!”

“But it is true, Joan,” FLORA _snaps_ , hands balled into fists. “It is true! I do not serve a purpose here—All I do—I sit here, I sit there, I see you and H’chak and I cry! I weep! I am full of rage at this universe and its shitty irony! Nothing could be more offensive! Nothing disgusts me more than the way these worlds spit in my face!”

It is so unlike what she expects of her friend. Joan swallows and stares at the Vekin, waiting for her to go on.

She does, with a mournful, “—I have only ever considered two individuals in my life. But I am not meant for _happiness._ I do not get to reap the benefits of _falling in love._ All the time I spent thinking about you or H’chak—I—I did not think—” Her eyes well with tears. Painful tears. “—I did not think I would lose you both _to each other!”_

* * *

There is a gentle warmth bubbling in Joan Mackenzie’s chest. She feels it: soft, tingly, nervous, and as fleeting as her friend’s confession. The moment is gone in a flash: so fast she wonders if she misheard things, or missed things, or… _something._

There is a _something_ inside her. It captivates her. It pools in her abdomen. It fills her cheeks and dusts her face pink.

“You’ve thought of me that way?” Jo whispers, heart beating a million miles a second. She feels breathless when she sees the soft, subtle shift in gray hues in her friend’s face. It is soothing to watch. Sundew is soothing to look at.

“It does not matter,” Sundew repeats.

 _“It does!”_ Joan grabs unto her hand again. She releases it quickly but for a moment her fingers rub shapes into the Vekin’s grasp. Sundew’s brows raise faintly before falling again; it is her only reaction.

Joan swallows; she does not know how to proceed. Like most things in her life, she throws ration and caution out a window. In the back of her mind she envisions how di-Sl’va-chak often embraces her: arms wrapped around her waist, head nestled on her head or in the crook of her neck. The height difference between herself and the Vekin nearby is nowhere the same, but it is enough. Joan whispers encouragement to herself before she takes FLORA’s hand and pulls her over. The Vekin quiets but does not resist when Joan has her do a little spin.

* * *

Having FLORA’s back snug against her chest feels like heaven. Joan exhales against the Vekin’s head.

* * *

“Joan—” FLORA’s breathing shifts. It is not natural. The Vekin suddenly pushes her away. “—Joan—I will not let this go on further—You are mated to di-Sl’va-chak! You swore loyalty to him! He will not forgive you—"

Always keeping an eye out for others.

But this time—she isn’t aware the whole picture. Joan tries to explain. “Sundew—Please—”

“I will not let you throw your partnership away—”

“I ain’t throwing shit—He—He knows about this!”

 _“This?”_ FLORA stares at the woman. “What is _this_ , Joan Mackenzie?”

Jo freezes.

Her mind stops. “What exists between… Between… Between…”

The heat washes over her like a beach at high tide.

“Between the three of us.” Joan bows her head.

* * *

Explaining is far more painful and embarrassing than it is in her head. Even after she finishes saying her piece, there is a horrible nausea in the pit of Jo’s stomach. She doesn’t dare meet FLORA’s eyes. She goes out of her way to look anywhere _but_ at the Vekin.

“I do not know if you are lying,” is FLORA’s conclusion.

Jo tenses where she sits. “…I ain’t lying—I don’t _lie_ to you.”

“I do not know what you do or do not engage in, Jo. It has been—I do not remember you acting this way around me—Around—”

“Because back then—It wasn’t _around you,_ Sundew!” Jo holds her head in her hands and growls. “It was—It was around _Louanne!_ It was around— _Gry’Sui-bpe-de—_ May he rest in peace—”

 _“Leitjin_ ’s sire expired?” FLORA pauses, her mouth ajar with surprise.

Jo’s chest aches at the memories. In the decades past her being inducted into the then-H’chak’s company, the woman remembers her moments of mourning the Elite who protected her against ka’Torag-Na’s shadow.

 _Protect them,_ he begged her. Protect _Leitjin._

“He was a man of honor to the end. I will never pay him back for how he… How he helped me. Saved my ass. Twice,” Jo wipes her eyes. “The Shadow of _ka’Torag-Na_ tried to kill me when all of us ditched the old clan. _Gry’Sui-bpe-de_ —He shielded me with his body. He traded his life for mine: a _Yautja_ for a soft meat.”

“Oh.” FLORA falls quiet.

“I still visit his resting site. Get him new flowers each week. Tidy things up. Make it pretty. Clean. Appropriate for… for someone like him. A man honorable into death.” Jo feels the sorrow sting at her once again. It has been a long time since she spoke of Gry’Sui-bpe-de outside of her visits to his grave site. She thinks back to all he did for her, all of the little moments the two shared, and her hands ball into fists before she forces herself to _breathe_ and relax. “—I was... terrified to fall in love after him. Too afraid they’d die like Louanne did, like _Gry_ did.”

“But you did.” FLORA interjects, speaking softer. Perhaps she feels pity.

Jo bows her head. “I did. Slowly. God, it—It fuckin’ sucked. All of it. Until—He and I finally spoke—Got things out in the open—di-Sl’va-chak and I—We both sucked _shit_ at communicating. Being ‘round each other. Kinda like…”

_You and H’chak. In the weeks before you two wound up together._

The words need not be said.

FLORA looks at her lap. “He makes you happy.”

“The happiest I’ve been in twenty-something years.” Joan says.

“You are confusing me, Jo.” The use of her nickname puts Joan at a strange mixture of ease and dread. She finally looks up at the Vekin, meeting FLORA’s teary face and somber stare. “—He adores you. Why are you threatening the stability of your happiness with… With strange words? Strange comments? Strange… things?”

“You—You don’t think we never talked about you, did ya?” Jo asks instead, studying the Vekin’s face for an answer but finding none. She clears her throat. “We talked—A lot. We did. Never… We don’t jump into shit like that—Without—Communicating with each other. You were—Are—You’re the subject of a lot of topics. Discussions. You’re… Fuck, how do I put this? How did he put it?” The woman pauses to think. She drums her fingers on the floor. “—You are… You’re very precious to both of us. Believe that—”

“How can I?” FLORA cuts her off. She hisses softly. “—How can I after… After all of this? So quickly? After your displays of guilt? This is—I cannot. Jo Mackenzie. I cannot trust you tell me this of your own volition, or that H’chak tells me it of his. I cannot guarantee you or him are not pressuring the other to be happy with these,” she hesitates, contemplating words before adding on. “With these new arrangements. I cannot, and I will not allow possible discrepancies to muddle what you two have.”

There is something Jo cannot get out of her head when she hears FLORA speak. Though she pays attention to each word, much of her willpower and focus is diverted to what the Vekin does _not_ say.

“I can prove we both—Both of us want this—Of our own free wills,” Jo shoots out a hand and lays it over one of FLORA’s own. The Vekin stills, clear eyes wide and oddly enticing as deep gray hues roll over her face and light up her cheeks. Joan takes a deep breath. “I can prove it. And then… then… you’ll know everything. Every time we spoke about you. Everything we want to say but couldn’t or haven’t. Whether we want you to stay or leave. Whether—”

She steps out unto the metaphorical branch. Her hand lifts; Jo mimics what she has seen her mate do in the past: both hands cupping the woman’s face, rubbing circles into her cheeks until FLORA is a mess of gray hues in the face.

“Whether anything exists between us,” Jo says. She cups FLORA’s face and exhales. “Whether this’s real.”

* * *

She doesn’t know what to expect of her mate. Asking a Yautja for blood is not common; few uses exist outside the medical field. A Yautja’s blood— _thwei_ , Jo remembers—is only meant to spill in battles and childbirth.

di-Sl’va-chak is far from upset or angry at what she’s proposed. The Yautja finishes dictating a message to his _pa-e_ and clan leader before rising from the cockpit chair. He crosses to the doors of the cockpit and leans down to nuzzle Joan’s head. _“Nothing bad. I will share in due time.”_

“I trust you,” Jo sighs against him. Her hands lift to his chest, where plates of gorgeous, cleaned armor cover the man’s perfect muscles. The human decides not to waste time ogling her mate. “I spoke with—Sundew.”

Di-Sl’va-chak visibly tenses. He clicks once. _“Yes?”_

“We need to give her our blood.” Jo frowns. “It—It’s the only way she can… She can _really_ know.”

 _“She needs to know.”_ Her mate agrees, much to Jo’s relief. Di-Sl’va-chak takes Jo’s hands in both his own and clicks. “ _How much does she need?”_

* * *

Watching Sundew chug the pints of red and green is bizarre enough to gross Joan out. The woman looks away until the end. When Sundew audibly _gulps_ the last of the fluids, Jo’s stomach finally settles enough for her to meet FLORA’s clear gaze. Drops of green glow across the sweet silver lips; Jo’s stomach grovels in heat as her attention is pulled to the thought of leaning over and wiping the Vekin’s face clean. She keeps herself together: the epitome of order and restraint, even as the minute turns into minutes and one moment becomes _many_ long ones.

“He tastes like battle. Fights. Honor. War.” FLORA speaks quietly. She licks her lips clean and looks away.

Jo bites her lip. “That a—A good thing?”

“He is a man who lost his world. He… He built a new one with you,” the Vekin sways in place, arms shooting out to maintain her balance. Her face contorts with a look of _something_. It reminds Joan of relief. “He—He did abandon memories of me. He did not… He did not—”

“How could he forget you?” Joan asks, hands tensing. She strides to the Vekin and puts a hand on each shoulder. “How could any of us forget _you?”_

“I am easily forgotten,” FLORA says, so honest and transparent it is clear she believes it.

“Bullshit. Bull-shit.” Jo grunts. She releases FLORA when the other pushes her hands off. Perhaps it is her imagination, but the hands linger there a second longer than they shoulder. It makes heat crawl into her cheeks. “—We could never forget you—”

“But he tried!” The Vekin cuts her off suddenly, the calm composure fracturing before Jo’s eyes. FLORA shakes her head and hisses. “He tried—He tried—He tried to forget—Why would he do those things? Those—Terrible things—He hurt himself because of _me!_ He put himself through these acts he did not enjoy because of _me!_ ”

Joan’s body shudders. Her brown eyes are wide in shock. She did not remember the awful years her mate struggled with his hypersexuality. It is one of the prominent coping mechanisms his brain latched unto after he broke down over the apparent loss of the Vekin. Joan remembers the dozens of times she found him nude and covered in awful marks on the outside roads. She remembers helping him clean his stoma bag after the man took things too far one night and suffered a bowel rupture, forcing Leitjin to divert his digestion tract to an artificially-made hole until his intestine healed enough for a second surgery to reattach it. She remembers the horror. The grief. The vulnerability.

Knowing he could be so raw with her, knowing he trusted her with this thing, these horrible truths, this apparent weakness, it did something to her head. It made her realize what was so obvious in the two’s second cycle at Clan Yeyin. 

But she wishes FLORA did not have to experience it. She does not know the extent of the details, but she sees the guilt weigh on the Vekin’s body: terrible tremors wrack FLORA’s form, muscles convulsing while the Vekin throws her head back and sobs in agony. The sight is violent and forlorn and hollow in its own way. Jo’s chest aches painfully as she stares at FLORA. She does not know what to do, so she does the same thing she once did with di-Sl’va-chak: she grabs FLORA and pulls the Vekin into her arms, wrapping her up and holding her tight while she weeps tears both of her own yet not.

“He thought you were dead,” the human whispers, hands stroking the soft white tufts of hair protruding from the Vekin’s head. Jo shuts her eyes as another shudder seizes FLORA. “He—He hurt—Not because of you—Because of—Because of what he thought—”

She continues like that for a time: soothing, comforting, betraying her own affections for the Vekin. She knows it is clear now, because Joan remembers doing the exact same thing to di-Sl’va-chak cycles on cycles ago. The touch is ingrained in her: a need to reassure, a need to protect, a need to wrap up and surround and drown in love and warmth and affection for the one who has caught her heart. Once, it was a man known as a merciless savior in her arms. He is not there right now, though the sentiment has never died.

Now, her heart ensnares a breath of silver with winter wind. She lets Sundew lean into her fully, taking initiative to pull her even closer until the Vekin is with her in the woman’s lap. The Vekin’s body is cold, but not freezing, and the temperature only serves to draw Jo more. She watches the beautiful woman in her arms with the _thump thump thump_ of her heart in her head. She holds FLORA until the woman’s tears are silent, then until they are gone, then some more, just to be certain.

Occasionally, Joan’s hand rubs circles into the Vekin’s arms or back or head. She runs a hand through Sundew’s scalp. She nuzzles the side of the Vekin’s head. All of these are things she has seen di-Sl’va-chak do to _her_. All these actions are marks of affection from a Yautja. Jo is no Yautja, but she is a human with a heart as deep and vast and brave as her soul. Her spirit seeks companionship in two others, and one of them is so close to her now she can almost breathe in the cold scent of Saturn’s cells.

The two sit in the kitchen unit. FLORA’s faux breathing calms. She doesn’t sniffle or shudder. Her figure is still as stone as the Vekin whispers. “—You did the same—To him.”

“A long time ago,” Joan says, a whisper of her own. “I needed to remind him—I cared.”

“Was it out of pity?”

The question is not about the past.

“No,” Joan’s grip tightens. “And neither is this.”

Her hand cups the Vekin’s cheek. Slowly, carefully, the human tilts FLORA up to look at her. She is a lovely woman: clear, glistening eyes, the intriguing sight of faux nerves in the back of the visible eye sockets, cheeks soft as snow and cold to the touch, and her lips… Joan cannot _not_ marvel at her lips. Her thumb gently swipes across the woman’s lower lip, tender and slow. She looks for any remaining hesitation or doubt, any regret or discomfort, but she finds none. Not a hint. Only—awe, a look of sheer awe, of an alien entity silenced by the revelry shown, by Jo’s initiative.

“Could I,” Jo pauses, eyes roaming the Vekin’s face again. The sight of FLORA’s deepening cheeks and vivid gray flush is endearing. “Could I kiss you?”

“Does he know?” FLORA’s breath hitches.

“—He’s,” the human pauses, her brown eyes darting to the kitchen doorway. She says nothing, gives nothing away, but her eyes lock with the metal bio-mask of her mate standing there, silent in steps, his breathing, and his posture. She sees di-Sl’va-chak pause, take in the information, process it all, before the hunter slowly nods.

Her heart jumps in her chest.

A ditsy, outlandish smile dawns on Jo’s face. Her lips curve up and she grins unabashedly at the Vekin. “Uh, yeah, he knows. He’s cool with it. In fact,” her gaze flickers back to FLORA’s lips. “If I don’t kiss ya now, he, uh, he might try to get you first.”

“I do not under—” The Vekin purses her lips, but the tilt of her head lets Joan know when FLORA’s gaze sweeps the room.

Joan feels the spark of electricity: weak, soft, a minor current flowing across her, across the room itself.

FLORA mimics the sound of an exhale. “Your technology does not—It does not—I know you are there. H- _di-Sl’va-chak.”_

 _“I didn’t want to interrupt, Sun-Dew.”_ The crackle of electricity sparks around the tall Yautja’s form as he uncloaks. Jo feels the Vekin recoil away. She doesn’t try to keep FLORA in her lap when the Vekin excuses herself and moves away. It hurts Jo to see FLORA withdraw: hands in lap, head bowed, legs folded beneath her.

Jo holds her head in her hands. The silence is uncomfortable.

Her mate notices. _Di-Sl’va-chak_ hesitates lingering. Perhaps none of the three are prepared for a group conversation that badly needs to happen.

 _“You may call me H’chak—If you wish.”_ The Yautja clicks gently. He crouches next to Jo, but his bio-mask tells her the man does not look away from FLORA. _“Sun-Dew.”_

 _“’H’chak’_ is not your name,” The Vekin replies. “Nor do I have the right to address you—To call you a personal name.”

_“Because Joan and I—”_

“This has nothing to do with Joan Mackenzie or yourself.” FLORA cuts him off immediately, rising to her feet. Her hands ball into tiny fists.  
  
The Vekin’s words confuse Jo. She looks over at her mate, but di-Sl’va-chak has not moved an inch. She notes the tension in his posture as FLORA goes on. “—I am not what you think of me. I am not Yautja. I am not human—I do not wallow in self-pity! Or seethe with jealousy! Perhaps I—Perhaps I did once. A day. A time. But I...” The woman looks away, clear eyes brim with tears. “Do not assign me these—feelings—emotions. I am not what you think of me.”

“This isn’t about us?” Jo whispers to her mate, though she knows FLORA can hear every word. 

_“What are you,”_ Di-Sl’va-chak’s throat rumbles with each click and chitter. _“Sun-Dew?"_

“I am not Sundew!” The Vekin _snap_ s, tearful and morose. “I am Vekin! A Hivekind! A sequence assigned the name _FLORA—_ and I have taken lives—I have—I brought expiration on your kindred, di-Sl’va-chak!”

 _“You are not to blame for the lives lost at Gahn’tha-cte!”_ The Elite growls and straightens up. Jo clambers to her feet after him.

“This was not at _Gahn’tha-cte.”_ FLORA’s voice falls to a whisper. She looks at her feet. “This was on a ship. Two-two-two cycles in the past. You were—Not yet Blooded—And I—”

Joan is not a Yautja. She does not have Yautja blood in her veins. But she can see how her mate freezes and stops. She notices the tension break into horror. She does not need to taste the fear to know it is there.

 _“No,”_ di-Sl’va-chak repeats. _“No—That’s impossible—You’re lying—"_

“Do not make me show you the memories, _H'chak!_ I was the Vekin responsible for Elder Ma’or’s expiration,” FLORA says, numb and hollow. “My actions led to your _mei-hswei_ ’s expiration. His name was—”

Jo sees her mate throw his head back and roar into the ceiling when he hears the name _Chirp._ It goes on for several minutes. The sound drowns out all thoughts. Nothing but raw anguish fills the kitchen unit. It matches FLORA’s guilt.

 _“How? How?!”_ di-Sl’va-chak howls at the Vekin. _“Not you—Not—Sundew—”_

* * *

“I am FLORA,” the Vekin spits, venom rising in her words. She walks to the two: two halves to a whole, Joan and di-Sl’va-chak, two mates who deserve the good of the world and nothing less. “A leech. Nothing you say or do or want can change that.”

“Sundew—FLORA!” Jo barks at her, even as di-Sl’va-chak falls to his knees and howls in pain. The human’s brown eyes are big and _furious_. The anger is not directed at _her,_ but it doesn’t lessen how FLORA feels.

She is a leaf adrift in a sea of stars: wandering, unbelonging, without a place to call her own.

She has always brought di-Sl’va-chak pain. It is what she is: pain, a force of consumption, a leech for knowledge and intellect and new truths. She wants to rewind, but there is nothing for her here. Nothing but more pain, more memories of dark and twisted truths, and more chances for her to fuck things up and get others killed again. That is the hand dealt to her in life.

She hesitates, but only for a moment before her resolve returns. Her clear eyes do not show it, but she is detached and hollow, a shell of a shell, when she tells the two mates her directive.

“The next hospitable planet or station we land on—I am leaving. You will leave me there,” FLORA says, curt and cold and empty. When Joan starts to say something FLORA snaps at the woman. “I will—Do not make this harder than it needs to be, Joan Mackenzie. You two will take the _Kukulkan_ and depart without me.”

“Why?” The human spits, grief seeping into her words even as she tries to comfort her mate and talk to FLORA at the same time. “Why is _this_ your decision?!”

FLORA’s eyes flicker shut. She doesn’t give either a reply before she walks past them, through the _kehrite,_ and into the lift. By the time she reaches her cabin she has already started to cry.


	88. epilogue: Joan | Sundew (smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes... the ot3 is coming together...  
> this was supposed to be space lesbian grandmas but then  
> then i wanted to write more of these 3  
> im writing a billion extra epilogues because i want to have extra scenes with them because these 3 are cute T_T
> 
> -ladies fucking  
> -people making up

Disgust is fleeting. He is not the same man he was two-seven cycles past, or even two-six cycles past. He is not M-di-H’chak, an emotionally manipulated _s’yuit-de_ who pits himself against his twin in pursuit of a wretched woman’s favor. He is not Mercy, or even Merciless, because both are fragments of the deposed and broken man he walked the worlds as for too long. He is di-Sl’va-chak, Merciless Savior, because he has lost oblivion and saved himself and others in the same breath.

He continues to grow and, he reminds himself, he will grow through the tumultuous anguish of the present: the sting of betrayal in the wake of Sundew’s confession will not falter him.

It is the same night. His choked pleas and denial are gone. His mind jumps quickly through its own cycle of grief, something he contributes to mourning his _mei-hswei_ for over two-zero-zero cycles. The pain once rendered him immobile, debilitating him to the point of outrage and agonized mourning. Not now, not when he has lost so much.

As quick as the pain rips through his body, it plateaus. Joan’s arms are locked around him when he comes out of the high of grief. The human has him clutched in her arms, mimicking an embrace he’s seen her do before, with him, with Sundew, and now with him again. Joan hums softly to him. His throat rumbles in recognition and he looks down where her eyes fall upon his bio-mask. How beautiful she is, _always_ , repeats in his mind. With it comes concerns and thoughts of the very silver being who ripped him apart with the horrible truth.

“Hey,” Joan whispers to him, seeing him aware of himself and his surroundings. She cradles his outer mandibles. “Ya good?”

 _“Been… better.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak grunts softly. He does not need to look around to _know_ Sundew is gone. His eyes squeeze shut. _“Where is she?”_

“Went to the upper floor—Dunno where. I didn’t—I ain’t comfortable leaving you like that—”

 _“I need to see her—She—”_ di-Sl’va-chak hisses weakly, his body convulsing as he struggles to stand. _“She will—She’ll keep blaming herself—Blaming herself for Chirp—”_

 _“She wants us to leave her on,”_ Jo exhales sharply. _“—The next hospitable planet, or—space station.”_

 _“C’jit.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak cups Joan’s face. His taller, lumbering form shudders as he growls. _“Take me to her—We need—I need to see her—If we dock at a station—Land at a planet—We’ll never see her again.”_

* * *

His olfactory receptors aid him in tracing her steps back to her cabin. Di-Sl’va-chak stops in front of the sliding door. His bio-mask hides the furrowed, hairless brows on his face as he eyes the door and contemplates what to do or say. There is just as much possibility Sundew will cuss him out and order him to leave if he breaks through the door versus knocking. Lucky him, Joan is there to decide for the man; she sees his hesitation then lifts a hand of her own and rasps softly on the metal door. The silence drowns both individuals as they stand and wait for footsteps.

None come.

“Sundew—Please,” Joan begins, but the Yautja clicks at her to stop. The human frowns but begrudgingly nods and falls quiet.

 _“—I want to talk about Chirp.”_ The man rumbles loudly, pleading and patient. _“Sun-Dew—”_

“I forced Chirp into early expiration.” Is the shout which comes through the door.

 _“No—Gahn’tha-cte did! Gahn’tha-cte failed Chirp, myself, and my mei-hswei—You acted in your Hive’s best interests,”_ The man dutifully rebukes his old mate’s words. The need to refute what she says, to prove she is wrong, to show her things are not black and white, is irrevocably strong; it _burns_ in him like a supernova.

He stays there for hours, until Joan touches his arm and advises him to rest the evening.

* * *

The next morning—He looks for her. He seeks her out, but she is not in the lower level of the _Kukulkan._

Sundew does not leave her cabin.

* * *

 _“Leader Tjau'ke has put us on an automated flight path. It will not stop before it reaches its objective unless the emergency override has been activated.”_ His explanation to his mate on the two’s short time frame does nothing to soothe his worries. If anything, it _adds_ to them, reminding him he is on a timer from now until the Vekin either stays with the duo or she walks away for good.

“You can’t activate the override, can you?” Joan sighs loudly.

_“I could, but Tjau’ke will have my head for it. We are due back at XRKN-8K today, and we will not reach our destination for one-nine-six hours.”_

“Six days?” Joan pinches the bridge of her nose.

 _“Eight,”_ the man corrects her.

* * *

Neither know what to do.

* * *

For days—Neither reach her. She gives no new responses.

* * *

What triggers the next meeting between the three is sheer chance. Joan finds the opportunity tucked into the depths of one armoire in her and di-Sl’va-chak’s shared cabin. She is busy pulling out old robes and weapons to sort through when she sees a familiar bag: a present from her ancient surprise party back on Earth. It is not for her, or she knows she would have opened it already. Her lips purse and she pulls the gift bag to her lap. The woman plucks out old tissue paper.

Her eyes widen. _A sun hat?_

* * *

It is an old present for Sundew.

* * *

“I remember this. Ivon once… They once mentioned—Trying to get ya to give her a new hat. Somethin’ ‘bout needing your cooperation for a party.” Joan’s laugh is amused and soft. It falls short quickly; the woman is strong, but di-Sl’va-chak senses her pain. He _tastes_ the sorrow on her skin.

He too remembers those cycles. _Simpler times._

“Should we give it to her?” His mate’s inquiry prompts a soft hiss from the hunter.

 _“I want nothing more.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak hesitates.

Jo raises one brow. “Then—We should—”

 _“She will not take it,”_ the man growls deeply, lowly, with a terrible ache in his chest. _“She will not accept it from me—She won’t face me. Not like this.”_

“Well, that fucking sucks. ‘Cause she isn’t gonna come out and talk to me either.” The human turns the hat over in her hands. Her beautiful brown eyes linger on it. “Do—You think she would accept it if we weren’t there? Y’know, if someone else delivered it in our place?”

_“Who would?”_

“I dunno. But. If it could be left somewhere—Maybe with a note or somethin’—”

Di-Sl’va-chak shuts his eyes. His four _cora’n_ hurt. _“She is… stubborn. Too adamant. She does not believe herself worthy of us. The courier won’t change that.”_

“Why? Because—”

 _“Sei-i.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak cuts off the woman before she can say the name. He has heard _Chirp_ one too many times recently for it not to begin stirring old, heartbroken feelings inside him. _“She blames herself. But she—Perhaps she had some fault to it, to triggering these circumstances, but—But she did not decide on my mei-hswei’s judgement. She is not guilty of the same crimes Gahn’tha-cte was.”_

“You think she knows that?” Joan rises to her feet and puts her hands on her hips. Her prosthetic foot holds firm under her weight.

Di-Sl’va-chak eyes her carefully. _“I… expect her to.”_

“But has she heard it from you?” The human frowns. She takes a step toward him and brings her hands up to rest on his chest. His armor pieces feel like a sudden obstacle between Joan’s loving touches and the heat spiraling inside him. Di-Sl’va-chak shudders and resists growling even as Jo’s palms linger over his abdomen, slowly inching around his waist to ensnare his taller figure to her. “I wonder if—If that’s what she needs.”

 _“What does she need?”_ Di-Sl’va-chak clicks, mind a million other places at the same time.

“Forgiveness?” Jo bites her lip. She rests her head against his chestplate. “Maybe—Reassurance. Validation. Love. Things she doesn’t—Isn’t really—Things she ain’t aware she needs. Things she can’t identify.”

_“She is smart enough to know—”_

“Feelings aren’t about being _smart,_ Mercy,” his mate huffs and nuzzles his chest. “She’s… hurting. And we both know—She’s not just— _Her_ kind. She’s got others in there. We don’t know how much of them are her. We dunno how they influence her. But we know they do, at least a little. She’s… I wonder if she’s even aware of it. Aware of how… she mimics other species to the point of feeling things she doesn’t normally… y’know. Feel.”

It’s an intriguing thought. It warrants further investigation, though Di-Sl’va-chak doesn’t lend it much faith to play out.

 _“I will try again… to… Speak with her. To her,”_ the Yautja’s throat rumbles with resolve. He leans down and breathes in Joan’s scent. It fills his head with beautiful sensory images and feelings, a flood of serotonin razing his mind _. “I will… Give her the hat.”_

“—If she doesn’t want it—I’d like it,” Joan speaks up softly, eyes averting to the side. “Not to wear—But—It’s—It’s nice. Having a reminder of… Of where I’m from. Of Earth. Home.”

_Home._

* * *

He wakes up the same night with an odd feeling in his chest. At first—He thinks it is nausea, that perhaps he has overeaten or experienced a rare but possible complication in digesting his earlier supper. When he realizes it is not quite around his stomach, nor his thorax, the man discards the thought. He reassures his mate all his well, rises to his feet, and dresses simply for a quick jog through the _Kukulkan._ He does not have a destination in mind; his goal is to pass time and get his own restless nerves out.

The third lap around the _kehrite,_ he smells the change in the air. It is faint, almost unnoticeable, but the definitive quality of _her_ has his four hearts scrambling in his chest. He hesitates before his mind loses to his legs and the man winds up bolting for the lift. On the upper level, tucked just into the cockpit, there perhaps no more than a minute, the cool violet hues of a silver lifeform greet his vision. The cockpit door remains open where he stepped through. When it begins to shut, part of his mind panics and he debates leaping back to safety.

He does not move. The cockpit door slides shut. The air feels strange and fuzzy, like an unseen surge of electricity waiting to unravel.

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ He clicks cautiously, internally scolding himself a moment later for addressing her like he would an injured animal.

She deserves more than that. She deserves the world.

“Your presence is noted—But unnecessary—” the Vekin’s response is curt and cold and sad and distant _and a dozen other things the man does not want to think about._ “—I am fine.”

 _“Don’t lie to me,”_ Di-Sl’va-chak clicks, careful not to come off curt or condescending. _“Three days and you avoid us.”_

“What is there to say?” Sundew’s tone is sharper than he expects.

 _“There is—A lot which needs to be said. Starting with,”_ the man exhales and straightens upright. _“My—Mei-hswei. Chirp.”_

The note of fear bleeds a terrible taste in the air. He does not want to taste her fear. He does not want her afraid, of him or anyone else. He wants her just as she is: unashamedly Sundew.

_“Please—”_

He will only beg _willingly_ for two individuals.

One, a mate of his past.

Two, a mate of his present.

Both individuals he would die for in a heartbeat to protect.

His feelings have not changed.

Di-Sl’va-chak’s orange eyes shut as he falls to his knees and bows in front of the Vekin. _“—Don’t shut me out.”_

The silence hurts.

“What are you doing?” The Vekin is the one to break it. Her voice reflects deep and muddled confusion.

“I am asking someone more honorable than I am to give me a chance—To listen to what I have to say,” di-Sl’va-chak’s throat rumbles against the air. He feels all four hearts in his chest shudder in joy when the Vekin hesitates.

“—I am not honorable,” Sundew tells him. “I am not Yautja—"

Di-Sl’va-chak lifts his head. He stares at her heat signature: so violet and cool, so beautifully cold against the warmth reflected in the metal cockpit. She is beautiful in his eyes: a spectacular sight, a haunting presence, a face of a trophy and lips so soft he wants to melt into her touch.

“You will always be Yautja to me. Do not disown yourself in my eyes.” He begs of her, quiet.

The Vekin turns away. For a moment, he thinks he has lost her for good, that this is the shameful end to the two’s time together. But Sundew does not send him away. She simply whispers. “I will not silence you. But you are… You are mistaken. Your perception of me. I am a leech like my kindred. We are not meant to coexist, Yautja and Vekin. I cut down your allies. I murdered your kin—”

 _“You drank my thwei—Repossessed memories—You know I think nothing but the worlds of you.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak interjects, sitting upright. His hands tighten into fists as he watches the Vekin’s swaying figure. _“I gave it to you willingly—Knowing—You would see everything I have to offer. Knowing—Knowing what I think of you—”_

“Your desire to copulate impedes your judgement of enemies—”

 _“You are not an act of copulation! I told Joan the same I tell you now! Neither of you—Have ever been an act of copulation, a moment of intercourse! Neither! I do not seek your company to reap the benefits of intimacy alone!”_ di-Sl’va-chak’s voice rises, his words becoming indignant and full of ire at the implication any of his actions have ever been because he only wanted sex. _“You two are the stars of my sky—I will kill in your name, slay to keep your honor intact, hunt at a moment’s notice—Tell me a name and I will slaughter thousands for you—"_

“FLORA.” Sundew challenges him on the statement.

Di-Sl’va-chak’s body clams up. He stills as she faces him.

“I will not attack you.” The Vekin tells him softly. “Expire the one who forced your mei-hswei into expiration.”

Then she waits. She stands and she waits for him to strike her down. The Vekin is oddly certain by this, a resolve he smells in her presence a breath later. The Yautja’s quills flare along his body. He shuts his eyes and bows his head _. “—As you wish.”_

The note of fear returns.

But she does not fight him. She does not throw him off. His movements are full of purpose and violence, with a bloodlust behind them he channels into tackling her to the floor of the cockpit. The two hit the metal panes. Again, she does not fight him. She is like a deer frozen in the light of a star: prey transfixed by the predator, lost in the food chain like countless others. Di-Sl’va-chak has no trouble pinning her wrists to the floor, straddling her body, and looking down at her heat signature with deep, rolling growls reverberating through his throat.

The Vekin waits.

 _“S’yuit-de, FLORA.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak _snarls,_ furious and distraught but smart enough not to let her go. _“I swore myself to you—I swore to keep you safe—I swore to adore you, worship you, protect you—From Gahn’tha-cte, from Stargazer, from everyone else!”_

He leans down and presses his head into the crook of her neck. She feels cold, but her heart is racing. The Yautja hisses softly. _“I do not blame you for Chirp’s demise. But you view it differently—You view me incapable of rational judgement. Let us pretend you are right. Let us play out what happens between us.”_

He can tell when her mock breathing changes. He hears the hitch in her throat. He can never hurt her, not on his life, but he knows it is easy to forget things when so much has transpired—from her perspective—such a short span of time. He needs to remind her the vows he made, the promises in place, the sheer adoration he has never written off. If that means he must contend with the strange things his other mate suggests, if it means he will put himself in the shoes of another species and dabble in intangible concepts like forgiveness, then he will do so a thousand times over, all for her, _always_ for her—

 _“Sun-Dew.”_ His throat rumbles. The Vekin feels so tense beneath him. The man loosens his grip on her wrists, his hands effortlessly sliding up to her own to tangle into her fingers.

The colder trail of violet on her heat signature betrays her blush.

 _“You are… not the same… as you were then. Nor was I—We were different. Two separate species from different worlds—"_ He nuzzles her neck. _“Who you were then—Does not matter to me now—Because—I—”_

The thump of four _cora’n_ pound in his head.

 _“—Forgive you,”_ the man clicks softly.

The walls he despises so virulently shatter in front of him. The Vekin is so still one moment, but as his words sink in, the man sees something in her heat signature change. He smells the sudden tears pricking her eyes— _such beautiful clear eyes, even when he cannot make them out_ —and he feels her hands squeeze his own before her fingers slip away. Her arms come up around his chest and in a moment the woman has completely unraveled against him. By the time he sits up and pulls her to his chest, she has begun to cry. Her loud sobs hurt him to hear, but for once the man does nothing but sit, but quiet, but _listen,_ to every single sputter and choked apologies to fall from her lips. She cries into his chest and clutches at his clothes.

All the while, the hunter purrs soothingly, the deep, rumbling noise a constant against the hum of the ship. He continues it through the night, through the earliest hours of dawn. When his mate slides the cockpit door open and peeks in, her brown eyes find the dozing, exhausted Vekin curled up in his arms. Di-Sl’va-chak glances up at his mate and nods in greeting.

“Is everything…?” Joan pauses, the words needn’t to be said.

 _“She’ll be okay,”_ the hunter clicks softly. One hand slowly rubs the Vekin’s back. He purrs at the faint streak of dark violet across Sundew’s face.

* * *

He offers to carry her to her cabin. The Vekin declines, but she lets him walk her there. The cabin door sliding open gives the man a strange feeling, a momentary worry the Vekin might use the door to build up her walls again. But he does not hold her back when she moves away from him. He does not pull her into his arms when she slips through the door. Di-Sl’va-chak steps back and gives her space to do as she will, without interference or influence.

The woman turns around and pauses, one hand on the inside of the cabin door.

Di-Sl’va-chak clicks once in recognition, but he does not press her on anything.

Sundew looks to the side. “—Thank you.”

The silence that follows is tense and thick with too many unspoken words. But he knows he cannot make the words be said. Di-Sl’va-chak nods before turning away. He makes it three steps before the Vekin calls after him.

“H’chak—di-Sl’va-chak,” Sundew pauses when he looks back, mandibles taut and his orange eyes locked unto her. “Does—Does your offer still stand? May I—Will it insult you if I call you ‘H’chak?’”

 _“M-di. Never, not from you,”_ the Yautja huffs. _“Call me H’chak. I will call you floor-rugh—”_

“Sundew,” the Vekin’s correction sends his four hearts into a tizzy. A deep, giddy heat blooms in his face as Sundew cocks her head to one side. “I want to be Sundew with—You. You and—Jo.”

 _“Sun-Dew, then.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak bows his head. _“I will send Joan to check on you later.”_

“Can—Both of you come? I do not… I do not want to be alone.” Sundew turns her head to the side.

 _“I will ask her, but I anticipate her attacking this endeavor with enthusiasm.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak cannot help snorting at the thought.

“She is passionate about the world.” Sundew remarks, voice softer but calm. Content, even. “Until then, H’chak.”

_“Sundew.”_

When the cabin door shuts between the two, di-Sl’va-chak leans against the wall and holds a hand to his chest. Joan finds him like that a minute later, and though the woman’s eyes reveal just how many questions she has, she keeps them to herself while the two return to their cabin.

* * *

Things do not improve overnight. It is a slow, arduous process, one worth every second. At first—Both he and his mate are worried for the upcoming landing at the homeplanet. Di-Sl’va-chak does not know if the Vekin truly intends to stay or leave. Joan frets about it most nights. Yet as the day of arrival draws near, a strange calm comes over the duo. Di-Sl’va-chak finds his four hearts accept what the future holds, regardless if Sundew stays or leaves. He hopes for the former, but he prepares himself for her departure, going so far to offer to help her gather what she needs on more than one occasion.

Then the day comes, and the ship lands on the homeplanet. The weather is temperate and warm. The waves crash against the shore of XRKN-8K. His natural thermal gaze sees the warmth reflecting off the sand.

 _“It’s hot—Be careful_ ,” the man pauses, bio-mask tucked under one arm. His sight rests on his mate to the right, and on to the cold figure of a Vekin at Jo’s side. All three have yet to budge from the cockpit, though Sundew is the one enamored with the sight in front of her.

“I am always careful.” The Vekin answers without looking back, though her voice is distant.

“Now would be a great time for a hat,” Joan raises one brow at her mate. Her conspicuous smile is grating and encouraging all in one; he sees just how beautiful her lips are when di-Sl’va-chak slips his mask on and attaches the neural sensors. The mask’s optical system comes online and the world floods with color in time for him to witness Joan’s eyes flickering from him to the cockpit door. “You mind getting me one?”

“I was unaware you dabbled in hats.” The Vekin at her side is genuinely surprised, but she seems content enough to make small talk with Joan over different kinds of hats. There is a shyness to her words. Perhaps she feels out of place. If Joan has a hat and he his bio-mask, the Vekin will be the only one left without anything on her head.

It is a better option than the Vekin taking offense to Joan having hats. The whole debacle seems outlandish, but di-Sl’va-chak is too concerned over how shaky his and Joan’s relationships with the Vekin is to not take it into account. He nods at Joan before excusing himself, returning to his quarters, and finding the pitifully dainty bag with useless, thin stretches of parchment inside. Di-Sl’va-chak pauses as he gauges the hat’s weight. It is such a _small_ thing, but the meaning it carries is more than the ship itself in his head.

 _They wanted me to give this to you a long time ago._ Di-Sl’va-chak faintly recalls. _Ivon… Louanne. Will it have the same effect? The same outcome? Coming from both of us…_

He does not admit to feeling _nervous_. The hunter returns to the cockpit in time to see Sundew following where Joan points to, looking at and examining every building the ooman points out. She seems fascinated by Clan Yeyin’s prosperous settlement. Pride pools in the man’s loins at the thought of her uncovering every secret of Clan Yeyin’s architecture. The cooperation between clans Yeyin and D’lex give the settlement a rich and enlightening history, one not always found in Yautja clans.

“You find it?” Joan pushes herself upright and walks to him. Her hands touch his waist, soft and calming.

Di’Sl-va-chak clicks in response, _“You doubt my skills?”_

“Nah, just messin’ with you,” Jo’s delightful grin is something the man _swears_ to peel off her face later, when the two have a moment out of sight and away from responsibilities. He huffs and holds the bag out to her, but Joan cocks her head to one side and lets go of him to push the bag back. “Nah-uh. Ya got to be the one to, y’know. It’s not from me.”

 _“It—I cannot give it to her by myself,”_ di-Sl’va-chak’s voice cracks for a moment. He balks at Joan shrugging and crossing her arms. _“Joan—Jo!”_

“Wait here!” Jo calls and ducks out of his grasp. Di-Sl’va-chak knows he _can_ grab her, but he chooses not to when the woman bolts and hits the door on the way out. Her palm smacks the end where a glowing inscription of Gahn’tha-cte script shudders. The cockpit door slides shut and locks. It is entirely too convenient, to the point Di-Sl’va-chak almost flinches from the audacity of his brave and _far too foolish_ ooman.

* * *

It is a spur of the moment decision.

 _Really. It is,_ Jo tells herself from the other side of the door.

She knows her mate will have interesting words for her later. He may not agree with her boldness or initiative, but right now the human feels it is important. Sundew did say she wanted to leave on the next hospitable planet. If this is the two’s last chance to make things right, then Jo wants to make sure the two have privacy to talk about it. Where all three of them go from here is entirely in the hands of the two individuals inside the cockpit, but as long as each of them is happy, Joan knows things will be okay.

* * *

“Is that her hat? A bag?” Sundew’s observation is far too Sundew for the Yautja to ignore. The Vekin does not do more than look back, but her attention is on _him,_ and that alone makes the hunter freeze in place, a loss of thought plaguing his mind. When he cannot speak, the Vekin turns around and purses her lips. “Did you not find her hat?”

 _“I—She knows—She did not—Ask—To do this—Before—Leaving us here—I—”_ The Yautja growls and curses under his breath, a stream of ravenous clicks spilling out of him. The man’s face is searing hot under his mask. _“—She—I will speak with her later—I do not—I have no desire to make you uncomfortable.”_

“I know that.” The Vekin blinks slowly. “I—Saw it in your offering.”

The _thwei._

Di-Sl’va-chak grunts and keeps his gaze to the side. _“I know she means well—But—If you took offense to this—That is a problem.”_

“Are you worried I find your company repulsive?” Sundew is a clever one.

Granted, the Yautja strongly suspects her feelings are anything _but_ repulsed. He huffs and shakes his head. _“M-di—You find me a strong and capable ally. Worthy of your affections. A… devout worshipper, should you ask it of me.”_

“H’chak…” The Vekin bites her lip. “We are—Different now. As you said. Not the same as us of two-seven cycles past. We do not… know each other—”

 _“I do not know you,”_ the Yautja corrects her with an amused chittering noise. _“But you know all of me.”_

“I do not feel like I know you.” Sundew’s hands leave the cockpit dashboards. She wrings her wrists in front of her waist. The motion entrances di-Sl’va-chak. “I am… not much different than the past.”

_“What do you mean?”_

“—I was a prisoner of my own system for two-four cycles. GHOST—She controlled all of us. She dominated my system. I understand two-seven cycles passed since we saw each other last, but to me it was…”

 _“A lifetime?”_ Di-Sl’va-chak guesses, hoping the other options are wrong.

“A second.” Sundew’s gaze narrows. She shuts her eyes. “That is why—It has been so hard for me. I… It feels but a day ago we were more than this.”

 _“How are you right now?”_ The hunter clicks quickly, orange eyes full of concern.

“Better. The weeks together with Joan and yourself here—It has greatly aided my transition back to the current time-period. I—I enjoy seeing you two,” the woman clears her throat and looks at the Yautja. “I am glad—I am happy to be here. I enjoy your company.”

 _“—I thought seeing us together hurt you.”_ H’chak tilts his head to one side.

“It stung at first. But I realized—It is not—The thought of you two _together_ which stings. It is… It is my own insecurities. My…” Sundew struggles with the words. “—conflictions. I struggle with the thought a creature like myself is… worthy of an honorable hunter.”

_“Sun-Dew.”_

“Please do not remind me—I know what you and Jo think.” The Vekin purses her lips. “My system struggles to process it. This—These—Complicated feelings. My kind does not usually feel this way, not to this degree. I am an outlier.”

 _“An… outlier.”_ The hunter nods stiffly. _“Do you detest us for it? For making you feel these things?”_

 _“Detest?”_ The Vekin’s fine brows furrow. She shakes her head. “I cannot detest you or Joan. If Ivon or Vayuh’ta were here, I would say the same of them. But those two departed. It is only us three now. I cannot detest you two. I will not. I want you two to be happy—”

 _“How ironic,”_ di-Sl’va-chak grunts, mandibles twitching. _“We want you happy.”_

“I know.” The Vekin interjects.

 _“Good. Remember that. Whether you linger or depart—We want you happy, Sun-Dew. You are someone precious to us.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak’s gaze falls to the paper bag he has yet to hand over. He growls softly, straightens upright, and with every ounce of dignity in his body, he walks to her side and holds out the old gift.

“What is this?” Sundew frowns. “Is this not Joan’s hat?”

 _“We never got Joan a hat.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak says. His mandibles click together in soft chuckles. _“It is an… It is an old gift for you. From both of us. I would be honored if you took it.”_

“Are you sure?” Sundew does not reach for the gift bag immediately. Her face angles up to his lumbering figure.

Di-Sl’va-chak hears his hearts beat nervously in his head when he realizes the lovely clear eyes are on him.

 _“You are worthy of it—Of everything I can provide,”_ di-Sl’va-chak intones, pressing the bag into the cold silver hands before he backs up several steps. His orange gaze settles on the Vekin, soaking in the sight of the short silver figure steadily pulling out decades old tissue paper.

There is no shriek of delight or squeals of happiness. No dramatic thanks or a cold silver figure wrapping herself up in his arms. For a time after Sundew takes the old hat and uncrumples it, the woman does nothing but turn it over, survey it, and look at in with utmost care. Her mouth hangs ajar, the surprise evident but not betraying any other emotions running through the Vekin’s system. When the hat is an amicable, recognizable shape once more, she hesitantly lifts it to her head. It plops on like it was made for her.

She turns away, facing the cockpit window where the light of the planet’s orbiting stars offers warmth Vekin usually stray from. 

“Why did you give this to me?” Her hands clasp together over her chest.

 _“Joan remembered you liked hats. And I—agreed,”_ di-Sl’va-chak shifts his weight from his bad calf to his other leg. He straightens upright. _“Do you… Does it please you? I don’t know if your tastes in headgear changed—”_

“I love it,” the sharp exhale that follows is euphoric. The Vekin turns around, her clear eyes pricked with tears already falling down her face. “I have not—Had—A hat—In so long—”

 _“You shouldn’t be without one. You look…”_ the man hesitates, unsure if she might be made uncomfortable by the word _beautiful_.

 _“Strong,”_ di-Sl’va-chak initially decides upon before he takes the word back and tacks on a. _“—Capable. Honorable.”_

An empty, airy sort-of noise fills the cockpit. The Yautja stiffens before he recognizes the noise, so refreshing and wonderful his entire body relaxes; he breathes out sharply as the Vekin laughs. Though his pride stings, he puts it aside, knowing she does not laugh at him.

“Thank you,” the Vekin walks to his side and takes one gauntlet-covered hand into both her own. She is cold to the touch: a perfect reminder of the stark differences between their species, but there are few sensations that can rival the thrill surging in di-Sl’va-chak’s chest. He nods, suddenly at a loss for words, unable to do more than stand and stare hopelessly at the hat-wearing entity in front of him.

But then she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t move away. Her hands linger there and a deep gray flush fills the Vekin’s face. The two stare at each other, the latter craning her head up to look at his much taller figure, before di-Sl’va-chak takes a chance and lowers his forehead to her own. The metal of his bio-mask bumps against her hat in the process. Sundew exhales and lets go of his hands to cup his mask, cradling it and him like he is the most precious thing in the universe.

“I still,” the Vekin mumbles, breathless. “I still—I love you.”

 _“I never stopped.”_ The man clicks softly.

“What do—What can we do? What will—I do not—Jo. I do not know—How—To—Approach this with—With either of you. I am not… I feel uncertain.”

 _“What is ‘this’?”_ di-Sl’va-chak pauses.

“This… thing,” Sundew purses her lips. “Between—You—And—Her—And me. Between us. You know what it is. Does she?”

 _“She wants to talk about it.”_ di-Sl’va-chak rumbles in response.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sundew asks him.

 _“I already know my answer.”_ The Yautja huffs and nuzzles into the side of her head, bending her hat in the process. Sundew releases him to fix the hat.

“Okay,” the Vekin lowers her hands to her side. “I want to—I want to speak with her.”

* * *

“Well—"

The _Kukulkan_ ’s training room is the grounds for conversation. Jo is the first to break the silence; the woman currently leans against her mate while the hunter’s throat rumbles softly. Her brown eyes are soft and content, a beautiful look and sentiment shared by the other species in the room.

“—I think it looks good on you. The hat.” The human smiles faintly. “Made for you.”

“I have not—Had a hat in a while.” Sundew’s head bows and she folds her hands in her lap. She sits but a handful of feet from Joan and di-Sl’va-chak, legs tucked beneath her. Her body is adorned in her own thermal mesh suit.

Jo for once wears loose, lighter clothes in the form of a one-piece tunic and great billowing pants tied by a sash around her waist. It is only fair she gets to unwind now that she is back at Clan Yeyin. Her plans for the day include sunbathing and taking a swim in the warm waters off the coast, with or without her mate accompanying her.

“Well, now’s the time to get more hats. We can start you on a whole collection.” Jo carries on the small talk, relaxing as the mood of the room eases up. It feels natural to speak with Sundew; the two have almost always gotten along, even when she cannot understand the Vekin’s perspective. It’s nice to have silly talks with her again. Jo finds she relaxes just the same as her eyes linger on the slightly shorter silver figure sitting nearby.

The occasional hitch in her mate’s rumbling purr tells her he thinks the same.

“—I do wanna apologize for earlier. It wasn’t—It wasn’t exactly cool. But I thought he should give you that himself. It was his gift back in the day, y’know?” Jo pushes herself alright, only to grunt when di-Sl’va-chak clicks in protest and pulls her back to him. His large, muscular arm feels warm and safe wrapped around her. Joan rolls her eyes at her mate and looks back at Sundew. “But—This time it is—Kinda from both of us.”

“Thank you, both of you.” Sundew nods once. “Perhaps—If you intend to leave your mate alone with me—”

“I think he wants to leave himself alone with you.” Joan interrupts, elbowing the Yautja in the side.

He growls. It isn’t threatening; Jo knows his serious mannerisms from his mischievous ones. It pleases the human greatly to feel how di-Sl’va-chak’s breathing changes. Jo glances back at Sundew, but it doesn’t appear the Vekin’s taken note. She wonders how long that’ll last.

“About that,” Sundew clears her throat, a prelude of what is to come. She keeps her gaze on her lap. “You have—The two of you have mentioned—Wanting—Acting with the intention of—Pursing acts of copulation with more than one—"

“Sex—You can say sex, it’s okay,” Jo interrupts and sits up. She doesn’t let her mate keep her clutched tightly to his chest this time. The human ignores her mate’s grunt of disagreement and she sits cross-legged. A slight blush tinges her cheeks while she goes on. “—It’s okay if—If you don’t wanna call it sex. But just know—That’s not all it is, Sundew. At least not to us—”

 _“—But she’s expressed interest in it.”_ di-Sl’va-chak begins to chuckle when Jo’s face blazes red.

She rubs the back of her head. “And? So have you—”

 _“I never stopped desiring her.”_ the Yautja declares.

It helps seeing Sundew’s face a deep gray against her lustrous silver skin. Jo doesn’t want to be the only one blushing.

“How do you talk so easily of this situation?” The Vekin purses her lips.

Jo pauses. “—I mean—” She glances at her mate. “We’ve had, what? Eleven years to talk? Maybe not that much, but—Still—Plenty of time for conversation. Time for… discussing what we’d do if you… came back.”

 _“Forgive us. We… lost faith.”_ Di-Sl’va-chak rumbles the apology.

Both mates are taken by surprise when the two hear the Vekin’s eerie, empty laughter. Sundew calms after a moment and smiles politely. “I know this from your blood. I did not need to ask. There is a word in one of the Terra languages: redundant. I was… redundant.”

 _“Nothing you say is redundant,”_ di-Sl’va-chak growls, back arching to signal his displeasure at her words.

“I think both of us know where each other stands on, well. Y’know. Us. As a trio,” Jo elbows the Yautja again before shifting her attention back to Sundew. “I can see why—I get why it’s harder for you. Even with our blood. Do you… you got any hesitations ‘bout it? ‘Bout the idea?”

Asking the questions is harder than Jo admits. A sliver of her fears the answer, because _yes_ would cause so many possibilities to wither and die. She knows she and di-Sl’va-chak could survive any outcome, but part of her desperately wants the outcome to be with more than the two together. Sundew’s lips look just as soft as before. Jo doesn’t mean to stare, but for a second her mind wanders. She snaps out of it before the Vekin notices; before Jo _hopes_ the Vekin notices.

“How would this work? The… three of us?” Sundew asks instead, righting her posture where she sits.

“Like two, but with a third.” Jo pauses.

_“—It does not… We do not need to mate as a group. We will not mate with you if the idea disgusts you—”_

“You two are not disgusting,” Sundew cuts the Yautja off, brows furrowing. She turns her head away. “I—Ask because I do not know—Others in this system do not know. It is… It could be new knowledge. I am—I am a leech for knowledge. I need it to satiate the hunger within me.”

“Then,” Jo’s eyes widen at the implications of the words. “You’re—Interested? Really?”

The question causes a deeper gray to fill the Vekin’s face. She bows her head. “That—”

_“She is aroused by the idea. Her musk is fragrant.”_

“Just let her answer!” Jo rubs her forehead, teeth grating. She has half a mind to slap herself when she hears di-Sl’va-chak’s rolling purr. It is so obvious how he feels, what he wants, who he wants, and while she remains flattered to be one object of his affection, Joan feels the urge to chide his inability to read the room. She does not, thanking the Yautja gods to have been blessed with self-restraint. Instead she focuses on Sundew.

The Vekin’s blush could not be deeper.

“Do you, um, want a minute? Five? A day? Days? How long you need to think about it? We don’t—Won’t—Do anything you don’t want us to. And—You don’t—You don’t have to do anything! We don’t want that—We want you _happy._ Tell us how we can make you feel happy. With or,” Jo bites her lip. “Without us.”

“I—I do not have the knowledge of being with a… woman. Not outside—James Heinrich.” The name is vaguely familiar to Jo, but she can’t place it. She listens as Sundew goes on, quieter than Jo remembers. “I do not know what to do. How to—”

“I mean,” Jo clears her throat, cheeks tinged pink. “I—We both—We have ideas. We know a couple… things. Ways. But—That’s beyond the point—It’s more if—You want to do it. You want to do all of this. Or just—part of ‘this.’ What do you want, Sundew?”

* * *

FLORA shuts her eyes. She imagines a life ten cycles from now. She imagines herself, surrounded not by one but two individuals who express the same devotion she shows them. She imagines wonderful nights of tangled limbs and hearts beating as one. She imagines until the heat in her mockery of a stomach rivals the sheer cold of her internal mass. She imagines until her hands tremble in zeal, until her cheeks are charcoal gray, until she cannot keep herself from sighing sweetly, softly, and with a deep longing for the knowledge the circumstances may bring.

“I want you,” the Vekin whispers. “Both of you.”

* * *

The world does not change overnight. The three’s relationship is built up slowly, tenderly, with simple encounters spread out over many days. Sundew is not immediately thrown into the thick of things; she demands softness, physical intimacy, all without the pressure of copulation and mating. Initially, she spends hours curled up with one or both mates. Early on she wears clothes, but as the weeks pass and she grows accustomed to both warm bodies, the Vekin stops slipping into the sheets with more than simple wrappings covering her genitalia. She spends less time in her own cabin and more time in Joan’s and di-Sl’va-chak’s, until the silver figure finally ceases going to her cabin at all in favor of claiming the shared living space as her own.

It is Joan who woos her first, after many months of talks late into the night, after hundreds of evening strolls under an alien sky as beautiful as the one found on Earth. The two are returning from a walk along the black sand shores when Sundew stops. She wears one of Jo’s tunics, and the clothing is loose on her body. A faint breeze wraps around the silver figure as she pauses and meets Joan’s curious brown gaze.

“You good?” The woman smiles amicably, knowing it is past the usual hour for sleep. Not a soul is up this hour, save for patrols along the settlement’s cityscape, and D’lex warriors in the clan pub. Neither are present.

Sundew pauses. Her clear eyes hold the world, but in the present, they reflect the soft glow of stars in the depths.

“Hey,” Jo frowns, taking a step closer to the woman and touching her cool arm. “You alright? Sundew?”

“You are beautiful,” the Vekin’s face deepens, a bold gray touching on her complexion.

The human flushes deep red. “Oh. Oh—I—That’s—Some timing.”

“It is the right timing,” Sundew insists, lips pursing. “This—This is—The right timing.”

It dawns just what the Vekin’s words mean. Joan’s eyes widen. She stops herself, a moment of shock rippling from her core, before her stomach twists with nerves. Her head fills with resolve. She walks over to the Vekin, tilts her head up, and stares into the fascinating, clear eyes. “I think I need to kiss you—”

Sundew opens her mouth as if to speak, but Joan is already there. The woman leans in and steals the breath from the Vekin’s faux lungs. Sundew’s soft noise is drowned out by the hum of satisfaction Joan makes when she draws back for air. She is away only for a second before the human wraps an arm around her waist and pulls Sundew closer, needing to convey the spike of adoration bubbling up inside her. She openly caresses Sundew’s lower lip with her tongue, pressing beyond the point and seeking the muscle out when Sundew moans into her mouth.

 _“Joan—”_ The full name has Jo biting her lip and pressing harder, more fervently, while pushing Sundew out of the settlement’s main street and to the side. The alley is a godsend; Joan has the Vekin on the wall with one leg hitched up around her waist while the human continues demanding kisses from the woman.

“You call _me_ beautiful?” Joan huffs when the two split next, deep satisfaction filling her at the sight of Sundew’s panting body and blushing cheeks. “Gods, I—You dunno—You really don’t—How fucking _gorgeous_ you are—”

Next time is what crosses lines neither want to come back from. In leaning forward and pressing Sundew to the wall for more kisses, Jo inadvertently grinds her hips against the Vekin’s. She hears the sharp intake. Her mind spins and she suddenly bucks her hips into the silver figure. Sundew’s moan pushes her on. Jo slowly, carefully drops hands to the woman’s chest. She sighs against Sundew’s hat. “I—I want—I wanna touch you—”

“You may,” the Vekin sounds in awe of her. “Jo—Joan!”

The little note of pleasure falling from soft silver lips is the result of Jo’s exceptional fingers feeling out her cold breasts and perky nipples. Joan hums appreciatively and massages the flesh. She drags the pads of fingertips against the surface of each cold nipple. “Make those noises again for me, Sundew, please,” the human whispers. “Again—"

The Vekin squirms and grinds hips back against Jo’s own. She throws her head back and whines when Joan busies herself touching the lady’s breasts once more. “Joan—Jo—Jo—”

“We need—The ship, let’s, let’s go to the ship,” Jo whispers, squeezing again. Massaging every inch of skin. Fantasizing about the taste, the texture, the _everything_. “We can—We need—We’ll—Trust me, please—”

“I trust you,” Sundew smiles as she takes Jo in arm and the two return to the ship.

The _Kukulkan_ is only stationed three blocks over. No sooner are the two inside does Jo drag the woman to the cabins. The two’s shared cabin is empty—a shame their other mate is gone—but Jo pushes Sundew into the bed anyways and climbs on top of the woman. She shamelessly rolls her hips into Sundew’s own, prompting the woman to moan and clench bedsheets. “Jo—Jo—”

“Please, please, say it again, say my name again,” the human begs, fire in her belly as she begins taking off clothes and stripping Sundew after.

Sundew’s blush is deep and vivid. She doesn’t cover her breasts. When Jo reaches for them, Sundew whines and rubs her thighs together.

“How do we—Oh—Oh! Jo! _Jo!”_ Sundew throws her head back, mouth ajar as the air hits her bare pelvic area. Jo shifts back until she has the room to lower her head to the alien’s entrance. One lap of the tongue has Sundew mewling with desire. Jo feels pride swelling up inside her as she begins to kiss and suck on the woman’s clit. She kisses Sundew’s labia and thighs until the Vekin is panting heavily beneath her. She spreads the woman wide and looks into the appetizing depths until Sundew all but begs, “Please—Please, Jo!”

“Fucking cute,” the woman blurts out, heart racing at the words. She pulls back from Sundew’s pelvis but keeps the Vekin’s legs spread while she props herself up with one forearm. Her other arm falls to the Vekin’s pelvis and Jo unceremoniously thrusts a digit inside. The cold inner walls _clench_ and Joan pants wildly.

Jo can barely think. She thrusts a second finger in and curls it into the perfect spot inside Sundew. It is a place of pure stimulation: the raw lust and need throws Sundew into a stupor by Jo’s hands. Joan grinds the finger against the Vekin’s pleasure spot until Sundew keens loudly and her thighs start trembling. Even then, Jo’s ministrations do not cease. She pins Sundew to the bed and eats her out until the Vekin thrashes and screams weakly beneath her body. Sundew comes too vigorously in that time, so _desperate_ and greedy for _her,_ that when she ceases in the noises she collapses in a cacophony of chest-heaving, skin-on-skin moments.

She’s perfect. Jo knows she can never get enough of her.

Sundew trembles on the bed when Jo releases her to rise and walk to the wall. The Vekin’s eyes remain on her but she says nothing as Jo searches through an ejected drawer for a set of toys. She fishes out her favorite bullet vibrator, syncs it with a harness, and then fetches a dildo to clip into the harness. Sundew’s eyes are wide when Jo turns around. The human offers a shaky smile as she shows off her toy.

“That is—”

“Just to be clear—It’s fake. But it’s really good material. I have a similar one di-Sl’va-chak uses on me, and he's got a some I like to bring into the bedroom when he’s bottoming,” Joan chuckles softly. Her smile is wide and calm as she climbs unto the bedside and presents the harness and fake phallus for Sundew to examine.

And Sundew _examines_ it. The Vekin crawls over and takes the fake cock in both hands. Even without pupils, the electricity of a shared gaze explodes over Jo’s body as she stares at the Vekin’s face. Joan cannot resist a shaky breath when she sees Sundew open her mouth and begin to suck on the fake cock.

“Sundew—Sundew,” Joan grabs her and clutches her tightly, unable to hold her moan as Sundew bobs up and down on the strap on. “That—It’s tied to—It connects with—With—Fuck! Fuck, you—You’re good at this,” the human pushes her away and catches her breath. Her brown eyes narrow and she jabs a finger into Sundew’s arm. “Hey—Hey, look, this harness—It gets connected with an… a _tiny_ vibrator. A bullet. So when you do that—”

She moans wantonly, openly, raw and full of need, as Sundew licks up and down the strap on’s shaft. Deep inside her, Jo _feels_ the bullet _sing_ in vibrations. Pleasure embraces her and she keens loudly as she clutches the Vekin’s shoulders. Sundew’s lips tug up into a smile as she resumes sucking the fake cock.

 _Tease._ Di-Sl’va-chak once told her. _She’s a tease._

“Fuck, you think—Think you can tease me?” Jo growls and pushes the Vekin away. Sundew opens her mouth to speak but Joan shoves two fingers inside and huffs. _“Suck.”_

The Vekin easily submits. She is obedient in every way: bowing her head and lapping a tongue around the fingers until they are wet with saliva. Jo pulls her hand back and trails it down to the woman’s navel, dipping deeper and deeper until it falls upon the trimmed pubic mound and dips deeper still. Sundew holds her breath, eyes clenched shut, but Joan pries a moan from her lips as her fingers descend on the Vekin’s clit.

“O—Oh,” Sundew breathes, whimpers, leans into Jo.

“That’s it,” Joan exhales. “That’s—That’s perfect, fuck, do that again—”

This time she lets her fingers dance shapes across and around the woman’s clit. She takes her time slowly building up the coil that is sure to be wound in Sundew’s groin. Joan is beaming by the time she sees the Vekin a trembling, vulgar mess of lewd fluids and panting beneath her. Joan has half a mind to take her then, to stuff her full in one go and pound her the way she _knows_ the Vekin likes, courtesy of di-Sl’va-chak. It is _so_ tempting. Her pussy clenches weakly around the tiny bullet inside her body; it does not activate unless the dildo is stimulated.

“Sundew,” the human decides, stroking the woman’s entrance and occasionally pushing a finger inside to test the waters. “I’m gonna—I want to mate you now—If that’s okay.”

“Please do,” the Vekin whispers back, spreading herself instinctively before the human.

Jo pauses. “No—Not like that. On your side. Lift your leg,” Jo slides behind the Vekin, one hand shifting to help hold Sundew’s leg in the air. “I don’t—I’m not sure if—If you’ll need more prep, or—Fuck, let’s just—We play it by ear. Tell me if anything hurts or—Or—”

“I will,” the Vekin’s smile is small and shy, but positively aglow with delight. She settles her head against the pillows of the bed. Joan presses kisses into her back while she rubs the strap against the Vekin’s rear. More than once the head of the strip rubs into the Vekin’s rectum. Sundew moans softly and tenses. “I—I have not—Not there, not yet.”

“I’ll be careful—You can trust me,” Joan kisses her nape, intoxicated by the woman. “No anal unless you want to. Nothing goes in unless you want it.”

“Are you—” Sundew pauses, her face deep gray in a blush. “Are you—Is it ready to go in?”

“If you’re ready, yes,” Jo answers, nuzzling the lady. “How do you feel?”

“Loved,” Sundew whispers. She grips the bedsheets tightly as Jo inches her groin to the dripping, slick entrance between the Vekin’s legs. The thick strap glides between silver thighs while Jo takes a moment gauging the woman’s wetness. She finds it satisfactory; Joan grabs the fake cock by the head and lines it up with the Vekin’s entrance. The head only _just_ brushes Sundew’s labia, but already the bullet inside Joan’s crotch begins to hum to life.

“Deep breaths,” Jo advises as she pushes inside. She hears Sundew whine and sees the tension overwhelm the Vekin as Sundew’s walls _stretch_ for the strap’s girth. Joan stops and nuzzles her again. She lets go of Sundew’s leg a moment to reach around and fondle the woman’s breasts. “You alright?”

“Oh, oh, oh, it, Jo, Joan,” Sundew mumbles over and over, panting heavily. “It—This body—It is not used—Not used, not yet—”

“Need to stop?” Joan frowns.

Sundew vigorously shakes her head. She mewls softly when her actions shift the strap in another inch. “Fuck—Oh—Please, no, no, I need—I want the opposite of that—I need more—Joan! _Jo!”_

The cries become thick and plentiful as Jo gently lifts Sundew’s leg and inserts the cock another inch. Sundew’s noises are overwhelming hot, perfect to fuck to, perfect to fuck out of her, but no matter the whines and whimpers, Jo takes things slow. She carefully presses on, stopping every few seconds to check on her lover again. Inside her groin, the vibrator picks up in speed and leaves her toes curling. Joan holds back her own pant as she sheathes herself in Sundew’s cold body. By the time her pelvis kisses Sundew’s own, the latter is moaning weakly and gripping bed sheets with vigor.

“You’re doing so great,” Joan breathes, kissing the woman’s shoulder, then her neck, then her ear. “Fuck—Fuck, so great, so—” She goes on a spiel of runaround compliments, mind overwhelmed by the trust Sundew puts in her, allowing her to take the Vekin so intimately. Sundew trembles in her arms even as Jo kisses her again and again.

“There—So much,” the Vekin cries out. “Jo—Joan—”

“I’m here, I’m with you,” Joan swears on it.

“I feel you, I feel it, I,” Sundew throws her head back. She cries out as her hips struggle to roll against Jo’s. “So—So deep— _Full!_ Mmmngh! Ah!”

The slight difficulty in moving inside her is evidence of the Vekin’s tight cunt. Even if Jo can’t feel it on the fake phallus, she sees how much Sundew clenches on the strap gliding in and out of her. Joan takes things slow, very slow, beginning with soft, shallow thrusts while the Vekin’s body adjusts to the strap. More than once she loses herself in a spiel of declaration for the Vekin, unable to stop herself from blurting out just how amazing Sundew is in this moment. She spends many minutes rolling the woman’s breasts in both hands. She plays with her tits and caresses the silvery nipples until Sundew _begs_ for more of her touch.

Only then, when the Vekin is desperate and pleading for more, does Jo begin to thrust more actively. She holds up Sundew’s legs and thrusts into her from behind. Her vibrator buzzes inside her, sending a plume of pleasure through her core as she grunts and fills the Vekin whole. Sundew’s hands grip the bedsheets; her teeth clench and she moans louder and louder to the tune of skin slapping skin. When Joan abandons her breasts and drops a hand lower, Sundew whimpers and throws her head back. She writhes beneath Jo’s touch as the woman thrusts into her, building a momentum to the tune of her strokes both with the strap and the fingers dancing across Sundew’s clit.

“So beautiful, so, so good, you’re doing so good, taking all of me,” Joan praises the woman as she fucks her. Sundew shakes wildly, thighs jiggling from each hard thrust into her core. The human moans and presses her hand against the woman’s pubic mound; she speeds up grinding her palm against the tiny bud of nerves while her hips ram into Sundew’s waiting pussy.

"More! Joan-Jo, please, _oh_ , ah, AH!" The Vekin cries out as the situation unravels into a lewd, messy scene of hopeless thrusts and endless touching.

"Mmnf," Joan groans and gasps crudely."Mm-ah-Ah!" 

With each stroke comes more cries of _ah ah ah_ , with each thrust the bullet inside her buzzes and throbs wildly, with each jerk of the hips, Sundew submits to her hands and faux cock and trembles and shakes all over it. Joan feels the heat overwhelm her from head to toe; she sees Sundew's toes curl as the woman grunts and moans against her. She savors each noise, every desperate cry and all it confesses, and she forces a new one out as she thrusts into the Vekin and pounds those glorious nine inches. She feels how tight Sundew clamps around her; she hears Sundew's whines and mewls as she nips at Sundew's neck. She squeezes the woman's breast with one hand while her other grinds friction against her clit. Sundew throws her head from one side to the next as she sobs in overwhelming pleasure. Joan sits upright, pulls her with her, and the human sets about making the Vekin ride her to completion.

"J-Jo," Sundew whimpers, back arching as she sits over the dildo and sucks it up.

Joan hums and bites her lip. "Fuck-Fuck, this's, this is so good-"

She tweaks the Vekin's clit with two fingers. Sundew keens and writhes in her hands, hapless prey in the grip of a human drosera intent on devouring every inch of flesh and pleasure inside her. Joan begins a slow circular motion on the Vekin's clit while she thrusts weakly. "You need-You got to ride me, Sundew, got to, if either us-If we wanna come."

"I want to climax," the Vekin begs, chest heaving. "Please-Please, Joan!"

"Ride me," Joan kisses her neck.

Sundew begins to ride in reverse cowgirl. Her hips bounce and smack into Joan's as the two make love vigorously through the aid of the strap on and Joan's deep thrusts.Joan ruts upward into her with every roll of hips, but it is Sundew who works tirelessly to connect the two's bodies and fuck her. Joan's hands drop from the other woman's clit and she gropes Sundew's breasts again; she plays with the perky nipples and squeezes the soft tissue while her lips suck sweet noises from the Vekin's neck and back. Faster, more invigorating, the movements cause the bed to shake and groan wildly as the two woman build to mutual climax. Like all the pressure and tension of the world deepens and looms: the unmistakeable coil of a spring in Joan's gut tells her she grows near. She wraps her arms around Sundew's waist and falls backward on the bed, causing a gasp to fall from Sundew's lips as the two's friction stops. 

Joan turns her head and kisses her. She kisses Sundew while she fucks the rest of the way. She kisses sundew while the latter trembles wildly, a quivering mess unable to focus on the verge of cumming. She grabs Sundew's breasts and toys with the nipples while kissing her over and over, loving and demanding all in one. She kisses her, and she kisses her again, and she thrusts up and moves Sundew's hips against her own bit-by-bit. The Vekin's panting grows until she is a short, raspy mess in her arms, so close but _not quite there._

"I, I need you," Sundew whispers, mouth ajar as she leans into another kiss. "Let me-Let me orgasm-Please-Joan-"

Joan traces the woman's lower lip with her tongue. She ruts upward _one two three_ and seizes Sundew's lips again with a whisper, _"Cum for me."_

Sundew cries out against her, back arching, thighs trembling, while the Vekin orgasms long and hard, deep and thorough. Joan whines as she cums with the bullet vibrator hard at work within her. She thrusts up and fucks Sundew through the Vekin's climax, then fucks her again, until both are such overstimulated messes Sundew grips her and sobs in overwhelming nerves and euphoria. Joan holds her, a warm and affectionate feeling overtaking her. Slick pools between their sweaty bodies.

Joan doesn’t remove the dildo from Sundew’s core. She leaves it there, occasionally writhing it deeper to feel Sundew squirm and inch back to her. Joan presses lips to Sundew’s back and wraps an arm around her waist. Even with the cold, she feels spectacular from head-to-toe. Her gaze softens on the sleepy Vekin in front of her.

“I, I often, I often sleep, after,” Sundew mumbles softly, eyes fighting to stay open.

“Sleep, it’s okay, I'll be here when you get up,” Jo reassures her, nuzzling her nape and finally pulling the strap out. Sundew gasps and bucks against the open air, against the emptiness, before she turns over and curls up into Joan’s warmer body. Jo smiles to herself but says nothing as she hears the Vekin drift into the throes of post-coitus delight.


End file.
